Beer

Life was a splinter filled helter-skelter. Monday morning slammed into the world with a brutal constancy and with it came the prospect of a thankless climb to a summit that would only send you crashing back down to the very bottom again. Bruised, dirtied and despondent at the bullying life dealt out on a cyclical basis. A bad automaton. Just doing its job. Just as you should do yours.

Knowing your place was all very well. But that knowing could only ever be lip service. Detached words descriptive of something that felt as alien as a genuine, wholehearted expression of love. There was a background violence here that the broken and battered wanted to take out on the world, but there was no valid target and so there was never a validation to be had. The abuse was one way. Always one way. Inward. Aimed at the very core of a person. 

Biting your tongue was the only option, punishing it for the words it begged you to speak out. Betrayed by its truth and deeply ashamed as there could be brought to bear no alternative offering. A busted flush, slogging the way up the tarnished, sagging steps, sackcloth bag of sins tucked under an arm.

The lacklustre and grey world they trudged through was better than this. It should be better than this. They knew this in their gut and their hearts sang agreement. The truth of it was that they were the colours of this world. They were meant to make a difference. The problem was that they’d convinced themselves that they didn’t know how, and so they constructed an impenetrable obstacle to a better life. At least a half decent life with a sense of rhythm and vibrancy. Instead they trod on metal egg shells and bled their life out onto unfertile soils. They pressed their shoulders against their own ingratitude and brooded in a soup of passively insipid aggression. Stewing in their own juices as the life intended for them passed them by, whispering an accusatory lament of their betrayal of themselves.

Then the weekend arrived. The cheese grater of the nine to five spat pieces of them out and they managed to gather up enough of themselves to head away from the workplace of their torture and drink a pint to celebrate their tawdry survival of another week of hell.

They lived for this moment. The amber liquid in the pint glass was their life blood. There was a magic here. The magic they should possess, but didn’t have the wherewithal to contain. This was their power up. They’d survived and beaten the boss. Now they would have their well-earned moment.

Beer. A strange and almost repugnant liquid. Encountered in a pool, it would be deemed a stagnant and toxic liquid, but in a pint glass it shone. They held it aloft and said a silent thanks to the world beyond the pub and then pressed the glass to their lips and inhaled the magical elixir.

The beer itself was not the magic. Not really. Instead it was the catalyst. That member of the group that made things happen, but could never have achieved any of the feats of the others. Without the catalyst though, there would be nothing. A recurring dynamic of life that few ever took the time to document, let alone learn and replicate. The conspicuous winners riding roughshod over the reality of the matter and hastily rewriting history before they could be found out.

They drank another and in the company of good friends who got that bit better in the communion of the beer. There was companionship to be had here. Theirs was a church. They were the church. They communed in the rounds of drinks and upheld traditions and rituals of old. Relaxing into a way of being that worked better for them than anything else they had in their lives, save the embrace of pillow and duvet as they escaped the world and dared to dream of a life well-lived, or experience nightmares of the existence they were subjecting themselves to.

Soon they would all become both candid and earnest. Battlements would fall and the inherent vulnerability of their existence and nature would be shared as it was always intended to be shared. The magic was theirs, but they attributed it to the beer in a gentle act of cowardice. The toxicity of the social lubricant would lend itself well to this shared falsehood of theirs. The resultant morning hangover robbing them of much of that which had occurred the night before.

Beer opened them all back up to their dreaming and in their dreaming they embraced their potential. There was a reality that dwelt here and the dreams should by rights have lived to see the following day. But this was a stubborn and reckless opportunity that was strangled at each and every birth.

The brown ditch water of beer was the magic that kept them going. Allowed them to talk when talk of anything of value was stifled elsewhere. They dated each other. Opened up the way they wanted to with the elusiveother half  they desired to meet but could never justify into existence. Beer was their sword and their shield. They were emboldened and in the strength they discovered, they let go and at last allowed themselves to be in the world.

This was not to say that they were drunk. They may have eventually reached that freewheeling state, but the vast majority of their time was spent in comparative sobriety. The magic was intoxicating. The spell dizzying. These things were nothing without the sacrifice made. And the sacrifice was their willingness to be. To at last find a place where they could be themselves. This then was the cave where they placed themselves at the mercy of their peers and went through the many rites of passage. Adventurers seeking their promised land. Devoting themselves to more and better if only in these snatched moments.

The repetitive marathon of nine to five spitting them out into the weekend and leaving them begging for more. And here they did so. Kneeling in the grotto of the pub. Communing with each other. Looking over their shoulders and asking what the fuck was that all about? And wishing each other well as they embarked upon a weekend imbibed with far more meaning.

The magic of beer is however illusory. The magic resides within all of them, but they contract it out. Intuitively knowing that the power of the magic that resides within them is far too powerful for them to own. And that is the nature of magic. A sleight of hand that entertains. Beer is then, a distraction. A deck of cards. Rabbit and hat. A limiting factor to the true magic of human nature and endeavour. The real magic resides within the connections made as fear and awkwardness are strong armed out of the way via the drinking of a pint. The collective spell is made as the goblet is raised and the word is said.

Cheers!

That is when the magic happens. Arms raised. Eye contact made and smiles exchanged. It is in the ritual that beer lubricates. The everyday raised in a glass towards something far more meaningful.