Damn. That's a big number.
Seems so much closer to Three-Hundred and Sixty-Five than not.
It has been many days since I have written on this page, which I consider in many ways to be a good thing. I have persevered in my journey toward a nicotine/tobacco-free life. Not a pack; not an 'Oh, that was a rough day' pity cig; an occasional puff here and there from friends who know I am never turning back. They see my face as it scrunches with distaste.
Why would I ever willfully choose to inhale and ingest that particularly distasteful substance?
It is awful and makes me choke. And reminds me why I quit smoking to begin with. I get those urges that convince me that I will love it if I take a drag off a friend's Camel, and it is always a disappointing event: pleasantly disappointing.
I thought I didn't need this silly little blog anymore...
...but I'm in a bit of a crisis mode....
It's not a real crisis, of course, and, frankly, it's not even my crisis at all. I have noticed a few of my favorite quitters moving away from their abstinence; allowing the beast to enter again. The door was left cracked and it slithered quietly in, whispering sweet excuses and twisting tempting tales of short affairs; talking of 'one night stands' and then moving all her belonging in the next day. These are people who inspired me with their adventures in quitting, and to see them moving away makes me consider, for a moment, that maybe I should just take a little break...
...and then I remember I hate cigarettes.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Day One-Hundred and Forty-Five
About a year ago, I walked to my car after a presumable Bocce victory in Wyman Park, cigarette in mouth. This occurred every Thursday evening. My team - The Big LeBocce - would play (and soundly defeat) our opponent, then stand around for a while to share the cigarettes of whoever happened to be holding a pack that evening and finish our Bohs. We would critique terrible throws, chuckle at the deficiency of our opponent, and watch the pack of random dogs run around the park, biting ankles and occasionally misunderstanding the other's intentions.
My teammate (and illustrious chef) kept me honest. Parked one car closer to the approaching image looked back at me, refusing my forced ignorance.
'Guys. Guys. Please help me. Please'.
Where was this voice coming from; this sound rich with humility, and pain, and desperation? It couldn't have come from that young man a block away. But now, directly in front of me, his superficiality washed clean from his skin and collecting along the curb, he was nothing but a helpless man. Helplessness not from without, but forced upon him by the passenger within the wheelchair he was attempting to pull up two small flights of steps leading to his row-home.
He didn't want to reach out to us: particularly to me. He peers into my eyes and looked into my intentionality. He knew me, and would have rather told me to 'Fuck off'. Even as my teammate and I grabbed an armrest and helped this man carry his helpless father up the ten steps, he could smell my disgust - overwhelming the retch of his father's foully soiled pants - and taste my reluctance - rather than the sweat dripping down his face.
He looked at my teammate. "Thanks guys. I got it from here'. I assume the 's' was for me. He had seen all he needed from me.
I drove home holding the steering wheel with a napkin.
****
Embarrassingly and shamefully, I recount this memory. Is this the function of our memory: to be able to correct our past actions through experience in the future? When I find myself in this same situation in the future, will I be able to shake off my reluctance and disgust of the past; acting in a solely self-less manner? Do I believe in the story of Lazarus rising from the dead?
What does this have to do with cigarettes? I have no idea...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Day One-Hundred Thirty-Four
Man. I don't even remember what it is to write a blog anymore. I have no idea what happened.
What was this thing all about anyway? I'm confused...
Was there a time when I smoked cigarettes?
I keep on having these sleeps where I wake up and look for something and want to do something, but can't remember at all what exactly it is, until I do. I'm looking for my cigarettes.
And I must be out then, so I'll stop by the store on my way to work and grab a pack; but how much were they again? $6.03? Eh, just break a 10 this time and save the change for later. Maybe ask for smaller coins...
Where is this Real, anymore? What makes me a smoker?
Am I still a smoker? Is one's extent of smokerness reliant upon the quantity of smokes inhaled; total amount of smokes smoked in one's life? So, once you pass the one-thousand cigarette threshold, you're in the club? Alright, then I smoked for nine years; first couple years were maybe three per week. And then three years at least one pack per day, and then a few more at about four packs per week - can't forget the two packs of Camel Filters devoured per day freshmen year of college (ugh). That brings us to a rough estimate of 33,672 - thirty-three thousand, six-hundred and seventy-two. Is it possible I did the math wrong here? I did use a calculator...
Now I have myself thinking about the possible things I have done thirty-three thousand times in my lifetime: breathe, maybe eat things (definitely chew stuff), hopefully kissed my beautiful wife. Hm. This is tricky. But I did make the smokers team.
And I still keep thinking like a smoker. And my mind keeps on tricking me into thinking I am a smoker. I even contemplated borrowing one of Ryan's helpless, unassuming cigarettes in the server station on Sunday evening for no apparent reason. I wasn't particularly interested in smoking one. They just looked really nice in their perfect, self-contained box; I wanted to see what I already knew was inside. Silly me.
And still, the mystery remains: Am I still a smoker? What is a smoker?
What was this thing all about anyway? I'm confused...
Was there a time when I smoked cigarettes?
I keep on having these sleeps where I wake up and look for something and want to do something, but can't remember at all what exactly it is, until I do. I'm looking for my cigarettes.
And I must be out then, so I'll stop by the store on my way to work and grab a pack; but how much were they again? $6.03? Eh, just break a 10 this time and save the change for later. Maybe ask for smaller coins...
Where is this Real, anymore? What makes me a smoker?
Am I still a smoker? Is one's extent of smokerness reliant upon the quantity of smokes inhaled; total amount of smokes smoked in one's life? So, once you pass the one-thousand cigarette threshold, you're in the club? Alright, then I smoked for nine years; first couple years were maybe three per week. And then three years at least one pack per day, and then a few more at about four packs per week - can't forget the two packs of Camel Filters devoured per day freshmen year of college (ugh). That brings us to a rough estimate of 33,672 - thirty-three thousand, six-hundred and seventy-two. Is it possible I did the math wrong here? I did use a calculator...
Now I have myself thinking about the possible things I have done thirty-three thousand times in my lifetime: breathe, maybe eat things (definitely chew stuff), hopefully kissed my beautiful wife. Hm. This is tricky. But I did make the smokers team.
And I still keep thinking like a smoker. And my mind keeps on tricking me into thinking I am a smoker. I even contemplated borrowing one of Ryan's helpless, unassuming cigarettes in the server station on Sunday evening for no apparent reason. I wasn't particularly interested in smoking one. They just looked really nice in their perfect, self-contained box; I wanted to see what I already knew was inside. Silly me.
