The Essence: The Mind is a Terribly Powerful Place
It was an uncertain year in an uncertain time and place.
The wheel had already been invented, the suburbs were
a post-war institution and man had gone to the moon.
The mind’s ability to manifest its dreams had clearly been
established. Specifics beyond that are sketchy. A freshly minted
twenty-one-year-old walked into a north suburban bar outside
the Midwestern metropolis of the Twin Cities. He asserted
his right as one who had reached majority to initiate this new
phase of life, as he felt it should be, through eyes of stupor and
delirium. He ordered up his first beer, and before the coins were
collected he’d drained all but a scum of foam. Round two went
as quickly as the first, raising eyebrows between the owner and
barkeep. A wink and a nod later kicked off the festivities. The
bartender slid over a special fresh brew made right on the spot,
filled mostly with water, a splash of cola for coloring and a
head of foam to complete the effect. “This one’s on the house,”
he said. “Happy birthday!” The young man lit up in delight as
he topped off his third.
It was a quiet night, with only two local farm girls to round
out the party. They had been watching all along and decided to
send their well wishes to the reveler. Another house brew came
his way and went down the same. “This is the best birthday
ever,” he slurred, flashing a big toothy smile at the girls. He
ordered up a final round and tipped it back, stood, staggered
to the bathroom and then left, mumbling his thanks, his face
as red as his heart joyous. Late the next morning with the sun
high and bright in the sky, the bar owner emerged. The young
man was still sprawled across the front seat of his car, passed
out from the excesses of a joyous heart—an excess worth the
indulgence.
It was an uncertain year in an uncertain time and place.
The wheel had already been invented, the suburbs were
a post-war institution and man had gone to the moon.
The mind’s ability to manifest its dreams had clearly been
established. Specifics beyond that are sketchy. A freshly minted
twenty-one-year-old walked into a north suburban bar outside
the Midwestern metropolis of the Twin Cities. He asserted
his right as one who had reached majority to initiate this new
phase of life, as he felt it should be, through eyes of stupor and
delirium. He ordered up his first beer, and before the coins were
collected he’d drained all but a scum of foam. Round two went
as quickly as the first, raising eyebrows between the owner and
barkeep. A wink and a nod later kicked off the festivities. The
bartender slid over a special fresh brew made right on the spot,
filled mostly with water, a splash of cola for coloring and a
head of foam to complete the effect. “This one’s on the house,”
he said. “Happy birthday!” The young man lit up in delight as
he topped off his third.
It was a quiet night, with only two local farm girls to round
out the party. They had been watching all along and decided to
send their well wishes to the reveler. Another house brew came
his way and went down the same. “This is the best birthday
ever,” he slurred, flashing a big toothy smile at the girls. He
ordered up a final round and tipped it back, stood, staggered
to the bathroom and then left, mumbling his thanks, his face
as red as his heart joyous. Late the next morning with the sun
high and bright in the sky, the bar owner emerged. The young
man was still sprawled across the front seat of his car, passed
out from the excesses of a joyous heart—an excess worth the
indulgence.
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