Freud and energy. The jammed engine problem. Alcohol as a response (cure?) for frustration. The poisonous boss inside my head who thinks he knows what he's doing, but just gets in the fucking way, and nothing gets done. H talked about the false self (what I call the ego) - we construct it as children, the interface between us and a hostile, incomprehensible, uncontrollable world. Then the gulf grows between the false self and the true self, and the cognitive dissonance becomes increasingy painful. Alcohol is one way of bridging that, letting the true self out, shutting down the false self. Belle's wolfie is the true self, the shadow, deperately trying to break out of the cage the false self has become.
H says Belle is very CBT - treats, repetition etc. I suppose H and I given our backgrounds and history are bound to take a different view of the wolfie issue. But Belle gave up alcohol in her thirties - we've both taken 45 years, and have gone a lot nearer the bottom. And how for both of us the real turn seems to have only come in the last few years - for me since leaving Pol. H said the real epiphany for her was a trip to Milan with a non-drinking friend, and emptying the (very expensive) hotel mini bar on her own. Funny-stupid the pride I used to take in not drinking rubbish (I'm not so desperate I'll drink Baileys - £10 a litre at Morrisons this Christmas, apparently). Never really put it to the test. And isn't ouzo rubbish? I remember the overheard conversation in Kassiopi, on Corfu, and the man saying ouzo was the real killer - once they started on that it was downhill all the way and really quick. Interesting that he didn't say it was raki - a much cleaner, more honest drink, but then I saw much less raki on Corfu than on Naxos. And raki is a kind of seasonal drink - everywhere in October and November, and then just a tot offered after a meal.
And according to some app on FBook, "apparently" is one of my favourite words. (If you spotted it, "redacted" is not one of my favourite words - the word I removed just gave the game away, somewhat.)
Mind you, it also thinks I look 29 years old, which is probably what it says to all the girls.
Alcohol as lubricant (more often anaesthetic, and then incapacity, not least the inability to write legibly) - for poems, writing, love letters. The true self talking, coming out of the shadows. And the true self is a child that has never grown up - why a lot of alcoholic behaviour is so weird. Rejecting / suppressing wolfie only exacerbates the problem. We have to make friends with him (and why is it always male? does anyone have a female wolfie?). Ken Wilber's 3-2-1 process should be helpful here, as I tried with Gollum years ago.
A tour around my palace - my video of my room. (Sorry it's a bit dark and sick making, and you probably won't understand why I love it so much, but you should have seen the before version.)
Ingrid's bottle of brandy, golden, glowing, winking at me all evening. Desperate for a nightcap after H went home. Had another choc ice instead (Magnums are not as nice as the CoOp's dark choc ices). Slept like a log and did not wake until 7.30, feeling hungover. Did not have so much as a Beck's Blue. A nice evening and delicious supper with H.
Seems strange to think of leaving my home, just as I seem to be sorting it out, to go and work at Bonnevaux, and maybe cycle to Naxos. Or Vietnam. It's only 9,450 kms - that's 50 days at 50kms a day. I might take the train for the boring bits.
Listening to recordings I've made, over the years. Extraordinary how different in tone my voice is, now compared to then - I sounded so miserable, down, withdrawn, full of self pity and self obsession. I don't like to listen to myself then. Like ringing H the other day to ask her to supper - this pert, wide awake, cheerful person answers the phone. What happened to the soporific depressed dormouse?
H says Belle is very CBT - treats, repetition etc. I suppose H and I given our backgrounds and history are bound to take a different view of the wolfie issue. But Belle gave up alcohol in her thirties - we've both taken 45 years, and have gone a lot nearer the bottom. And how for both of us the real turn seems to have only come in the last few years - for me since leaving Pol. H said the real epiphany for her was a trip to Milan with a non-drinking friend, and emptying the (very expensive) hotel mini bar on her own. Funny-stupid the pride I used to take in not drinking rubbish (I'm not so desperate I'll drink Baileys - £10 a litre at Morrisons this Christmas, apparently). Never really put it to the test. And isn't ouzo rubbish? I remember the overheard conversation in Kassiopi, on Corfu, and the man saying ouzo was the real killer - once they started on that it was downhill all the way and really quick. Interesting that he didn't say it was raki - a much cleaner, more honest drink, but then I saw much less raki on Corfu than on Naxos. And raki is a kind of seasonal drink - everywhere in October and November, and then just a tot offered after a meal.
Mind you, it also thinks I look 29 years old, which is probably what it says to all the girls.
Alcohol as lubricant (more often anaesthetic, and then incapacity, not least the inability to write legibly) - for poems, writing, love letters. The true self talking, coming out of the shadows. And the true self is a child that has never grown up - why a lot of alcoholic behaviour is so weird. Rejecting / suppressing wolfie only exacerbates the problem. We have to make friends with him (and why is it always male? does anyone have a female wolfie?). Ken Wilber's 3-2-1 process should be helpful here, as I tried with Gollum years ago.
Ingrid's bottle of brandy, golden, glowing, winking at me all evening. Desperate for a nightcap after H went home. Had another choc ice instead (Magnums are not as nice as the CoOp's dark choc ices). Slept like a log and did not wake until 7.30, feeling hungover. Did not have so much as a Beck's Blue. A nice evening and delicious supper with H.
Seems strange to think of leaving my home, just as I seem to be sorting it out, to go and work at Bonnevaux, and maybe cycle to Naxos. Or Vietnam. It's only 9,450 kms - that's 50 days at 50kms a day. I might take the train for the boring bits.Listening to recordings I've made, over the years. Extraordinary how different in tone my voice is, now compared to then - I sounded so miserable, down, withdrawn, full of self pity and self obsession. I don't like to listen to myself then. Like ringing H the other day to ask her to supper - this pert, wide awake, cheerful person answers the phone. What happened to the soporific depressed dormouse?
Comments
Post a Comment
Say anything you like. I do.