Day 3


Twenty pages to the end of The Road this morning. A mostly actionless book till just now. The man even drawing his gun and leveling it at a thief sat me bolt upright in my chair, where I read at the pace of a 4th-grader. I have nothing to say about the book. How tedious I find myself. I need to elevate my choices. Perhaps some Euripides or the 1611 KJV. Toying with the idea, in fact, of reading the Pentateuch, Moses’s five books, a chapter at a time like so: the 1611 KJV, the NIV, and Alter’s Five Books of Moses consecutively. The Moses books, so important to literature I’m told, may serve as my Ovid. Occurs to me I’m starting out yet again, nearly 41, in the D-leagues. A lifetime of this starting and stopping, mostly the latter.

Day three of what should be nineteen. Downloaded an app yesterday, Recovery Elevator, which tracks the seconds since my last drink, calories left on the table, money saved, and hours of productivity gained. Using my addiction to technology and giving personal data to the cloud for good. What will come of this? Hopefully a day I don’t need it. Like booze? No, bad analogy.

Thumbing through notes this morning. This detox entry:

Strangest I have ever felt. I cannot trust, nor even like, myself. It’s not yet 7 a.m. on what I determined would be my first sober day, probably for good, and already I’m contemplating the 7Eleven. Embarrassing that my supplies come daily from that shitty store. If it were a classier joint perhaps I wouldn’t feel so sick each time I felt the pull for booze. But it’s a goddamn 7Eleven. One of my lowest lows saw me there at 4 a.m., all the alcohol fridge doors locked. I knew it was no use, knew it before I even left the house, but I went anyway, just in case. Asked the attendant if alcohol was available. Not till 6 a.m. I knew that, I knew that. A man writing a check laughed at me. Sweat under my stocking cap. Hands shaking.
What a dipshit I’ve been. Today, I sit here shaking, surpised I can even type a sentence, slowly, clunkily, correcting each word five times before moving to the next. There’ll be no genius sentences for a few weeks, I’m sure. Subject, predicate, so on. I’ll carry on. It’s what I have to do, can’t help doing. I wonder sometimes what my therapist thinks when I go on and on about writing. Delusional likely appears in her notes. I don’t know if it’s a delusion. It’s another addiction, for sure. I struggle with writing like I struggle with alcohol. It just won’t fucking leave me alone.
This may end up one of the longest weeks of my life.


Ended as predicted. Sweats and shakes and 15-minute increments of sleep, when I could sleep. The worst of these three ghosts left me around day two-and-a-half. Rolled my muscles out with a tennis ball and foam roller at three a.m., setting me up for the possibility of exercising later. Stationary bike by late afternoon, same day. Success. Can’t imagine what my sweat smelled like. A shopping cart of dirty blankets? Old dog urine? Two decades of haplessness?

The therapist in the 10/12 post is now former. Ethics led her to a crossroads. She had to give me up to real addiction therapy. Too many consecutive session of drunken sobbing, talking me off a ledge. In one such session I breathed deeply and watched a harbor seal the size of a small truck. Vacation session. Gig Harbor AirBnB. Likely the worst vacation my fiancee has yet taken. This is what I do to people, make it worse. It with crystal clear referents. Everything.

Last night a sex dream. My libido comes out in dreams only. Six months at least. Something to do with shame. My body wants to be a different body. It doesn’t want to be on display, doesn’t want to be touched, doesn’t want to sweat or seep fluids for anyone to taste or smell. Shame, shame, shame. A dying animal.

I look forward to dreams. Books excite me now. Still, I should get a job. D-league journaling is no occupation.


From the morass

“And the evening and the morning were the third day.”
—The First Booke of Moses

“Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts.”
—Cormac McCarthy

“She asked me to tell her about the beauty of her body. That’s why I was away so long.”
—Philip Roth

“I masturbate with the punctuality of a civil servant.”
—Catherine Millet

“It was time to begin.”
—Harold Pinter

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