Rye & Bitters: Volume I


I create things. I employ words as vessels to communicate ideas; ideas that, without a catalyst, would otherwise mortify in solitude. The plague of insufficiency looms about and dances majestically in its opposition to the novel. The fear a piece I breathe life into may not be that good cloaks me with doubt. I am blocked. I’ll soon be drunk.

Frankly, not a soul beckoned me to create. I accepted this choice, this burden, this beautiful romance with being a demi-god. Creators are the active dust of heavenly soil. My clay was different, I think. Shit, that’s what I tell myself.

The blinder I become to my indulgence with self-importance, the more I am enamored of this pen, this keyboard, these lips. Fully equipped with all necessary tools of some divine carpenter, I struggle to conjure up meaning. Maybe it’s coherence I’m searching for. Maybe the answer to life lies in broad keystrokes and fortunes recanted by senile oracles. If the latter is the case, then meaning is nothing more than an experiment in which humanity has been called to partake.

I’m drunk. This Bulleit moves through my veins in the manner webbed-feet of Pekin duck glissade through city ponds, and create brushstrokes of life that soon vanish once the water regains its stillness. I’m drunk with a purpose. I too want to recount scenes of life on canvas before I regain clarity. Doubt comes with clarity. Clarity is my enemy.

Clarity dismantles art. Clarity undermines insanity. When creating I depict the unclear, the cloudy, the mired. Why? Because life is unclear, cloudy, and mired. The intention of my art is to present the unclear as a shared experience so that we can find clarity.

Meaning, in turn, becomes something we define; Clarity something we create. Creations should not be judged by whether or not they are good. A creation should only be judged by whether or not it exists. The only thing a creation should have to prove is that it never existed before.

Yet, I’m still here typing…deleting…inquiring…loathing…a thing that does not exist. These actions are best reserved for sexual partners and not creations. Again, I am drunk. Please pardon these truths.

My name is Chance. These are my thoughts in a tumbler of Rye & Bitters. Let’s create.