I can drink several espresso or sugar free red bulls and still go to sleep
I still enjoy beer, wine and cocktails in moderation. My moderation is often another's heavy, but not socially.
My text to Anne, to which she said "I would agree" before she then broke the news was "Hello. How are you and all of yours? So I think from time to time about the relationship between alcohol and you saying that when drunk you are more psychic and that when I am a bit drunk I see that I write more downloaded poetry, which is part of my package of ESP. I had the thought today that it's not that the alcohol makes us more psychic. Rather it simply inhibits the parts of our brains that interfere with the connections."
Many of my poems that you have loved have been written with a good amount of wine in me. In Hesse's Peter Camenzind that I am reading and loving now, he says "as I continued to drink, it cast its spell over me and began to compose poems as if by itself."
A few pages earlier, no one captures the dark and bright sides of drinking as eloquently as Hesse:
"The misery of unrequited love accomplished what had been beyond my father's powers. It made me into a hardened drinker, and the effect of drink on my life has been more lasting than anything I have described so far. The strong sweet god of wine became my faithful friend, as he remains even today. Who is as mighty as he? Who as beautiful, as fantastic, lighthearted, and melancholy? He is hero and magician, tempter and brother of Eros. He can do the impossible; he imbues impoverished hearts with poetry. He transformed me, a peasant and a recluse, into a king, a poet, and a sage. He fills the emptied vessels of life with new destines and drives the stranded back into the swift currents of action.
Such is the nature of wine. Yet, as with all delightful gifts and arts, it must be cherished, sought out, and understood at great cost and effort. Few can accomplish this feat and the god of wine vanquishes thousands upon thousands; he ages them, destroys them, or extinguishes the spirit's flame. However, he invites those who are dear to him to feast and builds them rainbow bridges to blissful isles. When they are weary, he cushions their heads; he embraces and comforts them like a mother when they become melancholy. He transforms the confusions of life into great myths and plays the hymn of creation on a mighty harp.
... When he communes with his favorites, the storm tide of secrets, memories, poetry, and premonitions floods and intoxicates them. The known world shrinks and vanishes, and the soul hurls itself with fear and joy into the uncharted distances of the unknown where everything is strange and familiar, and the language of music, of poets, and of dreams is spoken."
