Of course, that's what a hangover is, isn't it? A fatal-feeling slice back into the orbital lobe of one's consciousness:
what did I do, what did I say? whom did I offend? Except that the boozerang's path sometimes sweeps far and wide, swirling into the paths of other memories, other psyches, other souls. There's no known quick cure for this. Time, wishful thinking, and the hope that one's boozerang-flooded memory errs -- those are some of the healing ingredients. And add a dash of resolve that this will never happen again.
Maybe it's a cheap shot to launch such a headache-inducing post on the day after St. Patrick's Day, so let's cast a much wider net:
No doubt, there are other hangovers besides my newly coined boozerang. We all tend to contend with these on The Day After The Day Before:
- the hangover of sober memory (did I really do that? how could I have said that?)
- the regret of squandered opportunity (if I only had spent my time and energy doing...)
- the fatalism of loss (I didn't then, so I can't ever)
- the corrosion of resentment (the parenthetical, if not hypothetical, prison of past poison)
- the return to one's senses (I thought it was so great, now I'm not so sure...)
And the cure for all these?
Exalt in the day;
surrender to the moment, awash in gratitude,
celebrating the is-ness of it all,
sung with the cardinal and the finch,
the silent cat and the snoozing dog,
the meandering cloud and lazy sun,
the melting ice and budding branch.
(The term "boozerang" and its definition, © copyright 2007 by The Laughorist.)