And still, the mystery remains: Am I still a smoker? What is a smoker?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Day One-Hundred Twenty-Four
Hello all. Here is what I have been up to recently. One more week, and I'll be back! No cigs...
http://jclabella2010.edu.glogster.com/low-incidence-syndromes/
http://jclabella2010.edu.glogster.com/low-incidence-syndromes/
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Day One-Hundred Fourteen
It's remarkable.
Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.
Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?
If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.
Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.
Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.
But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...
Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.
So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:
...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.
And now, I feel like doing this:
which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...
Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.
Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?
If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.
Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.
Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.
But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...
Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.
So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:
...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.
And now, I feel like doing this:
which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Day One-Hundred and Six
Is this it? Have I finally reached the promised land?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Day Ninety-Four
I've spent these past Ninety-three days documenting my struggle to quit smoking. It has been successful, and something of which I am quite proud on multiple levels.
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Day Ninety-One
I have finally reached the adolescence of my cigarette quitting. Thirteen weeks. I have noticed some abnormal changes in my body recently...
Abnormal insofar as I have finally stabilized my appetite. For the first many weeks, I could not stop eating, no matter what I ate or how much of it. The wife and I would fill up on sushi, Tom yung goong, and seaweed salad, and yet still find myself cataloguing every edible entity in our house on our short walk home. I helplessly watched my stomach slowly reach over my belt buckle toward my zipper like an eager Calvert Street-walker...Of course, whenever I would think, 'I wish I could just stop being hungry', we all know by now my mind's response...
But, lo and behold, my body seems to have finally readjusted to my lack of nicotine intake. I can finally eat an appropriate amount of food on a reasonable schedule - normally - and my belly has begun to rescind. I'm happy it was unnecessary to increase my general activity level or, even worse, begin an exercise regiment.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I bought a pack of cigs a few days ago. Not for myself, of course, but for a certain friend of mine who smokes those nasty Camel Crushes. I haven't stepped foot inside a Royal Farms for quite a while now, yet the whole exchange remains oddly familiar. Same middle aged, mildly chubby woman - I think I even threw her for a loop when I said 'Crush'. I'm pretty sure she remembered me. Is that sad? Is it sad I remember her? I think her name is Alicia.
Two things. 1: Crushes got expensive, which means cig prices have certainly gone up, once again. Suckers! 2: My boy smokes a lot of cigs. As a smoker, I used to keep up with him fairly well, but now, peering in from my non-smoking spectacles, it seems a little crazy. Like, a cig every commercial break during Top Chef, and then one after every game of Fifa, playing only four minute halves. I'm not judging my poor smoking friend; I just can't believe how much I used to smoke. It never seemed like too much when I was still smoking...
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Day Eighty-Six
I know this is inappropriate...
So I was watching this commercial. It interrupted my favorite three-o'clock television show - on ABC - and it got me thinking: Man. It must be quite awful to have to take a pill to prevent from 'springing an embarrassing leak', but then 'become constipated for three or more days'. What a terribly ironic product...
It got me thinking about my own plumbing; and then standing outside on a cool morning, drinking my second cup of coffee - first is consumed with my morning bagel; and how smokers know that there is some bizarre reaction that takes place between nicotine and a warm cup of coffee that gets things moving. It is quite remarkable, in fact. Like clockwork. You get about three-quarters down your Camel Light, and you feel a gentle kick, and you know...
Its weird writing about poop. I seemed to work much better in my head...
And, if that all wasn't enough, while considering and writing about my bowels, this lovely voiced woman had the solution after all! Hmm...
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Day Eighty-Five
Without getting into specifics - as this is a blog about ME, rather than the intimate details of my friends and colleagues - I found myself NOT driving home to my lovely wife and our breakfast-for-dinner consisting of free-range, organic eggs on whole wheat toast and hash browns; but driving downtown last night with a certain favorite person of mine after a long ten-and-a-half-hour monotonously mind-melting day of book contracts and FileMaker to a place neither myself nor my companion wished we would ever have to travel again. Hopefully, this time will be the last...
I was neither angry nor frustrated, but the confluence of the end of my work day with the beginning of this unexpected journey had both of us thinking, 'Cigarettes'! See, this other happens to also be in the process of quitting, so cram two former smoking buddies, a postponed dinner, and stressful situation into a Subaru Impreza, and nothing good can come out of it...
Unless no one has any fucking cigarettes! Fuck! I truly was a little pissed for a minute and thought, 'Oh shit. This would have been a great excuse. The wife wouldn't even be able to get mad!' My navigator would have been elated to find a half-crushed pack of Camel Lights in my center console, eagerly awaiting a moment like this one. We probably could have even smoked two on the ride down there because, shit, we would already have reeked; so what is one more cig, right?
But no. I am a good quitter. I have always been the reliable one when it came to cigarette supply, and, in this case, we both were happy for my failure. That's what friends are for, right? To not facilitate others' addictions. To break down the barriers to success like a...
I was neither angry nor frustrated, but the confluence of the end of my work day with the beginning of this unexpected journey had both of us thinking, 'Cigarettes'! See, this other happens to also be in the process of quitting, so cram two former smoking buddies, a postponed dinner, and stressful situation into a Subaru Impreza, and nothing good can come out of it...
Unless no one has any fucking cigarettes! Fuck! I truly was a little pissed for a minute and thought, 'Oh shit. This would have been a great excuse. The wife wouldn't even be able to get mad!' My navigator would have been elated to find a half-crushed pack of Camel Lights in my center console, eagerly awaiting a moment like this one. We probably could have even smoked two on the ride down there because, shit, we would already have reeked; so what is one more cig, right?
But no. I am a good quitter. I have always been the reliable one when it came to cigarette supply, and, in this case, we both were happy for my failure. That's what friends are for, right? To not facilitate others' addictions. To break down the barriers to success like a...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Day Eighty
Close call!
I work hard for the money, motherfucker, so when I get to my Thursday-one-day-weekend, I gotta cram some shit into a fairly tight slot - and I'm not talking about anal sex. This particular Thursday involved paying some bills, doing some taxes, trying to write a letter to my great aunt, buying ink for my printer to print out some tax stuff, figuring out what to eat for an informal dinner party - Thai Green Chili with Chicken, Mushrooms, and Broccoli over white rice is BANGING: thanks America's Test Kitchen once again - and then purchasing said ingredients from the local Whole Foods, visiting my darling mother-in-law who I hardly ever have the time to see - and that saddens me - and...something else...
...oh yeah. Baking a Red Velvet Cake. The wife has had quite a busy week and I, in an attempt to be the best husband possible, put on an apron, and got to work. I woke up at seven yesterday morning and cut my normal 'leisure morning' quite short. Coffee. Bagel. Cake in the oven by 8:45. Cruise over to Staples for the ink. - No. I don't want a fucking Rewards Card! - Cake out of oven. Accountant at 10:30 - preceded by the scramble to find receipts and other 'official tax' documents known by a letter and some numbers. Glad there are no speed cameras on Dulaney Valley Road! 'Sorry I'm late'. 'Precious: Stop barking!' Back home to walk to dog. Peruse America's Test Kitchen Cookbook 'Let's do takeout' section. Walk the dog for the second time to check out house construction down the street. Whole Foods. Mmmm everything. Heaven. 'Have a nice day'...
