Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a Solitary Drink (gentle)woman, wether by means of writing rituals or just a reflective moment, as written by Ann Friedman. Her piece read more like an explicatory manifesto, but I grinned happily here: “I like being by myself, with my thoughts. And I’ve come to enjoy the questioning looks from strangers, who recognize the confidence required to pull off this minor social transgression without feeling threatened or cheapened by their gaze.”
I don’t remember the first time I had a glass of wine or scotch -it started with red wine, perhaps- by myself at a bar, but I remember the fear as I pulled up a stool and tried to get comfortable while ordering my solo drink. I’d take out my black leather notebook and begin to write, about nothing at first and soon words would pour out like a shaken bottle of soda. The solitary evenings would sometimes precede dinner with friends and sometimes proceed them– but it all felt/feels absolutely right.
My later affinity for scotch, however, was inspired by a less original exploit — I had read about my favourite writers or their protagonists (mostly men, back then) having scotch or whiskey, from bottle or glass, and I associated the drink with a sense of power, intelligence, and unconventionality for females. So I consciously decided to acquire and master the taste.
But despite the type of beverage, a woman needs a drink of her own as much as she needs her own room. She needs them as a way of facing her own thoughts and also to face the confused or judgemental gaze of others, and remember how many things have not changed after all.
On the page before last in the magazine I’m reading, and before reaching the American Apparel ad featuring another pretty, dead-eyed model, I come across the title Forugh. I look closer, and yes, of course there she is, Forugh Farrokhzad, the inimitable Persian poet who defined a generation of ‘nouveau’ ideas, and documented her breed of modern (Iranian) women. I’d be lucky if I’m ever like her, as a person or a writer. Her, and no longer seeking dead male protagonists’ tastes.
For your pleasure: the older man sitting across from me on the right, wearing a full suit and short shorts.