In Vino Veritas

Well look at me, updating my blog twice in one week. Barely.
I must have too much time on my hands.
I suppose I have cut back on my masturbating. Shirking my wanking, as it were.
I am currently fueled by several glasses of a subtle yet respectable Cabernet. A bit sweeter than it has right to be, but with occasional pops of cedar which I find appealingly incongruous.
Goddamn, but I do sound like a wine snob.
Perhaps I rely too heavily on alcohol for impetus in this endeavor. Then again, I am making an attempt at being a writer. Alcoholism and the pen often go hand-in-hand.
Faulkner, famously, when confronted by writers' block would lock himself in a closet-sized room with nothing but a typewriter and a bottle of whiskey. So my practices are not entirely without precedent.
In addition, I have much to write about as of late. I don't know why this should be. There is hardly any more going on in my life than before, but my mechanism for abstract thought seems to be functioning on all four cylinders.
Where to begin, though? There's the rub.
Speaking of the bard, I must grudgingly consign myself to the Hamlet category, as far as Shakespearean archetypes go. You know how they differentiate themselves. You've got your lovers, Romeo -- ardent and awe-struck, and Othello -- jealous and volatile. You've got long lists of jesters and madmen and cowards and kings. As far as leading men go, the two main divisions could be men of action and men of thought. Macbeth, for all his "cat-i'-the-adage" reluctance, is a warrior. He boldly takes what he wants (or what his wife wants).
Hamlet is much more of a Nervous Nelly, completely unwilling to commit any action for fear of an unwanted outcome.
And this is me. So I will continue shuffling along, "to-be-or-not-to-be"ing, until I pluck up the courage to stab Claudius and get it over with.
(For all of my non-Shakespearean-aware readers who are somewhat flummoxed by this tangent, shame on you. Read a book. I attempt to tightrope walk between snobbery and sophistication, but really. The man is the greatest writer of this language. Pick up a book.)
While on the subject of literary archetypes:
I was re-reading a book lately and, as one does, finding myself relating to a certain character. We do this, to make the read more engrossing and, perhaps moreso, to feel we are a part of something. Or, more accurately, to affirm our identity. We overlay ourselves on these characters to show that we have relevance and an acknowledged, existing place in the world.
(On a side-note, in many works I find myself more closely identifying with villains and outcasts. I find something endearing in people who aren't routed for; who will ultimately lose. But beyond that, even more disparangingly, I was watching a show recently in which a wounded female villain is attempting an escape. She flags down a passing car, exaggerating her injury and distress. When the hapless chap pulls up and asks, all chivalrous concern, if she's okay, she shoots him point-blank in the face. That's me, I thought. If life were an action film I'd love to be the hero or, at least, the comic relief side-kick, but more probable is that I'd be the doltish Good Samaritan who, offering aid, serves only to make the villain or monster more hateable.)
(Side-note: That show was ALIAS, by the way. I had professed admiration for it in a past post. Unfortunately, now on season four, I must amend my review. Like all of J.J. Abrams's work, it starts off promising but spirals ever more out of control with wild loose-ends and abandoned plot points. The show might as well be called "Everyone's a Spy. It seems that at least 75% of the characters in the program are agents, sleeper agents, recruited to be spies, or spies-in-training.)
Where the fuck was I?
Oh, archetypes!
Well, in this book I was re-reading, I had no sooner assigned myself to one character -- itself key, not the identifying with one, but the distinguishing from the others, in terms of self-definition -- when I realized, well, I'm actually a bit like this other character, too. And this one. And this one. And simultaneously unlike all of them. Which is true for all of us. We hinder and frustrate ourselves in an attempt to find a definitive two-dimensional identity. Were life two-dimensional it would be a good deal simpler. We are too damn complex.
All the perspective battles in my life are lost in shades of grey. If there were a bad-guy to fight or a damsel to save perhaps I would not hesitate so incessantly. But beyond concerns of whether or not I could -- itself enough of an unmanning obstacle -- is the question of whether or not I should.
I assume this is all pretty damn oblique to you cats. Apologies, but I daren't offer specifics.
Well, I've been at this for a while and haven't made much progress. There is much ground to cover.
Passion, though a bad regulator, is a powerful spring, as Emerson said.
And passion I have in abundance. I am veritably overflowing with unbridled creative energy, dear reader. And I fear you must cope with the result.
Not that one would recognise me as passionate were one to interact with me.
Of late I have seemed, though internally surging with emotion, listless and depressed, even.
Last night at work I was very much what I would call "on my game." I performed my culinary duties swiftly and efficiently, spoke more or less eloquently, and responded to conversational forays with wit and aplomb. I orchestrated an elaborate staff meal -- a jentacular feast -- which was met with smiles and thanks from my assembled colleagues. (I still interpret, distrustful as I am regarding praise, any compliments as condescension. Growing up my father, out of love for me and perhaps out of familial pride, would lavish lauds upon me for the most mundane of accomplishments. This taught me early on to have little respect for any kind words people gave me, and parse even smiles as the grossest patronizing. I feel this way also regarding any female attention. To fully appreciate my state of mind if a girl expresses any interest in me, I suggest you give a listen to I Don't Believe You by the Magnetic Fields.
I had a dream and you were in it.
The blue of your eyes was infinite.
You seemed to be
In love with me
Which isn't very realistic.)

