Puzzle Pieces and Poetry

Original Post Date: Apr 9th, 2009

I never drink alone.

There was a time when I never drank at all. A time when the idea of altering one's mood and perceptions against the body's will by ingesting fermented stuffs seemed repulsive to me. It was a moral stance, and a well thought out one. I argued with my friends, and even wrote about it. I even argued with my beloved father about it. I can remember the ever so slight sound of mockery as he rebutted my purity. I remember hating him for it.

Then I thought about it, and then I thought some more. And then, after poetry and talks, arguments and heavenly glances, something struck me. Sometimes things just strike you. Nature didn't invent lightning just for a cool show. She did it to teach us how suddenly things can change. I didn't let go of my morality, nor did I compromise. I simply found a missing puzzle piece.

The first drink I ever had, I had with my dad. And the second. And the third. I remember taking a sip of his beer. I remember swerving to the washroom 3 times. I remember how much more difficult it was to aim and how much less I cared each time I made it to the urinal. I remember him laughing and patting me on the back, telling me stories of when he was drinking at my age. I remember us stumbling home together, arm in arm.

For the right reasons, some things are worth changing.

I still don't drink alone. It's not a moral stance this time. Simply something that never appealed to me. I enjoy drink as liquid courage or inspiration, social lubrication or panty remover (mine, not theirs). But its effects when I'm on my own rarely seem to interest me. I was mulling about the suggestion tonight, however, while listening to my stomach growl and my music softly howl. There was something about the day's events, combined with the longing of my thoughts, that seemed to call for the wistful melancholy that beer brings.

But then, through a curious reminder of a friend, I went to look at my unimpressive stock of liquor. There in the fridge I saw her two bottles of vodka water, saved from a night of boozing long since passed.

For the right reasons, some things are worth keeping.

Over the course of my most recent move I have found things that I have kept. Treasures of my very own. Private pleasures. Emotional porn. Trinkets that were worth - to a man who absolutely hates moving anything he doesn't have to - dragging from one place to another.

Amid stacks of university alumni magazines and old class notes, all junk, a handful of school newspapers remains. Inside are the articles of a woman I would (and may very well) chase forever. I kept the ones with my articles in them too, but I don't know where they are.

The old pocket watch of a man who wore it religiously. Why he offered that particular watch to me I'll never know. But it is as cherished as my own family heirlooms. I don't even know if it works. I haven't the slightest idea how to wind it. But it doesn't need to be. It keeps perfect time with my mind.

Old love letters from a woman that I don't think ever really loved me. I keep them, along with our pictures together, in a shoebox far from sight of my daily life - there is no better cliché. So little is left in my heart from those 3 years. What does remain is deep.

The paper mache bunny with the broken ear in my nightstand drawer. The only experience at a summer camp that I remember.

An old poster from my dad: Be Like A Duck. It sits atop my dresser, swimming constantly.

A gigantic childhood map of a fantasy world.

A friend's vodka water.

No alcohol can compare to this quaint nostalgia. In the movies, when the hero looks back on some item and it means the world to them, it seems cheesy and weak. It seems unlikely that someone could become so attached to something so insignificant, just because of its symbolism.

And it is true. Symbols can be lost, and anything can be remade to fit a mould. We persevere. I could lose everything I have tomorrow, and my lamenting would be minimal. That is the sign of a successful freedom from materialism.

But not so much symbols, those puzzle pieces are instead birth-mothers. Each time my eyes chance by those living memories they sing old poetry anew into my soul. Those songs remind me of who I am and who I was, whom I affected and who affects me, what I changed and what I did not. And, most importantly and most effectively, they remind me why.

They are worth keeping around.

- Z