The ancient Greeks revered the mystic properties of alcohol—it was an essential part of their rituals of worship, so why should I be embarrassed if I do the same?
You may think I'm giving a facile explanation, but aside from their queasy aspect of animal slaughter, it’s pretty much what you’ll see in any pub on a given night—so maybe that’s my apology and justification for my life.
Okay, it sounds crazy but that's the way it is. The truth is, I like to drink.
Mind you, going back to the Greeks and their spiritual experiences, there is a deeper experience associated with getting blotto—and that's being transported. The Greeks called it ek-stasis—the ability to enter a state and literally stand outside yourself and become another person.
Well, that's exactly what happened to me twice, and although I nearly killed myself, I keep going. Why? Well maybe it’s because I figure three’s a charm—besides, nothing else is working in my life, so why not leap down a rabbit hole? I’ve really nothing to lose—and, who knows, I might find Wonderland.
Elias rolls his eyes. He’s my shrink and I guess our long association gives him a kind of privileged position.
But unlike Maya or Stella, the two femme fatales in my life who may, or may not care to listen, he’s more or less expected to—but still can’t hide his feelings.
So, he rolls his eyes—not overtly, but inwardly, and I’m sure he does because I’ve studied his gestures so long I know him by heart. He can’t dissemble with me.
His subtle, unconscious eye twitch is a form of inner eye roll and that’s the worst kind—an unspoken condemnation that lingers mainly because it’s unvoiced. And since it can’t be dealt with, it hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Yeah, Elias knows the truth behind my outward façade.
He sees right through my pretence and apparent blasé and knows I still long for Jessica Skye—a screen Siren I met on a trip through Time.
That’s right—I traveled back to the Thirties. I met my soul mate despite the fact that Elias insists she's merely a figment of my imagination.
“That’s what drinking does to you, Leon,” he says, “it messes with your brain and you end up having profound conversations at night with your refrigerator.”
He means well, he really does, but fact is, consciousness is not just objective reality—in my opinion, it’s dilatory and depends on your frame of reference.
So what he really wants me to do is settle down with a ‘real’ girl, either Maya or Stella—well actually, in his view, preferably Stella, who’s less tempestuous, but quite a seductress in her own right.
But what do I want to do?
If I spoke from the heart I’d tell him, Give me a drink, Good Apothecary, to sweeten my imagination—for I have bad dreams.
And honestly, two fingers of scotch would do very nicely—it's good at raising visions and not half bad as an aphrodisiac as well.
And as for Stella and Maya, they’re career women, and I’m not settling for that. No way I'm disappearing down that rabbit hole of quiet desperation.
So, here I am. I’ve heard the Sirens' call and am yearning for enchantment.