Pond: Stories by Claire-Louise Bennett Read Free Book Online

protracted and half-hearted analytical process aggravates the superior auspices of an exasperated subconscious. Consequently, the emanation’s illuminating glare softened soon enough, enabling me to continue looking at the trees while at the same time according the contents of this most recent development a privileged yet manageable place among my thoughts. And so it was that I was able to approach its core without panic or distress, when either or both would have been quite permissible—and thus calmly confronted the nauseating possibility that perhaps the reason why I’d drunk so much for so long was because I enjoyed feeling enthusiastic about men and since that enthusiasm, which I so very much enjoyed, could not be brought about by any other means, I’d had no choice but to spend a good part of my time becoming drunk.
    In many ways this aerated point of view appeared more troubling than the costive statement from which it had originated, and I was quite defeated in my efforts to distinguish anything amusing about it. In order to impart fully the seriousness of the situation I should make clear a distinction, and perhaps ought to have done so at some earlier juncture: I am not referring to the diffusion of those superficial inhibitions that may preclude one from being at ease with and enjoying the company of men in a recreational context. I have, in general, no inhibitions of this sort. In fact, from time to time, it has beenpointed out to me, with varying degrees of justification and tact, that I’d do well to cultivate a little more social reticence, sober or drunk. Indeed, regardless of how aggrandising it all feels from the inside, alcohol does not reliably enhance the most charming aspect of one’s public arsenal—so, to clarify—it is not mere confidence and conviviality that is sought during these vital sessions of artful libation, but the stimulation of a rather more sophisticated piece of kit. Something that prevents one from scrutinising and dissecting everything that is said; something that shuts off the mounting dismay and stumbling evasions; something that enables me to hang off every word. A bespoke man-size filter for example, or a succession of perfectly pitched blind spots, or a persistent and delightful ringing in the ears, or a languorous crescendo of beatific bemusement. I don’t know—whichever elusive device it is that surely one must have in spades so that critical indifference is converted, rather niftily, into mindless fascination, and one’s usual agitation has the opportunity to metamorphose into a gloriously inappropriate and stupefying crush.
    It might appear that this difficulty is merely circumstantial, relative to the second party in question, one that, as such, could be circumvented straightforwardly enough, were I to select to spend time with men who are in possession of qualities that are, in the most part, of an amenable and captivating nature. However, as tempting as it is to apportion blame, I’d be issuing an inadmissibly skewed overview of my encounters if I propounded the idea that, so far, I have not met with such men. I will not mislead myself or anyone else and pretend that I have not been acquainted with attentive, original and thrilling men. In fact, on the contrary, I have had the good luck to swing hands with some of the oddest males the species has to offer.And yet, how to reconcile such a fortunate and encouraging record with the aforementioned assertion that I was, in the most part, quite unable to endure advances made by any one of these extraordinary men until I had achieved a precise tone of inebriety?

    Thoughts such as these lurched and abated throughout several afternoons of inclement weather and churning branches. In the mornings I did other things, and in the evenings perhaps I sat with a man and drank and got close to him, or didn’t and became discomposed. On it goes. Essentially I cannot identify and fix upon a relatable purpose for them. That’s