Paris, I wanted to say. And the wine was amazing. But of course I couldn’t say it. I was in the AA narrative: abstinence followed by illumination. No wine allowed—not even a sip.
Is this the only way not to destroy yourself like Parker did? I don’t know. Some people are trying what they call “harm reduction,” but the AA people hate them. I’ve been to “harm reduction” groups too. The therapist tries to get the group to reduce their intake of harmful substances, but she does not forbid them because she knows this sets up a rebellion within.
I know that when I was young I was horribly self-destructive. I drank margaritas then—not wine—till I passed out. I smoked anything you handed me and even took little blue pills, having no idea what they were. Those mysterious pills nearly killed me. If it hadn’t been for two physicians at the party who walked me up and down and spooned coffee down my gullet, I might be dead. I have also passed out at parties from too much wine coupled with terror of the famous company. Once I was seated next to Robert Redford at a flashy New York dinner party and I was so scared by his good looks and his possible interest in me that I kept drinking wine till I passed out. I didn’t get a date with Redford, and not only was I not invited back but my hosts gleefully told the gossip columns. Hardly kind of them. But even elegant people can stoop low. I got sober after that—and stayed sober a good long time. I even dated sober and had sex sober during my single days. Not an easy thing to manage.
Then I met Ken, who hardly drinks (his substance is food), and he said, “Why do you think you’re an alcoholic?”
“Because I passed out at a party in front of Robert Redford, because I once nearly died from little blue pills mixed with margaritas, because I can’t drink—that’s why.”
And he respected this, admired it, even wanted to go to meetings with me. He learned the jargon—he who tastes one sip of good wine and stops—even though he passed the Chevalier du Tastevin course (a really pretentious accreditation in wine tasting). He even gave me his silver Tastevin cup. He learned to call it “The Program” instead of AA. He learned about anonymity. He learned to say “It works if you work it” and “Let go, let God,” and even “Meeting-makers make it.” He is totally respectful of those who don’t drink, and orders them water or Coke or orange juice without blinking. He never asks why.
As I felt more and more secure with him and more and more relaxed, more and more cared for, I had a glass of wine. (This was more than sixteen years ago.) We were falling in love. We were reading each other poetry. I was writing poetry for him. We were reciting old Omar (the eleventh-century Persian poet and astronomer, as interpreted by Edward FitzGerald in 1859). Surely we were reciting the verses out of order, but who cared?
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.
Every morn I decide to repent at night
For embracing the joys of heart and sight
Yet every night, what seems right
With all my might, embrace delight.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
You cannot quote Omar and drink Diet Coke. You cannot quote Omar and drink San Pellegrino. Wine is demanded. Wine is essential. You cannot be in love and not drink wine. Or I can’t, anyway.
So it began. And I was moderate in my usage of wine. Older and wiser and married to my best friend, my soul mate, my darling, I drank with moderation and enjoyed it.
At that point, Molly was
Is this the only way not to destroy yourself like Parker did? I don’t know. Some people are trying what they call “harm reduction,” but the AA people hate them. I’ve been to “harm reduction” groups too. The therapist tries to get the group to reduce their intake of harmful substances, but she does not forbid them because she knows this sets up a rebellion within.
I know that when I was young I was horribly self-destructive. I drank margaritas then—not wine—till I passed out. I smoked anything you handed me and even took little blue pills, having no idea what they were. Those mysterious pills nearly killed me. If it hadn’t been for two physicians at the party who walked me up and down and spooned coffee down my gullet, I might be dead. I have also passed out at parties from too much wine coupled with terror of the famous company. Once I was seated next to Robert Redford at a flashy New York dinner party and I was so scared by his good looks and his possible interest in me that I kept drinking wine till I passed out. I didn’t get a date with Redford, and not only was I not invited back but my hosts gleefully told the gossip columns. Hardly kind of them. But even elegant people can stoop low. I got sober after that—and stayed sober a good long time. I even dated sober and had sex sober during my single days. Not an easy thing to manage.
Then I met Ken, who hardly drinks (his substance is food), and he said, “Why do you think you’re an alcoholic?”
“Because I passed out at a party in front of Robert Redford, because I once nearly died from little blue pills mixed with margaritas, because I can’t drink—that’s why.”
And he respected this, admired it, even wanted to go to meetings with me. He learned the jargon—he who tastes one sip of good wine and stops—even though he passed the Chevalier du Tastevin course (a really pretentious accreditation in wine tasting). He even gave me his silver Tastevin cup. He learned to call it “The Program” instead of AA. He learned about anonymity. He learned to say “It works if you work it” and “Let go, let God,” and even “Meeting-makers make it.” He is totally respectful of those who don’t drink, and orders them water or Coke or orange juice without blinking. He never asks why.
As I felt more and more secure with him and more and more relaxed, more and more cared for, I had a glass of wine. (This was more than sixteen years ago.) We were falling in love. We were reading each other poetry. I was writing poetry for him. We were reciting old Omar (the eleventh-century Persian poet and astronomer, as interpreted by Edward FitzGerald in 1859). Surely we were reciting the verses out of order, but who cared?
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.
Every morn I decide to repent at night
For embracing the joys of heart and sight
Yet every night, what seems right
With all my might, embrace delight.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
You cannot quote Omar and drink Diet Coke. You cannot quote Omar and drink San Pellegrino. Wine is demanded. Wine is essential. You cannot be in love and not drink wine. Or I can’t, anyway.
So it began. And I was moderate in my usage of wine. Older and wiser and married to my best friend, my soul mate, my darling, I drank with moderation and enjoyed it.
At that point, Molly was
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