I'm ruminating and Elias is listening—I pay him to do it and he does it very well:
The ancient Greeks revered the mystic properties of alcohol—it was an essential part of the worship of Dionysius along with the sacrifice of goats, the singing of a ritual song and the wearing of masks.
Aside from animal slaughter, it’s pretty much what you’d see in a pub on any given night—and that’s my apologia—the justification for my life.
The fact is, I like to drink.
Mind you, there is a deeper experience associated with getting blotto, buzzed or blitzed—you are transported. The ancients called it ek-stasis—the ability to enter a state and literally stand outside yourself and become another person.
It’s happened to me twice, and though I’ve nearly killed myself, I keep going. Why? Well maybe it’s because I figure three’s a charm—besides, not much else lately 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.
Unlike Maya or Stella 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 poetry of gesture so long I know him by heart. He can’t dissemble with me. His subtle, unconscious eye twitch betrays an 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.
He knows the truth behind my outward façade. He sees right through my pretence and apparent blasé. And he 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 that Elias insists is merely a figment of my imagination.
“That’s what drinking does to you, Theo,” 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 the fact is, consciousness is not some third person objective reality—it’s dilatory and depends on your frame of reference—kind of like Lao Tzu’s dream of a butterfly.
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 cry out like Lear on the heath, Give me an aphrodisiac, Good Apothecary, to sweeten my imagination—for I have bad dreams.
But honestly, two fingers of scotch would also do very nicely—neat and potent at raising visions and not bad as an aphrodisiac as well.
And as for Stella and Maya, they’re career women, and I’m not settling for that. I’ve heard the Siren call and I’m still yearning for enchantment.