Anyway, effortless cool though I might have exuded, I also conveyed, I'm sure, a bleary, weary, depression. Internally this was manifest as a sort of Zen-like detatchment -- a minimalist acceptance of life and all its disappointments. Still, I no doubt seemed like a dreadful mope.
How could I be overwhelmed with creative fire and lulled by soporific geniality at the same time?
Y'got me. Hurray for dichotomies.
I felt this split most keenly Saturday evening, when I asked a female co-worker out for a drink.
I assumed, first of all, that she'd say "no." And, secondly, that she'd assent only in the platonic. So, coarsened as a fellow with my luck with women would be, I expected her to decline the offer. When she "yes" instantly I was buoyed by an irrational thrill every decent man experiences when an attractive woman agrees to a private chat accompanied by social lubricants.
So off we went to a nearby watering hole, where I sat and sipped my whiskey-and while being captivated by her silvery laughter and the lovely white crescent of her bottom teeth and inviting pink tongue.
And my thoughts strayed, as a man's do, to the possibility of sexual interraction.
At some point I realized she would not be interested in the above, and resigned myself to gallantly paying for her drink and bidding her good evening.
Afterwards I tried to deconstruct the whole scene, as one who overthinks everything as much I do would do, in an attempt to figure out exactly when she decided not to pursue any physical interaction with me. I often, well, always, do this with women.
What was the exact moment when she switched from possible lover to definite friend? What was it that I did to ensure this? I was hoping for some lightning strike realization about my mistake.
Eventually I was struck by a different realization:  She never considered physical interraction. It was all delusion.
This was at once a relief and an irritation.

The word jentacular, mentioned above, means "breakfast related."
You're welcome.

I have heard of the exchange of knowledge as being without loss to either side. What I mean by this is, if I have five dollars and I give you those five dollars, you are five dollars richer while I am five dollars poorer. However, if I know something, and I share this with you, you now know it and I still know it. So there is no loss.
This is a bit of a fallacy, however.
A better analogy would be if I have five dollars and I Xerox it and then give you the copy. I still have five dollars, and you have five dollars, but now it has depreciated as currency. I am torn by a desire to share my knowledge -- partly to show off how smart I think I am -- and a covetous tenacity to hold onto my knowledge so that I'm the only one who knows it.

