Evening Meditation:
Like an older uncle or grandfather at a family reunion, beckoned to tell again some infamously funny and poignant story from his own life to a rapt audience of shiny faces aglow with anticipation, the story of my disease takes on a life of its own, a separate reality, these alcoholic memories.
Like a mutant cancer cell dividing, dividing, dividing, even memories can forget and a cancer can return and a drink can reach my hand. In memory I can forget what it means to be an alcoholic. My insane memory can become insanity again. And I must not forget.
from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Day 38)
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