Immaculate

I'm always amused by the way that drinking alcohol alters my perception of Jim Morrison's poetry. When I'm stone sober, I dismiss Morrison's poetry as the drug-addled gibberings of a fruitcake, but the more I drink, the more I start to think that I'm right on the edge of figuring out some deep meaning therein. If only I could think harder, concentrate more thoroughly, open up more mysterious brain receptors with even more vodka, the meaning of Morrison would become manifest to me and a great many things that confuse me about modern life would be cleared up.

It's almost sad, in the sense that I think I'm on the edge of learning something Real and Significant about the world, but one of two things happens. Either I stop drinking and eventually sober up the point that Morrison goes back to being what he was, a drug-addled pop star, or I drink too much and pass out on the floor of the bathroom and, predictably, stop thinking about Morrison in particular.

I haven't reached either state just yet. I haven't stopped drinking, but I haven't passed out either. Mostly I'm wistful in advance for not being able to figure out anything meaningful about the world in spite of everything.

Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God,
wandering, wandering in hopeless night.
Out here in the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned,
Immaculate.