The Day and the Hour:
Drunkalogues & Mythologies
by
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The Things They Told Me, II My sponsor’s old man would arrive at meetings with oxygen and be lifted up the stairs by the rest of us. The door in is the door out, he’d croak: God is/Love is— prayer works and remains the deepest secret. That winter we drove sixty miles to spread his ashes, wrapped in an ancient Irish sorrow, the wind forever fierce.
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About the Book
A Moment of Clarity On Memorial Day, 1974, an itinerant drunk named Pablo made a spiritual discovery. Hunkered on a highway west of the Palouse, he glimpsed a life in disarray, shorn of insight, heading nowhere and running scared… It takes a moment to recognize a life as your own. One thing is certain: that turning point, without light or air, from which he’d struggle as from an undertow, was in fact a divine panic: terror not of heartbreak or brain seizure, but of spiritual death, the heart vacant and staggering without purpose. On that point he’s definite. Sick, broke, without future, at a point of no return, a man is thrust face to the wall. On that day, in that hour, a breeze whispers in the trees, or it doesn’t. Still to recall it makes him shudder.
About the Author
Pablo G. is the pen name for a guy celebrating forty years of sobriety and who insists that after a certain age, everything is for the last time, even if it’s not. The Day and the Hour, his text about his early days in recovery, is intended as a salute to the men who sponsored him, became surrogate fathers to him, and loved him until he could love himself. That’s how it works.