The Shortest Month

 *tentatively opens creaky door and looks around dust-covered blog*

Goodness gracious! Hard to believe this blog turned 15 a few years ago. 

It wasn't my first one. My initial blog was called Cottonwood, which, in a similar tone to this one, comprised of semi-autobiographical musings (I should quit smoking, too hungover to function etc), with a sprinkling of jumbled esoteric ponderance (what would Brecht do?). It got deleted in a blogger bust up in 2005, which was a shame but no more than that (I recall a witty 500-worder bemoaning the shape of the 50-cent piece). The reason for its deletion was entirely my fault. Back then I was 29 and mostly ran on cigarettes and petulance. Skinny jeans, stripey shirts. Lean as fuck with no idea what the inside of a gym looked like. Hell, I didn't need to know. I'd suggested that we (my fellow bloggers and I) start a short fiction writing group and critique each other's work...publicly. I took the plunge and went first.  I'd probably already written something I was thrilled with and wanted everyone to see how clever I was. If acclaim was a car crash, I was a tow-truck chasing a speeding ambulance. What I wasn't chasing was criticism of any sort, and when it came in rather a bit of detail I was furious. I'd give a pinkie to read the story I wrote, or the comments that upset me, but yeah, I deleted a three-year-old blog. All gone because I couldn't take a note.

Not super keen to dig into why, but my knee-jerk response to criticism is to bristle...then I immediately do something rash and silly - like delete a couple of years of writing forever. I am working on this flaw by the way; I recognise my heart race when my dishwasher packing is critiqued, or when the kids castigate me for putting mayonnaise in their sandwich (who doesn't want mayo in a sandwich? Psychopaths, that's who), and I take a deep breath, and force myself to move on like a normal person. Also, if a boy's father is an indication of the man he'll become, I feel confident. My father is a heck of a man. Decent, generous, with the heart of a whale. I recall him crying when we watched Short Circuit 30 years ago. Or was that me? Either way, you get my point:    

I'm getting better at taking notes. At the least, I am trying.  

I wrote most of this blog whilst living in Fitzroy circa 2006/07. Single, living above a pub, playing hard with friends. Artistically I was having a lot of fun. I was in a band with some great mates (still very close to two of them). We rehearsed a lot, and hustled, trying to land gigs in bars around Melbourne. There was always a little acting work around, plays in small theatres (shout out to La Mama), and the odd well-paid acting job that helped with the rent and beer money. Heady fucking times. A lot of booze was thrown around, sometimes more. 

The Builders Arms Hotel.

Golden Years? Maybe. Maybe not. 

Back then I walked down to an internet cafe on Smith Street to pound out my schtick on some prehistoric desktop. You used to be able to smoke in there, which now seems as ancient...well, as ancient as the damn desktop used I to write my posts on. Looking at my work almost 20 years later, it exudes a little inauthenticity. It's plain to see that I'm trying on a persona. Putting a spin on reality using neatly packaged bon mots and whimsy in an Easton Ellis, Donna Tartt kinda way. You might call it glamourised excess. But behind that, between the words... I sense a little fear. A touch of insecurity. 

Circa 2006.

Acting, music and writing have remained a vital part of my existence since 2006, but so much of my personal life has changed: Marriage, kids, stability, joint bank accounts, living in a real house that's not above a pub and also has a - would you believe it - kitchen! I own a few nice guitars, collected some lovely art, I'm essentially surrounded by people and things I cherish. The stayer, the one thing that is not only prevalent throughout this blog, but remains a daily occurrence is...  damn, now I have to say it... my drinking. 

Having babies is stressful. Like me back in 2007, they are loud, sleep poorly, and don't give a fuck. So when they finally do pass out after an hour's screaming, it is very nice to relax with some alcohol. And by relax, I mean guzzle. Now the kids are older, I still haven't shaken the 6pm bunch of beers that oft continue whilst cooking dinner, or playing guitar, or listening to music. I've managed to successfully incorporate booze into most of my evening ventures and, the last couple of years being in lockdown has taken it to a new level. I drink at least 6 beers a night and have for a long time. It's not often more than that it is on the weekends, Cot**on, and I don't touch spirits, but I've been drinking too much for too long and it needs to fucking stop for a sec.   

I've tried a bunch of times to stop with little success. A few days in, after no sleep and a serious case of the grumps I buy a six pack, sink it, and forget the whole thing. This time I am determined to take at least a month off the booze. And like any quality heavy drinker would, I've chosen the month of February... 'cause it's the shortest. 

I contemplated seeing someone about it but I can either do therapy or my kids can have piano lessons... so I've decided that this is my alternative; publicly announcing I'm not drinking for a month in an attempt to hold myself to it. 

I understand that a month without drinking is not going to impress everyone, but it's my reality and it's something I need to achieve for health reasons. Or I'm going to have to do something a little more serious to dry out. 

I have to stay sober for one month starting on the 1st of February. The shortest month.  

Tonight however, drinks!