Red, red wine, stay away from me...

I have a problem with red wine. I like it too much. Maybe it’s the sugar in it, or maybe it’s the particular type of “buzz” it gives me. Or maybe I’m actually an alcoholic. Whatever the reason, it’s red wine over which I have less control than other beverages. After the first speculative glass, I begin pouring and quaffing it like it was grape juice. Which it is, only fermented. I down it like I’d down handfuls of salty peanuts--absent-mindedly--but of course the effects are slightly more obvious.

Social situations make me uneasy, although I do love socializing with even vaguely like-minded people. I must have residual self-consciousness; a feeling of not being good enough; a feeling of having to play a role in order to be liked. These feelings are somewhat stressful. Wine brings relief. Unfortunately, wine comes in bottles bigger than a bottle of beer. Once opened, a bottle of wine is, for all practical purposes, gone. And often, it’s gone into me.

Sometimes I don’t realize I’ve had too much until I knock something over or bump into something with more than my habitual clumsiness. My intellectual capacities feel the same as usual (which could be illusory). The ability to express my ideas might diminish, but that is not always noticeable to others. Or is it? I cherish the notion that I can express things well, so that a reduction of quality in MY expression merely brings it down to average level. What hubris and denial, eh?

No, I’m not having wine now. I’m having a beer.

But, seriously, I need to curtail my inclinations when it comes to that red wine. The merlots, the cabernets, the shirazes, and especially, the red zinfandels, so light and playful and deceptive. Oh, and the pinot noirs, brought to public attention by the film, “Sideways.” At least I’m not as bad as either of those guys!

Has anyone ever noticed that they might have a weekly alcohol quota? I think I do. If I skip a drink of wine or beer on one night, I seem to make up for it on another. I should measure carefully for a month. I’ll bet my weekly consumption is quite regular. The question is, is it increasing? Let’s hope not. I know it’s increased in the past, but at the moment, I intuit that it is decreasing, as my DVD-watching, exercise, and clarinet practicing increase. Nothing can replace oblivion, but that’s what sleep is for. Let us toast to a good night’s sleep!

Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'...

Bought a used bicycle, as if I had the leisure to ride sedately to the grocery store, waving at neighbors and hoping for good prices on the makings of an autumn soup. As if I could hang around yard sales or appreciate gardens. As if I weren't compelled to show up at the same office at 8:30 am every weekday and stay there until 5 pm.

I am not as counter-culture as I used to be. Not conscientiously green; not an advocate of social experimentation. Long ago, I used to take public transportation and live in communes. Now I'm married, drive a car everywhere, and live in a small house that we own, but there seems to be no time to take care of the house anymore. Despite finishing my thesis (which was supposed to give me more time), I still can't keep up with the messes and the lack of organization in my own home. My new boss is excited about doing exactly those things in the workplace. Old files are being thrown out; old gadgets and chairs are being surplussed (put in a metal building on campus where some low-life company may eventually bid on them as landfill). My limited energy for optimizing my immediate environment is thus being sucked away, and I become slightly depressed on weekends. This leads to focusing on a rental movie or a series of pointless clarinet notes, or even the dreaded SLEEPING LATE, instead of the housework that I KNOW my boss is doing in her lovely home, in addition to bringing up her children and preparing for her classes, and her meetings with important people.

I need to believe that this is because she isn't "deep" or "questioning" like I am. Except for questioning how she wound up in charge of someone like me.

All's well that is?

And, life goes on. Not sure if there is any point in my taking clarinet lessons (which I am doing). I’m not “obsessive” about practicing, which I’d hoped I would be. I am, however, influenced by the sound I produce, I seek a better sound, but it’s not my only thought these days.

There is no ANSWER, only the process of asking or wondering. I have flashes of places I’d like to be, like Marseilles, or Arizona. Or in Toronto at some sort of advanced workshop on meta-cultural criticism. Or maybe in New Zealand, visiting an artist friend.

A friend was sharing pictures this morning at the coffeeshop of his experience at Burning Man (in Nevada) last year...or was it the year before? Seems an interesting interlude, but not “reality.” Still, I’d like to go sometime. I think I could enjoy an amusing non-reality right now. I’ve been so serious for so long.

Reading “The Wisdom of Insecurity,” by Alan Watts.

Look Ma, I created a new self!

I successfully completed my thesis “defense” this past Friday. On the way out of the building, I used the word, “ascertain,” and my friend from the Biology Department who participated in the defense as the “Observer” from another College, said, “See, you’re smarter already.”

“Welcome to the community of scholars,” called out one of the art professors from my department as I drove up to the house where Women’s Studies was conveniently having a party that night. She was enacting a mild parody, and I understood that, but I do feel different, somehow.

My decades-long recurring dream of having a baby (however deformed or non-human it turned out to be, and even if I accidentally lost or destroyed it later) recurred that very night, after the party. This time, it felt as real and true and as non-surrealistic as a dream can be. I was pregnant, and had gone into labor, and realized that my identity would soon change forever. Then someone in the dream reminded me that most women are mothers, and it’s not really anything special in terms of human achievement. But of course it’s special for each mother. And, it follows, for each master’s degree candidate, although they are legion.

Since I don’t have any “real” children, my “baby” has always been something like a thesis, some project or other. Perhaps this is the first time the "baby" was legitimate and had all its proper parts: brain, legs, arms, chapters, endnotes, bibliography. It certainly wasn’t premature. It took me six years. Ten years before that I was merely thinking about returning to school for English literature. In between, I somehow got halfway through an art education master’s but changed my mind. (From that experience I learned not to pay for graduate courses by credit card.)

Yes, I am one of many. I am officially in the circus-like “community of scholars” now, and for some reason, although while I was “pregnant,” I very much wanted to quit, I now want to “have” another one. Someday. Or, maybe I’ll adopt.