The other day L. and my mom and I were looking through photos of the past five to ten years. Taken in cities all over the world, with friends near and far gone. The two common denominators to each photo: one, I'm holding a drink; and two, I don't remember much at all about the setting in which the photo was taken.
So it's been seven months since I had a drink. For stretches I've felt clear and easy and right. At other points (now) I crave a good beer, would kill for just one good beer or a sharp glass of wine, or maybe 5 martinis or a nice simple case of beer and a joint.
It's not that if I drank one I'd wake up under a pile of cops, or sleep my way through suburbia (delicious tense hopeless moms, fear not), or start pounding full bottles of vodka every night and end up one of those red-faced commuter jerks on the train. It's more that the act of not drinking has turned off some muting or filter and allowed a range of thoughts/emotions/memories to surface.
I'm interested in what's buried under there, even though some is shit, some is poison, some is scary. A lot of it is me, a strange me that I barely know, the past me.
I was thinking this morning that I will have earned a drink if I make it to one year. I think it would be a very nice glass of white wine, in Paris, with fish soup and fresh toasted bread.
Then I was thinking that I will earn a drink when I: finish all of Faulkner; read a modern novel in Spanish and understand it; publish a novel; complete an album of music; climb a large mountain or run a marathon or bike from here to the Jersey shore; and develop my own black and white photographs.
At that point I could have a drink, it wouldn't kill me. Even five out of the six. Maybe I could have one drink when I make it to the year, then another for five out of six, then take it from there. Or, I could go get a drink now...
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