Intoxicated

Somewhere between Vitruvius, Sam Johnson, and a little sewing box made of whalebone, and the incessant interruptions of Beowulf I found what I was looking for. The secret recipe for Old English ale.

Those that know me may remember the story of the English Party I once attended. I was very lucky to be visiting an acquaintance during the time of the annual English Party at an old English university. Those not affiliated with the English Department are not generally invited to the gathering, but my friend, an English student, wanted to show me something I had never seen and never will again, and thus broke the rules.

Evidently, it was obvious I was not a professor or a student, but an outsider; a foreigner because all there politely refused to engage in conversation with me. I was not bothered by this because I was there to sight see and enjoy the privileged event, not to mention that I had commonly experienced this reaction upon my native soil in the windowless and cold fluorescent confines of the local Institution of Higher Learning on the hill. In fact, I have even been known to take pleasure in the annoyance I cause certain crusty curmudgeons (Oh, Carol!).

I had a drink or two of the ale from the refreshment table which was kept brimming with good things by a very courteous and polite staff of stiff young men and women who offered up napkins with each glass of spirits or food. I always thanked them, set the napkin down and left with the drink condensing impolitely in my hand, and wandered around the great old room with its tall windows and ancient wood beams as it hummed very smoothly and warmed me in its yellow lamp lit glow.

If one has ever been to a perfect party or gathering they will remember that feeling of warmth, relaxation, and calm that emanates through the room. And even if the others gathered there are friendly, it is nice to find a quiet corner alone for a moment to watch and listen and absorb the vibrations and light into one's being, because it is like a warm blanket of joy and happiness which will not reoccur any time soon. I cannot explain this feeling of extreme and perfect contentment in the very moment one is in, but I do know that one must ingest it to experience it. That as why there is a gracious refreshment table.

During the course of the English Party I commented to a dark lady near me that there was an enchantment in the air and asked if this was a common thing in England. She told me that it was and that every village had the enchantment and that in some places it was so strong that even the rocks could fly.

Certainly, whatever it was I felt that night was very powerful and highly intoxicating. I do recall that the professors seemed to be wary of the younger students who became overly intoxicated and boisterous, but that it was understood this youthful lack of discipline and manners was only a passing phase, soon outgrown in another year at the university.

I did not think on that party for some time or of the puzzle of the enchantment (which I, a foreigner, had caught, much to the chagrin of the professors), but somehow Vitruvius and his Phi, Leonardo and his Golden Man, and a whale bone box reminded me that hidden away is a hoard of treasure, a highly valuable and volatile bottle of enchanted ale which only a few have tasted or dare to admit they have tasted. And I managed to spirit a bottle of the ale out of that country and home with me. Perhaps, rocks can fly.

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art" (Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita)....and, really, I am.