Wednesday, January 29, 2003


I feel like I did the first day of cross country practice my first day of high school, except with the idea of running marathons, and what that entails. In explaining to Bill what I wanted to work on, I told him that while I'm pretty aware of the issues, awareness is not, and hasn't been enough.

I told him it was like knowing what a marathon is, knowing I'd like to run one, both for the journey and the sense of accomplishment. But unlike running or anything else I've done in life, I haven't been able to put together the right approach, the right training plan to actually take the steps I need to to get there, to at least get out the door. Lace up my shoes. Knowing that there isn't a magic elixir that will take me there. Instantly. This is the start of marathon, training that will be painful and exhilirating, sometimes both.

So I feel like that first day of practice. A little nervous, a little uncomfortable. But excited about the possibilities.

He's already helped give me some new insights, some new ways of framing my thoughts. I think this will be incredibly productive, working with an emotional coach. Getting some tools and techniques to get where I'd like to be.

I said, at the end of our hour, that I should have asked him the therapist interview questions. But having a personal recommendation is more important, especially having watched the product of his work over the years. Hearing the testimonials.


4:39:35 PM    

Con Broccoli. This time cavateli con broccoli.

It's been so long since I've had a hangover that I couldn't remember what I can eat that day. My stomach smiled before I was even concious of the words, triggering some primal, drinking man olfactory memory.

I ate the whole thing at Adriana's, waiting for Jans to get his sandwiches. While the woman behind the counter, Margaret, laughed at me. She said, "You must have some hangover."

Two or three martini lunches boggle my mind. One, one is just fine. Sipped. Probably helps when those martinis are done with food, but last night was too much. I remember slamming the second one, like a shot, the martini glass stem cracking in my hand. The world drifting in and out of dull haze into glaring focus, according to some strange Indian meter, my nerves strings on some ethereal sitar.

Nick told me my drink was getting warm. My warm gin martini. So I plucked some hair from my head, tossed it in, and slammed it.  I don't know if anyone else got it. Blazing Saddles. The town drunk. 

Juniper berries, Bombay Sapphire, the pine smell, reminding me of times under the big trees in our Lake Geneva backyard.

All my favorite alcoholic beverages have some element of earth. Vodka, most bourbons, most whiskeys are drinkable, but they do nothing for me on the spiritual level. Except Jim Beam, which always seemed to help me play the blues better. I don't know why.

Drinking also requires training and discipline. You need to drink to drink. And I don't. And I don't know that I want to get in that kind of shape again. I don't have time to run as much as I need to, let alone become a better drinker.


12:05:36 PM