Magical Realism

Come fly with me! Let's fly, let's fly away!
If you can use some exotic booze,
There's a bar in far Bombay,
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away.

Words and Music by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen
Recorded by Frank Sinatra, 1957


It was at speaker meetings in AA, where I first learned about a geographic, when an alcoholic up and leaves one place for another believing it will bring about a change in his drinking behavior. Surely, it must be New Orleans that's the problem. If I move to Cleveland I'll finally be able to control my drinking... if I can just get away from that wild crowd in Vegas, I can stop altogether... if I move to Maui, I won't need that morning drink to relax my nerves. Indeed, sometimes the alcoholic sees a noticeable improvement - for a week, a month, maybe even a year. However, you can't change a pickle back into a cucumber, as the saying goes, and eventually the drunk is right back where he started from.

This is categorically different than having a black out, when after a whirlwind weekend of nonstop drinking, a drunk ends up coming to hundreds, if not, thousands of miles away from where he had that first glass of wine in the hotel bar with a chum. Before becoming honest with myself, someone like me, in denial of his alcoholism, might've looked at somebody like that and said to himself, see, I haven't done anything like that, yet, so I'm not really an alcoholic. I haven't gotten a DUI, yet. I haven't been fired. I haven't lost my home. I haven't lost my family. We refer to that set of rationales served up as proof you're not really an alcoholic as one's yet list.

So now when I hear Ol' Blue Eyes sing about hoping on a jet plane and flying to India for a Singapore Sling, it stops and makes me wonder what might've been if I had continued to allow a fatal disease to go unchecked and untreated.

This weekend is a whirlwind of an altogether different kind. The Thrive Austin 11.11.11 Festival ended well past midnight with The Djembabes, the all-women, West African drumsong ensemble playing irresistibly-infectious, rhythmic accompaniment to a dance performance that was on fire...literally. This was the second performance of fire spinning (or fire twirling) we've seen this tour, the last in Roanoke.

No sooner were the fiery hoops and pois extinguished we started breaking down our set. We wrapped the Green Market with sidewalls, dismantled the carnival games, stowed away the sound system; then at half-past three, most of the crew called it a night only to be pried from slumber a few hours later. The apt phrase, death warmed over, comes to mind. Thank God for coffee – that's all I can say. We only had an hour or two to continue the breakdown and another several to load everything back into the box truck, trailer and the bays of the buses. After a brief drive to San Antonio, we arrived at our the next (and final) Roadshow stop. As soon as we got our bearings, we unlatched doors, lifted the bays and it was all hands on deck setting up for Sundays event. I made a simple savory scramble with mixed peppers, tofu with sauteed bok choy greens and a pot of dilled polenta with fresh basil. I had some pickled Jalapenos which which I mixed with chopped bok choy stalks, some cinnamon-laced Cinderella pumpkin and a roja sauce leftover from the night before, all of which I served as condiments.

It's now 7:37 AM, and I am up and at it again. I want to finish this entry before putting out breakfast for the still sleeping crew. Afterwards, I'm hopping on our Xtracycle to a fruteria down the road. Except for some tangelos Charlie Kain picked from a roadside tree in Austin and a few Fuji apples from the Whole Foods Market there, I am plum outta produce.

Texas is experiencing the worst drought in recorded history (since 1895) and so it is with more than a sprinkling of irony when you consider that up to today, all but two events of SLR's tour has been rained on. Some believe this is still more evidence of global warming and who's to say it isn't.

Now, far be it from me, a recovering alcoholic learning to wrest control from his ego and be guided by a higher power, to think I can make things happen by snapping my fingers. That said, a little part of me, the magical thinker, has his fingers crossed hoping somehow, someway, during the next 24 to 36 hours, the sky opens up and lets forth the downpour of the century.