Saturday, November 05, 2011
Drinking to a great Dane
I am not too impressed with myself this morning.
To do a riff on an old Bobbie Gentry song, "You been drinking all morning
And you haven't touched a single bite."
It's deadline time again. This is the time when you've marshalled your words like an army and sent it out into the peaks and canyons of New York.
But where she goes, nobody knows.
Heisenberg's uncertainty principle.
Or maybe mad Kierkegaard. Either/Or.
God, I loved that dippy Dane. Consider him a great Dane. How anbout a line like "You are making mountains out of molehills...You are in love. You are supposed to make mountains out of molehills."
I am making mountains out of molehills because I have been in love with writing since childhood, going through the different cultures, avoiding the brickbats of my insane mother and a twisted sister.
From the earliest, I thought I had hidden talent and wanted to write.
And the dream came true way too early, in college, where it seemed to me they would print a football schedule if any student showed any ambition toward writing at all.
Then came the real world of the Toronto Star and Star Weekly, where at different times I felt as if I were caught in a sausage machine--say it on!--meat grinder, where your mind would have all the charm and ambiance of a public whore house. But like a good whore, you had to produce. Publish or perish.
But so heavily edited was The Star that only one tenth of what you wrote was printed. Durn frustrating to have eight hundred words of possibly your best essay or vignette discarded into File Thirteen.
Haha. The middle-aged chortle. And then the occupational hazard of alcohol.
....Well, I still drink. But I don't write so much.
Except today, when I harbour the illusion that brain cells can so come back, even when the writer is stewed.
But you've at least got to crunch on a sprig of celery, fer the vitamins--otherwise you might become Howard Healthcare at the local free hospital....Been there once or twice. Migod, no booze, no cigarettes. Object lesson: Do not go quietly into that darkened ambulance... At least, eat your vegetables when you drink-- for the vitamins. You might otherwise die.
So like the town fool, you drink, hunt for cold cuts, sausage to satisfy at least your ethnic quotient. So you start by boiling cabbage or celery.
What the hell. It's almost a dailiy reality, this ritual...Boil the cabbage, drink, and crack yourself up.
Bebido, ergo sum.
I drink, therefore I am.
....Well, enough of this stream-of-consciousness. I'm thinking of James Joyce's chracter, young Stephen Dedalus, who wasn't as good as either himself or Joyce, it sometimes occurs to me.
Still, I am intrigued by Joyce the man.
He had a weakness for women, some women.
The story is apochryphal, but I have heard it said, that one day a mysterious woman reached behind her seat in a theatre-- and into the pants of the creator of Stephen Dedalus.
The story goes that he followed that woman around for twenty years, like a half-fucked fox in a vast forest fire.
I have been following literature heh, and one certain woman for twenty years. And still she eludes me, while herself sometimes--I swear--laughing.
Laughing Lorelis seem to come. And they're all laughing at me.
This is the oddest, most self-defeating way of being in love. I am in Joyce country. I am in Soren Kiergegaard country.
And somehow, I feel I must raise a mug to old Kierkegaard.
"You are in love. You are supposed to make mountains out of molehills. "
Kierkegaard said most pepple can see the monster on your back.
I swear people can actally see the some godawful thing riding piggy-back over my neck. :)