“The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. The lover craves any possible relation with the lover, even if this experience can cause him only pain.” – Carson McCullers
Spring 1997 ~ Tequila. Cheap. Dirt cheap. I don’t yet know that quality does matter, and good liquor makes a great deal of difference – in taste, in effect, and above all in hangovers. I down about half the bottle with some orange juice, and walk out onto the front porch where some college friends of Suzie have gathered, joining them on a ratty old couch. It is the most fun fifteen minutes of my life – talking and laughing and entering those heady first moments of oblivion when everything is right with the world, people are good, and no one is out to get you. It is my first tequila experience, and it hits hard, and swiftly.
Stumbling upstairs, I make it into the bedroom or the bathroom – I can’t remember. All I know is that a few hours later I am still heaving up what little remains in my stomach into a plastic-lined garbage bucket that Suzie has set up beside me. The next morning she is, rightfully, a bit pissed off. My first bout with shame, captured in sheepy smiles on film, and a hasty retreat to my hometown. Before departing, I draw a rough rendering of a skull and bones on the half-empty tequila bottle.
{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}
[See also Scene 1.]
Back to Blog
