Six Notebooks

“Alcoholism is a one way street,” I said to a friend.

A non-alcoholic friend.

As far as I know.

Stopped.

Thought about it.

One-way street.

 I quit.

 I am not driving down that street.

Maybe it is not one-way.

Thought some more.

About it. Thought.

Turned it around and around.

It felt right. One-way street. Felt right.

But I stopped so maybe it wasn’t.

Thought. Turned it around.

In my mind I tumbled the thought. Shined it. Washed the dirt. Made it shine.

It shone.

I have not left that street.

That one-way street of alcoholism.

I have merely paused.

Sat on a bench.

The street waits.

Sometimes beckons.

Invites me back.

I am not even on a bench.

I am standing in the gutter.

Paused.

It waits.

It is cunning and baffling.

Strong.

It is patient.

It waits.

It is in me.

I am in it.

Merely a daily reprieve.

From traveling down.

The street is never left.

The best I can do is stop moving down.

Stop traveling.

Pause.

Breathe.

Stop traveling.

This is the result.

Of tumbling the thought.

Of rinsing the mud.

Of shining the gem.

Of one remark.

Slightly offhand.

Yet true.

PWS 2023.06.16