* My friend and I were talking “writing” yesterday; talking about how often we procrastinate, what inspires us, inner critics, etc. etc. He suggested a writing project as we sat and waited for the summer outdoor movie to start. Write three hundred words and have it on my desk by Tuesday. Pick any subject, he said. I stared down into my plastic cup of  Bourbon on the rocks and said, How about Bourbon?     So there you have it. Below is take TWO of this project.

As I launched myself off the diving board in a perfect jack-knife position, in the moment between board and water it hit me; it was the God damned bourbon.

All day I had been circling my own psychotic drain of disappointments, past and present; living in a whirlpool of what if’s, why nots, and what the fucks. And at this moment high above the impact zone, as I saw puddles of chlorine drying on the concrete, beach towels on chaise lounges covered by self conscious teens shifting their swim suits to cover vulnerable spots every time they moved; in that moment it became as clear as caramel colored liquid. It was the bourbon that was the trigger.

Far from the bleached concrete that smelled of clean laundry was the memory of another type of afternoon. One spent barefoot on the patio, under a green umbrella, leaning back in a cushioned chair as ice cubes melted and clinked in the glass and our thoughts synchronized like graceful swimmers with a little bit of flair and a whole lot of shimmering color.

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