Ah, the smell of a fresh, white, blank page. Onward.
Looked up from my perch this early morning to receive my latest message.
Yesterday, I received in the mail an offer for a magazine. In the offer... no wait, it was a solicitation to go back to school. University of Phoenix, earn your degree, so on and so forth. I cut out the part I liked best and taped it to my desk. Another message, on yellow background.
I’m aspiring to milk this for all it’s worth.
But what is THIS?
This is what I aspire to find out.
The bottle of pills has sat on the small shelf upon which my monitor sits for years now. I’ve written about it before. (Please see "Milk Thistle") It’s a message, an inspiration, a mystery. Coded knowledge, whispering wisdom.
Tonight, or should I say, this morning (it’s 3am) I am drinking. Even though I told the guy at CDRP that I did not intend to drink tonight.
Now, don’t go off the deep end on me. I’ll explain what CDRP is later. Honest. Sheesh.
Also. Don’t make any assumptions. Fact is, I’m not drinking.
The bottle of pills sitting on the shelf that also supports the computer monitor that I stare into as I type now has a Buddha perched atop its lid. Been there for a week or so. Got the Buddha in Santa Cruz, along with a wooden ring that I call a symbolism ring. Got them a couple months ago. When I was still employed with the City.
Back to the drinking. I’m drinking Dr. Pepper. We have a 2-liter of it, and I’m working my way through it. Straight up. No chaser. It has quite a bite, but I’m handling it. These aren’t flaming Dr. Peppers, now. Don’t get confused. This is the real sh*t. And I’m drinking it, even though I did not intend to drink tonight.
Okay, so some explanation. I am trying to be an alcoholic. I pledging on the wishes of my current psychiatrist to go to the Chemical Dependency Rehabilitation Program (CDRP) and become sober. Even though I am sober right now.
Do not assume that I have been drinking in the sense that I have taken in alcoholic beverages. I am drinking Dr. Pepper, a beverage that can be purchased 24-hours a day here in California, unlike the alcoholic beverages that have restricted purchase edicts.
I have now poured the final drippings of Dr. Pepper from the 2-liter into my pint glass. I slurp and gulp and notice the patterns on the glass. I suppose it should be noted at this time that I have not completed the 2-liter in a single sitting—I had opened it before, a few days ago in fact. But as long as I’m doing the CDRP thing, I assume I should be precise and explicit. Exacting. Because we want to get to the bottom of this. No pun intended.
The bottle of standardized extract with the Buddha on top is a container. It contains a mystery. Magic. Messages.
Thistle Penn is a man in his mid to late forties. He’s coming to meet me.
The bottle of extract with the Buddha on top contains a substance called Milk Thistle. But the other day, my wife gave me some lip balm, and the message changed.
Is this starting to make sense, or is it just starting to confuse? Sorry, I can’t be bothered with such arbitrary entitlement as to make sense. Too much of a burden at this point. Thistle shall explain.
The lip balm was purchased by my wife because the name caught her eye. It’s called Tuscan Earth Lip Balm, “from the women at Thistle Farms™”. My wife has met Thistle, briefly.
But nobody knows him like I do.
I placed the lip balm on the shelf that holds up my computer monitor, in front of the bottle of standardized extract with the Buddha on top. Unconsciously, I changed the message.
I had stood up the lip balm on end. In front of the bottle with the Buddha. And the balm blocked the letters on the label. So that the bottle, when I looked at it a couple days later, read, among other things, “MILK THIS.”
Also appeared to say 175 n, “helps heal fun,” and “herbal sup.” Duly noted.
So today, I take myself to CDRP and have an evaluation. Because my psychiatrist doesn’t feel she can treat me successfully if I drink even a drop. Of alcohol, I’m assuming. That’s why I’m drinking the Dr. Pepper and writing about it so openly. I think I’m in the clear here.
I ASPIRE to be a writer. And yet, I am a writer. I’ve written many a page, many a blog.
I guess that means I’m successful, eh?
Page three. While aspiring to write, I have written about a certain person by the name of Thistle Penn. He’s wise beyond wisdom, smarter than dirt. Clean as a whistle or a polished cliché. He’s interesting beyond the fathoming mind. So I will talk about him more.
Some might consider him as “homeless” because he wanders around without a postal address. Ah, but remember, not all who wander are lost. (Who said that, anyway?)
Thistle is at home in this universe. On this earth. In this country. On the street, in the alley, by the tracks. He comfortable. At ease.
I stop to scratch my head and little particles of dust are lifted from my scalp and launched into the atmosphere, each an individual. Each individually significant. In a relative sense, anyway.
I’m almost done. With my Dr. Pepper, that is. Thistle? I’m thinking we’re just getting started. Felt that way for years now.
But are we going somewhere or just spinning wheels? Well, yes. We’re cycling through this thing we know as life.
And part of that is death.
Please, resist being frightened by the word.