What the fuck! I walk in the back door thinking, 'Holy shit! I actually fit everything in' - excepting the letter to Aunt Jo, which is fine, because she is old and isn't going anywhere anytime soon anyway, so I can just write it tomorrow (which is, of course, now today, and I still haven't written it). So I unload my reusable bags on the kitchen table, ready to relax and read for an hour or so before beginning to prep dinner, when I walk into the dining room and see red on the floor. Red everywhere.
I would have rather it had been the scene of a massacre, but no. My stupid little adorable but terribly mischievous bitch of a dog. She couldn't have done it BEFORE I leisurely drove through Ruxton en route to Whole Foods to enjoy the beautiful scenery and architecture. That would have been too thoughtful of her. And it is not as though I had omitted her breakfast feeding or hadn't walked her twice prior. She was upstairs sleeping on the futon when I left!
This dog loves cake, and she ate both halves of the Red Velvet cake directly off the dining room table, directly out of the cake rounds from which I had to release them. Table cloth all ruffled up where she, red-pawed, devoured my morning labor. If she only knew long this day had already been, and how tightly it was scheduled, I truly think she would have abstained. What am I thinking: she is a fucking animal, and loves to eat shit she isn't supposed to.
And as I paced around the house, trying to expel all of the anger and rage and frustration and despondency of realizing my day had just become a little bit longer and that there was no time for 'The Looming Tower', all I could think was, 'I'm going to smoke a fucking cigarette right now. I don't give a shit'. I felt like it was due to me because of the trials I was made to endure on my day off; like an alcoholic thinking, 'It's been a long week. Just one beer'. I immediately ruled out buying a pack because I would either: 1. throw it away after smoking one (or, mostly likely, one on the way home from Royal Farms and one on the deck before re-entering reality), which would be a terrible waste of six bucks and some change; or 2. decide to keep the pack hidden somewhere special for moments just like this - like Johnny Depp's character in 'The Secret Window' - which is a highly improbable situation for a smoker of my ilk. So then I looked outside and realized there were BGE workers standing around an electric pole playing with each other's poles while one fellow fiddled with some wire way up in the sky. 'They would certainly have cigs'...
And then I was out of it. I realized the absurdity of my thoughts and the ridiculousness of the planning I must pursue for five mere minutes of poison and death. I felt like a crackhead. So I came back down to reality, took a deep breath, cleaned up the remnants of my evil dog's delicious feast, and cooked a BANGING dinner.
For scientific purposes, it would seem relevant to note that all that planning and thinking and near destruction of my intentions to quit smoking occurred within about one minute of time. One fucking short minute was all it took to throw this all away. Gotta be strong. The man is always watching...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Day Seventy-One
'Hey Erika. I am no longer smoking!'
'What do you mean? Have you just stopped smoking cigarettes, or are you mentally no longer a smoker?'
'... I would say both'.
At least almost. Certainly, I still think about my past relationship with and habits revolting around cigarettes from time to time. But cigs phenomenologically exist in my mind in the same way old friends, lovers, and could-have-beens, Ghostbusters jumpsuits, Erector sets, and backyard Homerun Derbies: nostalgically reminding me of the ways things had been.
Like cigs, these things escort me to psychological safe places where every swing directs the tennis ball soaring over the giant pine tree fence, and every conversation is ripe with knowledge and insight, and every embrace implies, 'See you tomorrow'. I always remember the romance.
But of course, those moments remain forever existent in the past for a particular reason. A bit of psychological archeology always reveals the day the Derby incited a nest of hornets; the jumpsuit became too small; the parking lot 'Last Goodbye'; the daily recurrence of the tobacco-induced green-yellow goop hacked every morning.
So, the notion of 'mentally' quitting is, of course, a bit of a tricky one. I think back and reminisce on my relationship with cigs, and I don't think that will ever change; I'm not even sure I want those particular memories transform into havens of evil and death. And yet, I know that my smoker-self is in the past now, never to return in its identical form again. Even if I go out and buy a pack right now, it won't morph me back into that previous self; and it is not as though I yearn for a self anyway.
Perhaps it is merely part of our humanity to desire the past's eternal presence; to somehow live simultaneously both in the past and present. Or maybe we want to grasp firmly upon the past to preserve the presence of the present, knowing that someday, some minute, right now, it will be behind us. Can Spring be far behind?
'What do you mean? Have you just stopped smoking cigarettes, or are you mentally no longer a smoker?'
'... I would say both'.
At least almost. Certainly, I still think about my past relationship with and habits revolting around cigarettes from time to time. But cigs phenomenologically exist in my mind in the same way old friends, lovers, and could-have-beens, Ghostbusters jumpsuits, Erector sets, and backyard Homerun Derbies: nostalgically reminding me of the ways things had been.
Like cigs, these things escort me to psychological safe places where every swing directs the tennis ball soaring over the giant pine tree fence, and every conversation is ripe with knowledge and insight, and every embrace implies, 'See you tomorrow'. I always remember the romance.
But of course, those moments remain forever existent in the past for a particular reason. A bit of psychological archeology always reveals the day the Derby incited a nest of hornets; the jumpsuit became too small; the parking lot 'Last Goodbye'; the daily recurrence of the tobacco-induced green-yellow goop hacked every morning.
So, the notion of 'mentally' quitting is, of course, a bit of a tricky one. I think back and reminisce on my relationship with cigs, and I don't think that will ever change; I'm not even sure I want those particular memories transform into havens of evil and death. And yet, I know that my smoker-self is in the past now, never to return in its identical form again. Even if I go out and buy a pack right now, it won't morph me back into that previous self; and it is not as though I yearn for a self anyway.
Perhaps it is merely part of our humanity to desire the past's eternal presence; to somehow live simultaneously both in the past and present. Or maybe we want to grasp firmly upon the past to preserve the presence of the present, knowing that someday, some minute, right now, it will be behind us. Can Spring be far behind?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Day Sixty-Nine
Perhaps I have always yearned for the symbiosis, the perfect give and take of 69 from my cigarette habit. Our relationship was traditionally more of a 'p9'; cigarettes and their delicious nicotine always pushing me on my knees, cleaning out my wallet. At least in the days of my youth, Phillip-Morris provided the illusion of wanting my attention with the friendly image of their hump-backed, sun-glassed Camel Joe. But now, they just call us from the WaWa glass door with the 'lowest price allowed by law'. Bullshit.
