I went into it completely open to any new experience that might visit itself upon me. It was late, and I went around the living room lighting candles and switching off the electric lights. I put the Chopin nocturne on the stereo and went to the little bar area that sits between the dining room and the kitchen.
It had taken me a while to figure out some things. I don't have an absinthe glass, so I used a crystal martini glass (I'd looked around on the web enough to know that the spirit needs a conical shape in order to release its herbal fragrances), and in lieu of an absinthe spoon, I used a fork--one from my grandmother's silver.
I opened the bottle like one might open Pandora's box. What rested within this sleek, black bottle, just waiting to unleash itself upon me? I wasn't quite sure how to pour the ice water over the sugar cube that sat on the fork
(that lived the house that Jack built...). How do you regulate drops of water? I'd chilled the water in a martini mixer, and getting it to come out slowly was a trick. I did it though, and the green liquid swirled in the glass, turning a milky white. Immediately, the scent of anise filled the area, and I was reminded of Nyquil. To shake that association from my thinking, I thought of how my dad and I used to sit up late on Saturday nights watching Chiller on TV and eating strong, black licorice.
I took my glass into the living room and sat down. By this time the nocturne was over, and I put on Jefferson Airplane's
Coming Back to Me, from their Surrealistic Pillow LP. I held my glass aloft and, out loud, I thanked RW and wished Chopin a happy 200th birthday. Then I drank. I expected to hate it (I don't like booze), but it was love at first taste.
"Oh, yeah," I thought.
"This is going to go down easy." By the middle of the glass, I was feeling a slight exhilaration that I liked.
I really can't say how I passed the next few hours, not because I don't remember, but because I didn't DO anything. I sat, listened to music, drank, and thought about things. The biggest impression is that absinthe truly is lucid (I was sent the Lucid brand). My thinking was clear, not fuzzy and, when I talked with Nettl for a few moments, she observed that I didn't slur. I have a slight speech impediment that only reveals itself when I'm nervous or drinking; one drink and I sound like I've had three or four. I listened to more music.
At one point I took a sip, concentrating on the fact that what I was actually tasting was history.
"This is what Oscar Wilde, Franz Lizst, George Sand, and Vincent Van Gogh tasted." Sort of the same pondering thought I sometimes get looking at the full moon (
"Shakespeare looked at this," etc.).
I wrote a little while, surprised that I could. As I said, my thoughts were clear. Here's a bit of what I wrote (I still need to edit it):
With the fame and money came the parties at which he allowed his guests to do pretty much anything they wanted, as long as no property was destroyed and no one got hurt. He’d sunk a lot of money into the manor and its grounds--more than he had on the initial purchase, in fact--and he expected his guests to treat both his home and him with respect.
“In the Age of Aquarius,” he often said, “we’ll be the gods and goddesses, and if we expect to be treated as such, we must act as such. Let’s be beneficent, gracious, poised, and just love each other.”
In return for their good behavior, they were free to stay as long as they liked and to take full advantage of his hospitality. Occasionally, someone couldn’t maintain this standard, but instead of giving them the boot, Gordon usually draped an arm over their shoulder, saying, “It’s alright. It’s the changes you’re going through. Why don’t you go up to one of the guest rooms and mellow out? Can I do I anything? Would you like a cuppa?”
His friends and guests treasured his unconditional friendship, so there were few incidents. Thanks to the hallucinogens and the times at large, most were on his wavelength anyway. They were children coming out of the ravages and terrors of war, and after a childhood of rationing, they wanted to recreate some of the decadence that had fueled the creativity of the great Romantics.
The summer of 1968 was one lavish party; the estate turned into a weird and wonderful carnival of drugs and alcohol, peace and love, color and music. Already knowing Gordon's open house policy, music's young nouveau riche spent their off-hours in a pleasant, dreamy haze cloistered behind the gates out on Hartlake Road. Donovan in his velvet cape carrying a peacock fan, Brian Jones in a silk poet shirt, tight velvet trousers, and floppy hat, and George and Pattie Harrison looking like Krishna and Rada in their silken Indian attire. Among Britain’s young Beautiful People, Chadwicke Park became known as “Hammond’s Wonderland”.
Peacocks paraded the grounds, and in the Victorian conservatory hundreds of candles in glass jars illuminated an indoor waterfall where the water drizzled over amethyst and rose quartz geodes into a pool of shimmering koi. Overlooking the scene from a niche partially hidden in the ivy stood a life-sized, realistically painted statue of Krishna playing his flute.
Guests tripped on LSD and magic mushrooms while lost inside the hedge maze, following signs that Gordon made, each giving a hint to the correct path in cryptic lines from various literary works by Lewis Carroll, J. R. R. Tolkien, and C. S. Lewis.
Statues of fantasy characters like Frodo Baggins and the White Rabbit sat in flower beds, and under a willow tree by the river Medway that ran along the south end of the property lay a crystal casket on a dais, as if waiting for a fairy tale princess, its lid secured at a 45-degree angle to hold out the weather, and a soft, purple velvet tufted pad inside. It was not at all uncommon to find someone napping, or sleeping off the previous night's revels there.
I quickly learned that I prefer absinthe with only the tiniest bit of sugar. I think I used one cube for three drinks.
I drank four glasses and finally went to bed sometime before dawn. This morning (noon, actually) I was tired, but there was no bad stomach or headache. I was ravenously hungry though, uncommon for me when I first wake up, and I was pretty thirsty.
So there you have it! I'm no longer an absinthe virgin. Will I drink it again? Hell, yeah! Next time, with friends.
I hit a wall with my writing. Then I saw this. I liked it. Now you get it. Maybe it will help me, too.
Yeah, I know Saturday is almost over, but there's still a few hours left. Roschelle, at Inconsequential Logic, posted this meme today, and I thought it would a good thing to do too. Feel free to take it. After last night's revels with the Green Fairy, I don't have much to offer today.
Friday, March 5th, marks National Absinthe Day! Celebrate with Lucid, the first genuine absinthe to be legalized on the US market in 2007. J & K are coming over for dinner, and we'll be imbibing later in the evening.
You know, before, when things started going well--little pockets of goodness barely punctuating all the crap--I used to enjoy it, but I wouldn't breathe for fear of chasing it away. Now, I'm just surrendering to it, and it's lasting.
Do you ever have a really hard time waking up? I don't mean that every day early morning waking up, I mean like you drank a bottle of scotch and took three sleeping pills before going to bed the night before. I tried several times to wake up this morning, but I swear my eyelids were sewn together and my brain was about 10 feet under. Man... And I didn't ingest anything last night except one 3.2 Corona eau de beer.
I went into it completely open to any new experience that might visit itself upon me. It was late, and I went around the living room lighting candles and switching off the electric lights. I put the Chopin nocturne on the stereo and went to the little bar area that sits between the dining room and the kitchen.
