In order to write the book you want to write, in the end you have to become the person you need to become to write that book.
― Junot Díaz
Today I am a 56 year old academic who wrote only one good poem in his life and enjoyed torturing his smart young(er) wife by drinking too much in front of her and constantly spouting the lewdest Catullus he could pull from rapidly fraying synapses. Once, he refused to help friends bury a great white shark in the dead of night. Good friends. His only friends. He watched them, instead, swigging grand marnier from a flask on moonlit beach as they dug and sweated and pushed and heaved and finally buried their monster. I’m not a very good poet, he told his friends morosely when they collapsed next to him and begged him for the flask. We know, they said, but not unkindly. It was the last good time he ever had in his life. I don’t like being this man. He disturbs and disgusts me, especially when he his awful to his wife. But he is my necessary alcoholic academic, beacon. I will go and shower now and try and rinse him off until tonight, when I will revisit his condition with a glass of wine and a cat curled on my legs. I won’t let him ruin my weekend. Perhaps I should, Mr. Diaz, but I won’t. This post may come back to haunt me.