Or, perhaps I merely lose myself amongst ruins of the past when a smoke was merely a smoke. Not merely sheer ignorance, of course, but a time when my decisions seemed to stretch only as far as my eyes could gaze and hand touch. Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear? That time of innocence which now, through hindsight and intellectual expansion, seems to be far from it; those adolescent years of extreme selfishness and an utter lack of existential introspection. Of course, I am free to make my own decisions in this world, but I must now be willing to accept the consequences of my actions. I cannot expect the wife to want to taste my tobacco soiled mouth just as much as I cannot expect a shunned friend to equally share my desire to shun the other.
As I started closing up shop last night after a long day of couples trying to beat the Valentine's Day traffic at Alonso's, I reminisced with an initially reluctant Coleman on how absolutely glorious the post-shift cigarette can be. I smoked it in my mind, imagining my back gently releasing into the brick wall on which I leaned, feeling that general release of self through my lungs. Sin of the mind.
Yet, standing in strong juxtaposition to my p9 relationship with cigs is the one I share with my lovely wife. It is this relationship I wish to cultivate: one which may cultivate at all. Cigs do nothing but edify gravity until I rest below the earth. The wife and I have a perfectly lovely 69.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Day Sixty-Five
Holy shit.
I didn't know what to expect when I opened the slim envelope containing next release in the McSweeney's Book Club, entitled Donald. The cover is unmistakably identical to the cover of his memoir Known and Unknown, released just two days ago, but I was wondering why McSweeney's would ever publish anything about Donald Rumsfeld. Fair question.
Holy Shit.
What a powerful and relevant social commentary entangled within a tight, gripping story. But we already know the story, in one way or another. That the authors intentionally locate the story in the very near present - he is working on his memoir in the beginning of the novella - turns us back into both ourselves and the world around us; this is certainly not art for art's sake.
And yet, its artistry is well exhibited. The portrayal of this man's psychological break through a well orchestrated series of torture is strikingly real. We never leave Donald's point of view throughout, always as equally in the lurch as he; ourselves willfully abducted by the mystery that, again, we probably already know...most likely.
In a weird way, I don't think this book necessarily deals Donald any serious blows. The title itself - invoking the aura of another Donald who merely precedes with a 'the' - romanticizes its main character. Donald. The text portrays a man who we might have actually come to admire and like in another context; in another story less real and completely fucked up.
'History suggests that we might be luckier to be vanquished from without than left to our own decline. It's the choice between being shot high off the rampart or hanging from the shower curtain' (72). In a way, this is an argument that cannot be won; you either succeed or someone else will. There are either things known or unknown. No middle way; there is no Nagarjuna. Words that couldn't have been spoken better than by the real man himself.
But I have an even better one for you. I had a conversation very recently with someone who espoused this same intention: 'The price of ruining one innocent life is steep but it is less than the price of thousands of lives destroyed by lenient misjudgment' (86). What happened to America, land of principles and Ideals; that 'it is better a hundred guilty persons should escape, than that one innocent person should suffer'? Where is that reality? I guess it is here, in this book, and with me, on this blog, and in those who read this book and are simultaneously aghast that this book is 'based closely on non-fiction sources' (111) and humored with its fictions.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Day Sixty-Three
That makes it nine weeks.
My beautifully annoying dog decided it would be productive to break our backyard lead for I believe the fourth time in her short existence. She even broke a lead called 'The Beast' about a year ago. Clearly, her recent destruction was intended to get my ass in gear and finish the fence I have been building for her. Such a selfish dog.
In the name of thriftiness, I refuse to purchase one last lead because, soon enough, she will able to roam free in my yard. It would seem like a waste of both money and product. Instead, the wife and I have taken to walking this silly little pup multiple times throughout the day...
...which got me thinking, 'Man. I wish I was still a smoker'. Of course, I immediately rewrote that notion in my head into, 'This would have been nice to do if I was still smoking'. Our daily walks would fit perfectly into a cigarette smoking routine. We walk first thing in the morning, and I would probably catch a nice buzz with the combination of sleepiness and activity. We also walk after dinner, and everyone know how nice that cig always is. This dog-walking routine would certainly have helped to support my addiction, and I would have loved it. And it would have been good for my pooch too!
Yet, I continue to pursue my smoke-free life and these thoughts must remain so. This dog walking has, however, worked to bridge one particular gap between my former and current lives: my outdoor time. Last night, in fact, I had a terrific excuse to follow my good friend Genna Rose outside for her mid-Risk - the game of global domination - cigarette.
I bemoan my loss of casual outdoor time since quitting, and it seems that I have found a suitable replacement. My love-puppy gets to expend some energy and spread her scent about, while I get some down time and fresh air. It seems to be a win-win. Last night, it felt refreshing to take a 'cigarette break' without actually smoking one. To take my self and thoughts from containment within a house to the infinite expanse without permits the digestion of all the words and ideas flung about; like eating a clementine after dinner. It serves as an intellectual palate cleanser, and it is good to know that it remains intact with cigarettes extracted from the recipe.
Now all bow down to Coleman: winner of the game and the world.
My beautifully annoying dog decided it would be productive to break our backyard lead for I believe the fourth time in her short existence. She even broke a lead called 'The Beast' about a year ago. Clearly, her recent destruction was intended to get my ass in gear and finish the fence I have been building for her. Such a selfish dog.
In the name of thriftiness, I refuse to purchase one last lead because, soon enough, she will able to roam free in my yard. It would seem like a waste of both money and product. Instead, the wife and I have taken to walking this silly little pup multiple times throughout the day...
...which got me thinking, 'Man. I wish I was still a smoker'. Of course, I immediately rewrote that notion in my head into, 'This would have been nice to do if I was still smoking'. Our daily walks would fit perfectly into a cigarette smoking routine. We walk first thing in the morning, and I would probably catch a nice buzz with the combination of sleepiness and activity. We also walk after dinner, and everyone know how nice that cig always is. This dog-walking routine would certainly have helped to support my addiction, and I would have loved it. And it would have been good for my pooch too!
Yet, I continue to pursue my smoke-free life and these thoughts must remain so. This dog walking has, however, worked to bridge one particular gap between my former and current lives: my outdoor time. Last night, in fact, I had a terrific excuse to follow my good friend Genna Rose outside for her mid-Risk - the game of global domination - cigarette.
I bemoan my loss of casual outdoor time since quitting, and it seems that I have found a suitable replacement. My love-puppy gets to expend some energy and spread her scent about, while I get some down time and fresh air. It seems to be a win-win. Last night, it felt refreshing to take a 'cigarette break' without actually smoking one. To take my self and thoughts from containment within a house to the infinite expanse without permits the digestion of all the words and ideas flung about; like eating a clementine after dinner. It serves as an intellectual palate cleanser, and it is good to know that it remains intact with cigarettes extracted from the recipe.
