Monday, May 27, 2013

The Tipping Point.

When I finally woke up the morning after, there were only five Euros left in my purse and my ankles had bloodied clots in a semi-crescent formation. An ambulance blared through the drone of the Monday morning traffic, and a church bell chimed unmusically. Swearing at the whole universe, I stumbled out of bed, with a white-hot hang over and the faint memories of a complete loss of dignity.

I don’t know when or how, my life had become a drunken stupor. At about 7 pm every day without exception, I could be found at the nearest watering hole and within the hour, a long glass of Red eroded into a Long Island. Life became merry then, and sometimes rather dramatic, so we all laughed on things that often didn’t make sense, and not-so-secretly hoped someone would make out with someone so that we would have something new to talk about. Scandal. How unexciting life can be without it. It was not possible to escape it unless you used religion as crutches, and these crutches gradually gave way and you found yourself smoking again within a year of quitting. Then your subconscious would suggestively hand someone mints, while a sober you would be shocked at such candour: what an absolute hussy!

Then there was yesterday, beautiful, sunny yesterday when the geese were all out to play by the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Or was it the Boating Lake in Regent’s Park? Oh, for fuck’s sake. What difference did it make? There was a lake, and it was a fucking beautiful day, and you smoked and drank and life went on till someone pulled out Tagore’s ‘Unending Love’ and there was chaos again.

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

So, it made you remember of what you were once and who you hoped to be, and this mess, this was definitely not it, but the memory of the memory was so infinitely painful, that you chose to fall deeper into your cycle of trying to forget. A moral compass broke somewhere. There was a rave. No, dubstep. What was the difference? Did it matter? Rivers of Jack Daniels flowed and there was LSD and MDMA so we were all tripping, but then it became unbearable and someone pushed and stepped on a foot and danced and shoved while they danced and her boyfriend felt up other girls and I saw him and everyone else saw him too but he lost his wallet and threw his drink at someone and there was smoke, so much smoke, and the lights blinked on and off in epileptic frenzy and there were so many people to be taken care of in the Moulin Rouge-esque terraces and no amount of alcohol could get you drunk suddenly. Moulin Rouge. Paris. Only tourists did that shit. He had told me once that the local blend was too sophisticated for that sort of thing. Him. And his total disregard for all that was mainstream. I missed him and that made me sad, but then I thought about how there was always a boy in every sad story, and that made me laugh, but I missed him still, except I missed him fondly, not sadly.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same 
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

When I fell into the bathroom to throw up, I tried to push my hair away but there was too much of it and I wanted to cut it all off. No, I wanted to stand in the shower for hours and hours till I could wash this decadence off me, but the window was ajar as it always was and there was a man in his full frontal nudity and a hairy belly in one of the windows in the hotel right across me, and in customary fashion, I closed it, much to his disappointment and stepped into the shower and over Estee Lauder’s rosy Pleasures shower gel, I decided that I had had enough.