[Previously on Mrs. Dalloway On My Mind: Then there’s the laughs, plenty of laughter and good vibes, plenty of booze and cheers and all kinds of salutations, so come with me, let’s go to the parties after all and sniff out the fresh-air corners and pockets and vents of good health where the chemicals don’t drip . . .]
. . . where the flesh doesn’t melt, the lungs remaining un-raped and intact, able to breathe in stuff that doesn’t take a shit inside you or me, smack into our cellular structure — keep all that nasty stuff out of our bodies and have a good time, party with the rest of the non-decomposing friends and loved ones whose mind sparkles with the zest of a thousand smiles on the backdrop of a fiesta that moves from house to house and venue to cheering tripping the light fantastic venue bursting with life and energy, from fanfaring establishment to House of Jolly, covering the entire land. Plenty of good vibes and cheers, plenty of booze and toasts, which I’m partial to but mindful of, particularly the booze. I had too much of it last year to the point where Hemingway met Bukowski inside my head and had a party together with Jim Morrison and the maniac Fitzgeralds on the left bank of my flooded mind, took me out to sea on a vessel filled with too much cargo that started to crack, leaks everywhere, and we almost drowned, the five of us, plus all the others inside my head, we almost went under — ‘Apres nous, le deluge,’ the Sloshed Five sung inside my head, toasting and cheering their way on — so no booze for me these months, not too much of it anyway — I mean, to not sample a dry martini or a stiff old fashioned or, should the occasion arise, a good strong beer or a fragrant glass of wine every once in a while, it would be uncivilized. So yeah, there’s not too much booze in my hands these days, no, but plenty of great voices, plenty of Woolf, Virginia, so much of her on my mind and on the tip of my tongue and pen lately, plenty of Clarissa Dalloway and Septimus Warren Smith . . .
Watch this space for Part 6