Now all bow down to Coleman: winner of the game and the world.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Day Fifty-Nine
So, I was doing my traditional post-coffee business this morning, which happened to include the Baltimore Sun. It is certainly not the best paper in the world, but it gets its job done fairly well. Keeping me informed and the like.
I was reading an article entitled 'Developers distressed over O'Malley proposal to curb septic systems'. Sounds like a hoot, right? The article was about Martin O'Malley's - not this Martin O'Malley - plans to step up Maryland's environmental responsibility by not only stemming suburban sprawl - by making it more difficult for developers to create developments outside of existing public water infrastructure - but also limiting the amount of new septic systems, which pollute both our soil and water supply at a higher level than the public water and waste model. Maryland is a beautiful place, with a lovely natural landscape, and I am all in full support of not allowing my current home state to follow the present course of my former home state (New Jersey) by transforming into a vast suburb of shitty, cookie cutter prefab bullshit ugly fucking houses. Blah!
Toward the end of the article, the writers included the voice of a septic system contractor from Fallston who said, 'he'd have to lay off up to a third of his 15 employees if housing developments using [septic] systems were banned'. Hm. One-third certainly seems like a large percentage, but one third of his fifteen employees is barely a drop of water in the ocean. Now, I don't mean to be insensitive in these difficult times, but there are two things I would like to point out. One: the misleading power of numbers. One-third compared to five. One-third sounds much worse.
The second is more of a question: whatever happened to the concept of ethical pride in one's line of work? I understand, again, that one does not necessarily have the freedom to pursue any job he/she chooses in these times where people with Masters degrees in English must resort to waiting tables (...). However, why do we not expect people to make their decisions based on a certain mode of ethics. Yes, jobs are good, but so is a sustainable community and environment!
Last night, I was watching the second season of Mad Men where Don and his family are picnicking after he purchases his new Cadillac and was absolutely disgusted to watch him throw his empty can of beer into the woods and leave all of their trash on the side of the road. They didn't think anything of it then, but now we see where the trash goes. We know how disgusting the Chesapeake Bay is and that clean water is becoming less of a commodity and more of a luxury.
So why do we blindly accept the argument that 'jobs are good', regardless of the consequence of that particular job? Is it really OK to afford someone a job that disrupts and destroys the prosperity of the planet? Who the fuck is going to work when there is no more sustainable, habitable earth? Talk about job killing...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Day Fifty-Seven
I would probably call myself a tree-hugger, and happily do so. I don't litter; I don't buy Dunkin Donuts with their Styrofoam cups; I avoid plastics as often as possible (sorry Aquafina); I try to keep the lights off as often as possible. And yet, just two months ago, I nonchalantly would flick my used cigarette butt out of my car window on the interstate, or behind my place of employment, or into a puddle on the side of the road which would carry this little memorial of myself into the sewer drain, secretly voyaging beneath my feet and perception to our beautiful Chesapeake Bay. Beautiful, delicious, oversized fishfood refusing decomposition.
Originally, I began researching information regarding the 'footprint' behind my former habit, but I hit two roadblocks: personal laziness and a severe distaste for statistics. Perhaps my laziness results in my apathy toward statistics. And yet, what can I really gain from knowing the amount of trees cut down per year in the name of cigarettes (11.4 million tons annually - and that is merely for the curing process; not including papers); what does the fact that 4.5 trillion non-biodegradable cigarette filters are deposited on our earth every single year really provide? We cannot comprehend what that number even means because we have neither seen 4.5 trillion cigarette filters nor can intuit 11.4 million tons of tress and what they would look like standing tall in the world. Nicorette boasts that its product, 'doubles your chance of success'. What the fuck does that even mean? You either quit, or you don't, right? And what, exactly, is defined as 'quitting'? Six months? Two years? Our final sleep?
Perhaps I was willing to compromise my ethical, existential values in praise of cigarettes in the past, but now I have shed myself of them, I re-energized in my commitments to the world in which I live and the philosophies I have both espoused and preached. It is time to fully investigate the consequences of my daily actions, from my morning commute to my morning cup of coffee. I am not an island, and neither are you.
Originally, I began researching information regarding the 'footprint' behind my former habit, but I hit two roadblocks: personal laziness and a severe distaste for statistics. Perhaps my laziness results in my apathy toward statistics. And yet, what can I really gain from knowing the amount of trees cut down per year in the name of cigarettes (11.4 million tons annually - and that is merely for the curing process; not including papers); what does the fact that 4.5 trillion non-biodegradable cigarette filters are deposited on our earth every single year really provide? We cannot comprehend what that number even means because we have neither seen 4.5 trillion cigarette filters nor can intuit 11.4 million tons of tress and what they would look like standing tall in the world. Nicorette boasts that its product, 'doubles your chance of success'. What the fuck does that even mean? You either quit, or you don't, right? And what, exactly, is defined as 'quitting'? Six months? Two years? Our final sleep?
While I admit a certain infatuation with the symbolic nature of numbers, statistics, like those above, function to retard our mental activity. Of course my consumption of cigarettes supports deforestation. Where else does one obtain wood to burn for tobacco curing? How the fuck else do we cheaply manufacture paper? Where did I think my butts would end up? Vaporized by the Camel wizard the moment they are out of sight? Come on, me! Intuition. Investigation.
Perhaps I was willing to compromise my ethical, existential values in praise of cigarettes in the past, but now I have shed myself of them, I re-energized in my commitments to the world in which I live and the philosophies I have both espoused and preached. It is time to fully investigate the consequences of my daily actions, from my morning commute to my morning cup of coffee. I am not an island, and neither are you.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Day Fifty-Five
I know it has been almost a week since my last post; I was having too much fun shoveling and playing in the snow.
Work last evening - normally in accord with my cigarette addiction and quite offended by this project - afforded me with an unexpected blessing. As I greeted one of my last tables in a long double - a family of three young, adorable children and two warm-faced parents - the father smilingly, with a touch of sheepishness, responded to my offering of beverages with: 'I heard you speaking last week about quitting smoking. I hope it is still going well'.
These non-solicited moments of positive thinking from strangers seem to function as a tangible touch infused with the grace of god. I don't recall serving this gentleman and his family last week, and I never expect my tables to have a second thought about me once their meal is over. In fact, I prefer this. Yet, not only did this gentleman actually listen to the words that I spoke - words I presumably spoke to a co-worker or bar regular - but they somehow rested on the surface of his memory enough for him to recall my situation a week later. My situation; someone he had never met before.
