This poison will linger in all our veins even when, the fanfare returning, we are delivered again to the old disharmony. Oh, we now so worthy of such tortures, let us fervently grasp this superhuman promise made to our created bodies and souls: this promise, this madness!

~ Rimbaud

'Drunken Morning’

From Les Illuminations

I’m rebounding from the echoes of last night. Non-stop I had to work, hour after hour, day after day, for weeks I labored over my computer. I had an enormous project to turn in which had been weighing heavily on my mind since the start of the year. In the wee hours of each night, I would waddle to bed stiff from the permanent C-shape my body had formed as I hunched over my old, outdated laptop. My hand developed the form of a claw that ached from hours and hours each day grasping my mouse. At night, I was barely able to hold a toothbrush to drag it across my teeth. And when I finally completed the project, I didn’t take time to celebrate. I had baskets of laundry to do and tumble weeds of dog fur to clean which had collected underneath the furniture from three weeks of neglect. I was also overdue making dinner for my understanding husband. It seemed a good idea to open a few bottles of wine while I tackled these tasks. So I began to sip the dark red contents of my glass and felt it slide past my throat and into an empty and growling stomach while I stuffed the chicken breasts with a particularly tasty Caribbean recipe.

As I cooked I sipped and my shoulders began to lower. They had been at the level of my ears for some time. My back was in less pain. I felt circulation in my legs again. By my third glass, I let out a few giggles. By the fourth glass, I recall myself shrieking in laughter at “Kathy Griffin My Life on the D List” which ran in the background. And by the end of the bottle, I decided to take my dog for a midnight walk. I believe at this point I was skipping down the street and humming a tune, my kitchen apron still on. My dog and I decided to take a detour through a neighbor’s yard running through their sprinklers.

It was hot out last night. The steamy air was too stagnant for even insects to fly through. We needed to cool ourselves off. And it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Poets such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud believed in the “disarrangement of the senses”-- a practice which would inhibit the natural filtration and categorization of information we are methodically taught how to do in school. They did this with the aid of alcohol (and later music performers such as John Lennon and Jim Morrison exercised this through other types of chemicals….). Although I am a believer in the deconstruction of information and finding one’s own methods of relaxation, I am sorry I didn’t stop after my second glass.

I never finished cleaning the floors last night and I am having difficulties completing that task today. My eyelids are as heavy and gritty as sandbags and my brain feels like a dried nut rattling noisily against the insides of my head. My skin dry, my hair flat and my tongue thick. But the worst of all is that I am guilt ridden. I have wasted time today too worthless to do much. I have more work due and I have put people off. I didn’t even benefit from an evening out spending time with friends. Instead I cooked, drank, walked my dog then lost my head. Not a morsel of significance to the evening. The after effects of alcohol are unfair, but it certainly feels so right at the time.