This entry was posted on Sunday, December 23rd, 2007 at 7:52 am and is filed under General Word Vomit, Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
(NOTE: I’m not sure any of this makes sense, seeing as how it has been written while otherwise intoxicated. It sounds good right now, which is why I’m posting it… we’ll see how it reads in the light of day.)
Right about now I rather wish I was writing with a quill and ink. It would be more fitting given the circumstances, seeing as how I’m reveling in the effects of absinthe. And although there are no Moulin Rouge-style fairies dancing about, I still feel somewhat Parisian in my indulgences. Were this a movie, I’d be inclined to stand atop a brick wall, shouting at the stars about how love will conquer all. Suddenly, Toulouse-Lautrec and Van Gogh’s ear make more sense.
And colors do seem closer than they appear.
I’ve prided myself for a while on being the decadent rock chick, my bottle of Jack tucked under an arm. And to be sure, I do enjoy the debauched aspect of tilting that dark bottle back and feeling the encompassing warmth flooding my body. But it lacks the ritual of absinthe, and it certainly lacks the literal fire. Absinthe is indeed a curious liquid. First there’s the odd green color illuminating your glass, then the bright purple flame from the soaked sugar in spoon rising into the air. The flavor is sweet and rich – too much so, honestly. But the result is profound and astute, as intoxicating as it is illuminating.
I haven’t felt much like drinking lately; I haven’t felt like much of anything, really. My world seems to have shrunk into itself from a stifling depression that keeps me locked inside myself. It’s a bit constrictive to be so tightly wrapped into a singular world, but there’s no other place I feel safe. Until I’m able to accept that my world has changed, it’s best for me to stay close to home.
Still, when a girlfriend called me out, suggesting we spend some time together before the holidays, I couldn’t refuse. And that’s when the absinthe came out.
I’d never indulged before; she and the others, all world travelers and old hands at deviance, had. So the spoons came out, the liquid flowed, and I suddenly had a bit of feeling back in my skin.
I certainly can’t give full credit to a vaguely hallucinogenic, mildly legal drink for bringing me out of my funk, and I expect as soon as this wears off I’ll be more or less back where I started, but it did spur a vivid new trend of thought, giving me far less dismal ideas than I had when I woke up.
I wonder what Bukowski would have written under the influence of absinthe.
In my case, I can only hope that that vibrant superiority I’ve experience in this guise lasts long enough to carry me through the holidays I’ve so been dreading. Because despite having a loving and wonderful family, their company, even with their best intentions, seems to make my involuntary aloneness seem all the more clear. I have not accepted that fact that my guy left my life and I have to live here still.
At the moment I’m closer to coping with the situation than I have been; whether that’s a direct result of the absinthe current buzzing in my system or a neuron that finally snapped into place in my over crowded brain, I can’t exactly be sure.
But at the very least, I feel more alive than I have in a while. It’s unfortunate that it had to come from a green-tinted liquid, but sometimes, there’s no accounting for hope.
December 23rd, 2007 at 8:16 am
Pain and misery breed creativity. How many really happy well adjusted great artists or writers can you think of? No advice or words of comfort really mend a torn soul, all mean well but don’t really mean much. Time really does heal all (old sayings usually only stick around for centuries if they happen to be true) Assorted libations will numb the effected parts temporarily however.
Until then write LOTS. It will help and probably be pretty good stuff.
December 23rd, 2007 at 8:16 am
Cheers!