And even further: he felt compelled to discover the progress of this project. It was not enough to know that I was trying to quit; he wanted to make sure it was still happening. I'm sure if I said I gave up, he would have still told me about his father-in-law who just two weeks ago died after, what he described, was a 'long, ugly ordeal'.
I recall writing some time ago about the camaraderie amongst cigarette smokers as we feel the eyes and judgments of the growing mass of abstainers. As I break through falsity upon falsity, I can now see that non-smokers meld together in their hatred of the cigarette. I forgot that with all hegemonic others there always remains the subculture or anti-hegemony. Fucking grad school.
Back on topic, I want to thank you nameless gentleman for your unknown grace. Your interest in my journey and well-being spurs me faithfully onward.
Work last evening - normally in accord with my cigarette addiction and quite offended by this project - afforded me with an unexpected blessing. As I greeted one of my last tables in a long double - a family of three young, adorable children and two warm-faced parents - the father smilingly, with a touch of sheepishness, responded to my offering of beverages with: 'I heard you speaking last week about quitting smoking. I hope it is still going well'.
These non-solicited moments of positive thinking from strangers seem to function as a tangible touch infused with the grace of god. I don't recall serving this gentleman and his family last week, and I never expect my tables to have a second thought about me once their meal is over. In fact, I prefer this. Yet, not only did this gentleman actually listen to the words that I spoke - words I presumably spoke to a co-worker or bar regular - but they somehow rested on the surface of his memory enough for him to recall my situation a week later. My situation; someone he had never met before.
And even further: he felt compelled to discover the progress of this project. It was not enough to know that I was trying to quit; he wanted to make sure it was still happening. I'm sure if I said I gave up, he would have still told me about his father-in-law who just two weeks ago died after, what he described, was a 'long, ugly ordeal'.
I recall writing some time ago about the camaraderie amongst cigarette smokers as we feel the eyes and judgments of the growing mass of abstainers. As I break through falsity upon falsity, I can now see that non-smokers meld together in their hatred of the cigarette. I forgot that with all hegemonic others there always remains the subculture or anti-hegemony. Fucking grad school.
Back on topic, I want to thank you nameless gentleman for your unknown grace. Your interest in my journey and well-being spurs me faithfully onward.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Day Forty-Nine
Didn't I mention before I love numbers? I particularly love square numbers. Seven times Seven makes Forty-Nine. There is a perfect beauty in the organic fluidity between these normally unconnected entities: seven, four, and nine. Seven weeks of seven days. It's kind of like 1:11 this past January first.
Why is it, then, on this magnificent day and milestone, that really want to smoke a cigarette? Why do I want to walk to the 7-11 down the street and buy an overpriced pack of cigarettes; smoke one, and then toss the rest of the pack away? I just want one; only one. I don't want the entire pack. Frankly, as I imagine myself walking down the street with peaked expectation, I know that I probably wouldn't even be able to finish the entire cig. I would either find my head spinning so vigorously that I could hardly breathe, or my newly cleansed lungs merely would reject the offering.
But this still gets me back to why. I'm not fiending as I have previously. I'm not feeling my innards quiver with need. No sweat is accumulating on my brow. I'm not getting abnormally pissed off at something or someone or everything. Actually, I'm in a fairly excellent mood. I can not blame this desire on any other external source except myself, and I don't know why. I think about my last taste of a cig and that isn't enticing me either.
Perhaps this is like my random cravings for sushi; to go on a literary spending spree on Amazon; to browse the power tools at Home Depot; to finally try acid for the first time. Now I am beginning to understand. This is just my way of trying to be a good consuming American I think. I love consumption, and utter despise that part my myself. It has been my goal to extract this consumerist poison from my blood, and, in a way, my quitting seems to overlap with that end. All of these given things (including cigarettes) are luxuries in their own ways. I need a cig just as much as I need to eat expensive raw fish or expand my library or make myself feel more manly or expand my mind (man), even though these all provide their own positives.
So please, don't blame me. I'm just a good old fashioned American trying to do my part to save the economy and not drain social security by living to see retirement while helping to keep the most fucked up of all corporations cruising along.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Day Forty-Eight
You know what makes me want to smoke cigarettes? Assholes.
This particularly grotesque devolution of human-beings come in all shapes and sizes. They have managed to merge with the common stock of folks; seamlessly infiltrating our everyday lives to disrupt our grasp on utopian loveliness and happiness. We find these 'assholes' haphazardly conducting their vehicles from place to place, whipping their shopping carts from aisle to aisle with reckless abandon and a complete disregard of presumed 'right of way' dictums, and self-righteously blathering stock phrases about 'you liberals' into glasses of Resurrection Ale and some imaginary audience they believe follows them bar to bar.
If you perhaps fall into one of these categories or have been referred to before as an 'asshole', do me a favor: don't cry about it. Don't stalk those who call you out on your assholery. Don't try to push the other off the road or steal the last box of Ho-Ho's. You know why?...
This particularly grotesque devolution of human-beings come in all shapes and sizes. They have managed to merge with the common stock of folks; seamlessly infiltrating our everyday lives to disrupt our grasp on utopian loveliness and happiness. We find these 'assholes' haphazardly conducting their vehicles from place to place, whipping their shopping carts from aisle to aisle with reckless abandon and a complete disregard of presumed 'right of way' dictums, and self-righteously blathering stock phrases about 'you liberals' into glasses of Resurrection Ale and some imaginary audience they believe follows them bar to bar.
If you perhaps fall into one of these categories or have been referred to before as an 'asshole', do me a favor: don't cry about it. Don't stalk those who call you out on your assholery. Don't try to push the other off the road or steal the last box of Ho-Ho's. You know why?...
Friday, January 21, 2011
Day Forty-Five
You are now reading the blog of a Baltimore City Teaching Resident (contingent upon successful background check and Praxis II scores)! Woo hoo! This calls for a celebration!
Won't, however, be smoking one of these beautiful looking things like all of these beautiful looking people. Were this forty-six days ago (and not so fucking windy), I would have probably already smoked half a pack; I am tweaked with excitement. I find myself slightly out of breath from walking to and fro aimlessly around my house trying to remember what it was that I was trying to remember to do. Up and down, up and down the steps. Ah.
I love Tweek. I always feel connected to him for some reason. I guess I will just have to find new ways to calm myself down, or perhaps just wait until I run myself to sleep. My mother always said, 'A good Joe is a tired Joe'.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Day Forty-Four
Man, I fucking love this song.
I left my iPod on shuffle at work today, and it shook me with nostalgia. I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. They were hidden under my seat and in the spare tire well in the trunk; my companions were expected to exercise their lower abdomen hovering over the thick, clumsy carpet of music beneath their toes.