Halloween has just passed.
It is my favorite holiday. It combines, I feel, the hedonism of New Years' and St. Patrick's Day without any real compulsion to reform oneself or prove one's Irish heritage through drinking, with the free license to dress and act like someone completely different from your everyday self.
Call me immature, but I never got over the childhood desire to make-believe.
On Facebook I initiated a costume challenge for myself. I would post a new profile photo every day for the 13 days leading up to and including Halloween, all different costumes.
I failed in this, as I do most things.
But there were a few highlights along the way.
In response to a suggestion of "pig-in-a-blanket" by a female co-worker I rather outdid myself by stripping down to my orange underwear (sport briefs, by the way. My favorite style of male skivvies, and the only one I wear), draping a brown blanket over my shoulders, strapping a garsih pig nose to my face, and dripping ketchup over my abs.
I admit that it was a rushed and ill-conceived photo. It was hazy and disturbing and evoked a Buffalo-Bill-in-Silence-of-the-Lambs type of nauseous unease.
I was alarmed to find that my employer found his way to the photo.
He called me aside during work to question me about it, not in a directly forbidding manner, but in a sort of bemused outrage and concern.
It gave me a considerable blow to my self-confidence. I thought to myself, "Rich, you are really taking this thing way too far. You will scare and alienate people."
I was in terror of viewing any comments my photo might have garnered when I returned home that evening.
And yet . . .
My friends liked it.
People were impressed. They made reassuring jokes, expressed approval.
This served to bolster my self-image and assauge the needling doubts my boss had burdened me with. I realized it wasn't a legitimate opinion but just the narrow-minded, knee-jerk reaction of someone without any whimsy left in him.

The above suggestion came, as I say, from a female co-worker, and I'll admit, I posed as I did for the picture as a way of flirting with her. This is something I have been doing with varying intensity since I started working at the restaurant, and with increased fervor of late, due, I think, to her pregnancy.
Now, do not misunderstand me. I am not someone who fantasizes about intercourse with pregnant women. That is, in fact, one form of human sexuality and pornography I cannot support. But I do realize that her hormones are currently in a frothing frenzy, and she is aware of herself as a sexual being. It would be impolite not to respond in kind. I am of two minds when it comes to this particular state of affairs. I cannot reconcile my co-worker, and all women in her glorious condition, as both a mother, a bringer of life, and as a sexual being. I want to show respect for her as the conduit of our very existence, and I want to recognize her as a woman, with all the associated parts and desires. 

I am currently undergoing what might be termed a crisis of faith. I have long since abandoned my Catholic identity, even my Christian one. I have been considering a kind of neo-Paganism, Nature worship sort of thing, which, by its vague boundaries makes itself arbitrary. I gave up meat and caffeine, for instance, from the Autumnal Equinox until the Samhain. However, if I could chose which religion I would prefer, of all the beliefs that have been around since our species emerged from the jungles, I would chose worship of the Divine Feminine. I assume, based on its very nautre that this is one of the oldest belief systems. I have the utmost respect of and even adoration for the layered feminine identity, which is at once mother and lover. It is a simultaneous reality which is difficult to wrap one's head around.


Pet Peeves:

I am always upset by peers -- people my age or younger -- complaining about aging.
Now I am very aware of how fast time passes -- exponentially so -- as one ages. And perhaps I am biased, having been chubby and awkward for most of my childhood and teenage years, and currently, though still chubby and awkward, in the best shape of my life. Still, every time someone of my age bracket whines about how they are not as strong or flexible or durable as they were in their teens I bridle with rage. We are in the prime of our lives! The gains made by young atheletes between 10 and 19 are astronmonical. However, once one reaches that pinnacle at 19, the atheletic ability of of a person remains more or less the same from 19 to 60, at least in terms of speed and stamina. I have been beaten in trail races by people twice my age.
Women do not reach sexual maturity until thirty. Which is why I find women who are older than me, and especially older than thirty, so sexy; they are comfortable with their bodies. They realize that men, at least decent men, men like me, find every inch of them appealing, and get over their body-image hang-ups.
My peers need to save any griping about aging until such a time as it is justified.

Words I Like:

I haven't fixated on anything recently. But I have learned a new definition, based on a series of debates I've been following on YouTube.

Eschatology: any doctrine concering the end of things, specifically Armegeddeon.

More on that later.

I will leave you with some poetry by Sappho, famed lesbian lyric poet of ancient Greece. Yes, it was written from one woman to another, but I find it universally applicable. I use it to apply to a certain girl. One whom Yeats would say had beauty like a tightened bow string.

He seems to me equal to gods, that man
Whoever he is,
Opposite you,
That sits and listens close to your sweet speaking
And lovely laughing.
Oh it puts the heart in my chest on wings.
For when I look at you,
Even for a moment,
No speaking is left in me.

From Ann Carson's translation of Fragment 31.