(no subject)
Last night I went out for a very good friend's birthday. He and I didn't get to talk much. In fact, he and I haven't been talking much. I know this is inevitable, some friendships just drift apart and then drift back like a comet making it's slow eliptical orbit around a star. Right now I feel that I can only see this friend with the aid of giant convex lenses.
I tend to justify people drinking too much when they are in bars. To me it has always seemed like a form of quasi-safe joyous revelry in a social setting. Going out drinking with friends is much better for one's mental health than staying at home and drinking alone. As a kid my parents never took me to bars, occasionally we'd eat at some pub and grill and each of my parents would have one beer. My mom went through a spell of having matinis by herself at home when I was in grade school, but if she was sad and angry she did a good job of hiding it in the way that the burden of motherhood and marriage teaches most women. The only time I saw down and out people drowning their sorrows was on TV.
Once I started going to bars, I found that male clubhouse comradery that I never quite had as a kid. A bunch of bros broing down with no curfew. Just as Brian Adams wished the summer of 69 could have lasted forever, I wished my life of noctural happy party bartime could be infinetly looped so I would never have to go to college or work again. All bars all the time, well maybe the occasional afterbar. At this time in my life it wouldn't be a stretch to say that I liked bars more than sex. My bros and bars were more reliable than any relationship I had as a young adult. Sure, once in a while somebody would go overboard and get into a fight with some steroid fueled meatheads, or drunkenly blow up at their girlfriend in public, but that was just part of the bar's beautiful mystique. I said the bar was reliable, not predictable.
I have been torn from the pull of the bar over the last fifteen months. Some bar loyalists would call this being pussy whipped. Responsible adults refer to this as growing up. I think it is simply the logical progression of someone wanting to take more control of their life and finances. I now endulge in many more childish activities than during my bar tenure. I tickle and laugh and soberly cry. I chase a girl all over my house. I walk outside and wake up early. I smell flowers and spend what little money I have on treats. I forget about the future for long stretches, because I'm so engrossed with how great right now is. Sure, I get sad but I don't try to self-medicate my sadness with bar. I'm alot better at allowing the sadness to make its arc and go through all the fellings associated with it. I used to just slam the sad right into the bar.
Last night I saw my very good friend slamming his sad into the bar. Fuck it was ugly. It reminded me of the Degas painting "Absinthe". In the painting a middle aged women is sitting at a table by herself wearing her Sunday's best beautiful giant 19th century dress. There is a small pale green cocktail in front of her. Her eyes are blank screens hoisted above dark circles. The feeling of loniliness is chilling. I saw my friend in this same scene and part of larger "scene". I felt hopeless. There was nothing I could do, the damage of drink could only pass with time. There was no happy birthday, and a goodbye would have been forgotten, so I went home hours before bartime.
I tend to justify people drinking too much when they are in bars. To me it has always seemed like a form of quasi-safe joyous revelry in a social setting. Going out drinking with friends is much better for one's mental health than staying at home and drinking alone. As a kid my parents never took me to bars, occasionally we'd eat at some pub and grill and each of my parents would have one beer. My mom went through a spell of having matinis by herself at home when I was in grade school, but if she was sad and angry she did a good job of hiding it in the way that the burden of motherhood and marriage teaches most women. The only time I saw down and out people drowning their sorrows was on TV.
Once I started going to bars, I found that male clubhouse comradery that I never quite had as a kid. A bunch of bros broing down with no curfew. Just as Brian Adams wished the summer of 69 could have lasted forever, I wished my life of noctural happy party bartime could be infinetly looped so I would never have to go to college or work again. All bars all the time, well maybe the occasional afterbar. At this time in my life it wouldn't be a stretch to say that I liked bars more than sex. My bros and bars were more reliable than any relationship I had as a young adult. Sure, once in a while somebody would go overboard and get into a fight with some steroid fueled meatheads, or drunkenly blow up at their girlfriend in public, but that was just part of the bar's beautiful mystique. I said the bar was reliable, not predictable.
I have been torn from the pull of the bar over the last fifteen months. Some bar loyalists would call this being pussy whipped. Responsible adults refer to this as growing up. I think it is simply the logical progression of someone wanting to take more control of their life and finances. I now endulge in many more childish activities than during my bar tenure. I tickle and laugh and soberly cry. I chase a girl all over my house. I walk outside and wake up early. I smell flowers and spend what little money I have on treats. I forget about the future for long stretches, because I'm so engrossed with how great right now is. Sure, I get sad but I don't try to self-medicate my sadness with bar. I'm alot better at allowing the sadness to make its arc and go through all the fellings associated with it. I used to just slam the sad right into the bar.
Last night I saw my very good friend slamming his sad into the bar. Fuck it was ugly. It reminded me of the Degas painting "Absinthe". In the painting a middle aged women is sitting at a table by herself wearing her Sunday's best beautiful giant 19th century dress. There is a small pale green cocktail in front of her. Her eyes are blank screens hoisted above dark circles. The feeling of loniliness is chilling. I saw my friend in this same scene and part of larger "scene". I felt hopeless. There was nothing I could do, the damage of drink could only pass with time. There was no happy birthday, and a goodbye would have been forgotten, so I went home hours before bartime.