I remember walking out of the Princeton Record Exchange, holding the giant yellow smooth plastic bag with nervous expectation; almost running to my car to replace whatever was in my CD player with this new collection of music the quirky and adorable employee had sold to me - she was the only unsnobbified employee of this beautiful establishment which actually sported a fucking wait list for new hires; no High Fidelity in her. She first recommended to me Alice Coltrane, about whom I am still undecided, but hey, she was definitely cool and cute and talked to me and I was still pretty fucked up about that other bitch I used to know who didn't direct me toward a positive reality, so I was flattered.
I remember falling in love with this girl driving on the interstate; or perhaps it was more of a diversion of love feelings from she who scorns - but who was once the inspirer of some sort of deep passionate thing which seems now undefinable - to she who accepts. The one who smiles. Who could you not fall in love with the person who gave you Otis Redding.
But then I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. Stoned, sad for some reason or other. Probably regretting my inability to transcend from friend to feverish-lover-beast with one girl or another. Can't remember exactly who.
The amalgamation of the pace, the tone, the crowish voice; that love-crow. I remember looking at my Camel and the Dunkin Donuts terrible styrofoam cup in its holder, feeling tears begin to well...
What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't even listening to this song. It comes off as a regretful or nostalgic ballad; creates this dark, sad image; certain word clusters could occasionally even be found in these kind of songs. I used to smoke toward this image; this pensive and still kitchen table under a bright light with a half-full ashtray. I was there, hovering over a steaming cup of coffee, all alone, wondering how it had all gone wrong, and I would someday take a drag and as I inhale discover the mysteries of the world and my life - I think I would begin writing my novel there, too.
I couldn't have been more of a fool; a bluthering idiot. This song is romantic, and its not about the coffee and especially not about the cigarettes. Cigarettes aren't romantic. It's about having that thing that eternally connects you with another; that secret you don't even realize you share. Cigarettes aren't romantic.
I left my iPod on shuffle at work today, and it shook me with nostalgia. I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. They were hidden under my seat and in the spare tire well in the trunk; my companions were expected to exercise their lower abdomen hovering over the thick, clumsy carpet of music beneath their toes.
I remember walking out of the Princeton Record Exchange, holding the giant yellow smooth plastic bag with nervous expectation; almost running to my car to replace whatever was in my CD player with this new collection of music the quirky and adorable employee had sold to me - she was the only unsnobbified employee of this beautiful establishment which actually sported a fucking wait list for new hires; no High Fidelity in her. She first recommended to me Alice Coltrane, about whom I am still undecided, but hey, she was definitely cool and cute and talked to me and I was still pretty fucked up about that other bitch I used to know who didn't direct me toward a positive reality, so I was flattered.
I remember falling in love with this girl driving on the interstate; or perhaps it was more of a diversion of love feelings from she who scorns - but who was once the inspirer of some sort of deep passionate thing which seems now undefinable - to she who accepts. The one who smiles. Who could you not fall in love with the person who gave you Otis Redding.
But then I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. Stoned, sad for some reason or other. Probably regretting my inability to transcend from friend to feverish-lover-beast with one girl or another. Can't remember exactly who.
The amalgamation of the pace, the tone, the crowish voice; that love-crow. I remember looking at my Camel and the Dunkin Donuts terrible styrofoam cup in its holder, feeling tears begin to well...
What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't even listening to this song. It comes off as a regretful or nostalgic ballad; creates this dark, sad image; certain word clusters could occasionally even be found in these kind of songs. I used to smoke toward this image; this pensive and still kitchen table under a bright light with a half-full ashtray. I was there, hovering over a steaming cup of coffee, all alone, wondering how it had all gone wrong, and I would someday take a drag and as I inhale discover the mysteries of the world and my life - I think I would begin writing my novel there, too.
I couldn't have been more of a fool; a bluthering idiot. This song is romantic, and its not about the coffee and especially not about the cigarettes. Cigarettes aren't romantic. It's about having that thing that eternally connects you with another; that secret you don't even realize you share. Cigarettes aren't romantic.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Day Forty-Two
'Commute'
Dawn seemed accelerated by the sleek blanket of ice encrusted snow. The minuscule discrepancy between blind and window edge glowed like welding fire, disrupting the connection between time and light this time of year. As his cell phone threatened suicide by an inadvertent vibratory plunge, he wondered why he would set his alarm on a Sunday. And then, with more urgency, how late he must be if it was already so bright. And then, what is my wife still doing in bed as well.
He arose like Lazarus, peered through the horizontal slats, and regressed back to childhood. SNOW! I love snow I love snow I love snow; snow snow snow. He sweetened his coffee with a light flurry; allowed his toothbrush to skate along his teeth; skidded and slid perfect circles in his Subaru hatchback and, magically, found himself sitting at a traffic light. How did his windshield and side windows magically become cleaned of snow and ice, and why was it so unspeakably hot in there? He was already spoiling his freshly ironed attire!
Opening his window, he craved being enthused by the crispy January air. Rather than refreshment, his chest rebelled and revolted. What the fuck was that smell and taste? Not the clutch (thanks Benny!); not bus exhaust; not his underarms or any other part of his body. No fresh presents left by his dog in his backyard. He didn't remember passing anything foul out of either mouth or rear.
And then it memory kicked in and he felt compelled to apologize to every person who had ever stopped next to or behind him at a light or in traffic. He never imagined the smell of cigarette smoke had the remarkable ability to travel that far. Once the smoke diffused into the air, why wouldn't its smell follow suit? In fact, this smoke seemed to have gathered all other foul smelling things in its path (including the presumed unkempt mouth of the unshaven driver of the F350 with plow attachment and feigned masculinity).
How irresponsible smokers are, soiling the cilia of all unexpected bystanders. He closed the window and turned off the heat. It might have been the most perfect morning ever, too!
But, where was he driving again?
Dawn seemed accelerated by the sleek blanket of ice encrusted snow. The minuscule discrepancy between blind and window edge glowed like welding fire, disrupting the connection between time and light this time of year. As his cell phone threatened suicide by an inadvertent vibratory plunge, he wondered why he would set his alarm on a Sunday. And then, with more urgency, how late he must be if it was already so bright. And then, what is my wife still doing in bed as well.
He arose like Lazarus, peered through the horizontal slats, and regressed back to childhood. SNOW! I love snow I love snow I love snow; snow snow snow. He sweetened his coffee with a light flurry; allowed his toothbrush to skate along his teeth; skidded and slid perfect circles in his Subaru hatchback and, magically, found himself sitting at a traffic light. How did his windshield and side windows magically become cleaned of snow and ice, and why was it so unspeakably hot in there? He was already spoiling his freshly ironed attire!
