Sunday, June 19, 2011

glass bottles

If I had to characterize my relationship with alcohol, it would probably be like the one between Smeagol and Gollum. A false beckoning friend, that pretends to be a comforting hand on the back, but is actually twisting your insides and freeing feelings of self-hate. It's like the scenes in the second movie, when he's crouched in the dark rocking back and forth, "smeagoll.... smeagolll." Ok that sounds dramatic even to me HA. "I told you he was tricksy..."

My family never drank much, when we were kids, my parents would split a beer with us on Fridays. Meaning, a can of beer poured and split four ways, anymore than that and they swore they felt too dizzy.
So I don't know where the fascination comes from, although my mother told me that when I was little she would push my stroller around the ABC store to look at all the glass bottles, which apparently I loved. (Proof that the south needs more places for amusement.)

Maybe it's the ritual of drinking that is so comforting. It's the sound of whiskey being poured, and the amber color of cognac on ice, and the way red wine feels luxurious and heady on the tongue. It's even true for the rubbing alcohol smell of soju. The look of the green glass bottles, and the sound of clinking soju shotglasses, even how cute the brand names are, like "chu-eum", meaning "first time".

It's been some time since I've felt comfort rather than escape, and I haven't forgotten that the alluring sense of freedom that is waiting on the other side is a false one. That the splendid banquet is a lure, there is only a sleeping creature with eyes in its hands waiting to devour you.