Opening his window, he craved being enthused by the crispy January air. Rather than refreshment, his chest rebelled and revolted. What the fuck was that smell and taste? Not the clutch (thanks Benny!); not bus exhaust; not his underarms or any other part of his body. No fresh presents left by his dog in his backyard. He didn't remember passing anything foul out of either mouth or rear.
And then it memory kicked in and he felt compelled to apologize to every person who had ever stopped next to or behind him at a light or in traffic. He never imagined the smell of cigarette smoke had the remarkable ability to travel that far. Once the smoke diffused into the air, why wouldn't its smell follow suit? In fact, this smoke seemed to have gathered all other foul smelling things in its path (including the presumed unkempt mouth of the unshaven driver of the F350 with plow attachment and feigned masculinity).
How irresponsible smokers are, soiling the cilia of all unexpected bystanders. He closed the window and turned off the heat. It might have been the most perfect morning ever, too!
But, where was he driving again?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Day Forty-One
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!
I was too busy partying it up on my fortieth day smoke-free to spare even a moment to congratulate myself. Congratulations me. Forty days is certainly quite a long time; it seems more foreign to me than ever before. Not to mention, forty days sounds so much more impressive than five-and-a-half weeks and change. Even the ark finished its journey after forty. I haven't snagged a rock yet.
I happen to find the numeric value that runs along with my quitting to be quite enjoyable. I like numbers; they are so fun and concrete, although unfortunately misleading, from time to time. There is always a calculating method of some source in order to invoke these mysteriously commonplace entities. They do not exist on a continuum; they do not perpetually advance forward. Yesterday, I was a forty-day non-smoker, yet that does not necessitate a forty-first or a fiftieth; day forty can easily become day one as a smoker, depending on the given calculus.
My present calculus is thrilling because of its existence; it is mine. I create it, and I control it; it is because I am. There is no god here showering me with rain water to keep me afloat; no wife holding my hand; no broken fortune cookie reassuring me of my path; no authority figure guiding the ethics of my decisions. Just me. I make the rules. And I happen to love linear mathematics. Very simple. Every day, just add one. Wonder how far I can count without even thinking about it. What is it, anyway?
I was too busy partying it up on my fortieth day smoke-free to spare even a moment to congratulate myself. Congratulations me. Forty days is certainly quite a long time; it seems more foreign to me than ever before. Not to mention, forty days sounds so much more impressive than five-and-a-half weeks and change. Even the ark finished its journey after forty. I haven't snagged a rock yet.
I happen to find the numeric value that runs along with my quitting to be quite enjoyable. I like numbers; they are so fun and concrete, although unfortunately misleading, from time to time. There is always a calculating method of some source in order to invoke these mysteriously commonplace entities. They do not exist on a continuum; they do not perpetually advance forward. Yesterday, I was a forty-day non-smoker, yet that does not necessitate a forty-first or a fiftieth; day forty can easily become day one as a smoker, depending on the given calculus.
My present calculus is thrilling because of its existence; it is mine. I create it, and I control it; it is because I am. There is no god here showering me with rain water to keep me afloat; no wife holding my hand; no broken fortune cookie reassuring me of my path; no authority figure guiding the ethics of my decisions. Just me. I make the rules. And I happen to love linear mathematics. Very simple. Every day, just add one. Wonder how far I can count without even thinking about it. What is it, anyway?
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Day Thirty-Nine
I have been reflecting on the directions and focus of my mind the past few weeks, and I can say that there is actually something I truly miss now that I am no longer smoking: outside. I often feel this way at various points throughout the winter as I neither have the desire nor the suitable evolutionary adaptation (or would that be a lack thereof?) to be able to stand the cold. Or a better way to put it would be that the incentive to stand outside, read my book, talk on the phone, work on my house, or contemplate some aspect of my life or simply dinner just isn't enough without the promise of a cigarette in my mouth. It is true.
Perhaps, I am making too much of the inevitable consequence of living in a non-Tropical climate zone. But I will say that I enjoyed winter much more last year as a smoker. I had that excuse to put on my jacket and my knit hat and fingerless knit gloves and connect with the world outside of me for a minute. It was a leveling feeling and always made my house seem warmer than it actually was in comparison, which is awesome when you keep the thermostat at 65 degrees to save a bit more energy; the wife and I don't want to forget where we are in the passage of the seasons (not to mention all the canoodling!).
All this being said, I do not want all you naysayers thinking, 'Oh. Here it comes. The beginning of the end. I have been waiting for it. That weak fool'. O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? My path does not end on the water's edge; on the brink of hypothermia and claustrophobia. Praise to those who waver not in their faith. For all you Thomas's, I will show you so that you will believe. I got this shit. I just need to work more on getting my ass up and out of the door to enjoy all the beauty and life around me with a shiver or two.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Day Thirty-Seven
I am realizing more and more how much I hate Thursdays; how much I despise this day. This being my only day off, I am torn between allowing myself a day of rest and relaxation on one hand, and trying to accomplish twenty different tasks I have both started and would like to start on the other. Unfortunately, I normally defer to the latter which really isn't THAT bad, except the truth behind this fact. When I get bored, I want to smoke. Plain and simple. The moment when I think to myself, 'I wonder what I should do right now', my immediate response is, 'Go outside and smoke a cig and think about it'.
This, normally, helps. It allows me to clear my mind and settle the perpetual nervous energy pumping through my veins like coffee through a percolator. Normally, I feel like this bassline:
which is cool, because I love Frank Zappa (especially this song), except I oftentimes run my mind in circles until all I can handle is the round of television judges starting with The People's Court and ending with Judge Judy at 5:00. My cigarette habit provided me with the excuse to go outside, breathe fresh air, and get my shit in order.
Not these days, however. Who needs to control every single moment on their day off? Not this guy! I think I might go for a walk with my shoes off in the snow and smoke something else and wonder if my natural body heat can melt the snow off my sidewalk. Then I think I am going to make a pot roast from the best cookbook ever and some twice baked potatoes and perhaps steam some broccoli and have a grand old time. But maybe I will just wait and call for take-out. Who the fuck cares! It's my day off, and I stand strong against the cigs. Eventually, I can get my head on straight again, if it ever really was.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Day Thirty-Six
There was always something fun, something almost joyous in smoking in the snow. I use to love standing outside, feeling the soft flakes kiss and melt upon my cheek; watching the specks of snow saturate the body of my cig; listening to the sizzling cigarette as its fire is conquered and consumed by pliable mounds of snow. They seems to almost taste crisper and juicier, like an undercooked steak.
Yet, I always overlooked the inherent ugliness and dirtiness of this act. My ash looking like pepper on grits: out of place; like walking into my house and stomping the dirt off my shoes on my living room rug. And the remnant of my cigarettes now invariably remind me of the black snow along the edge of a plowed street. With every ash and every butt tossed, I helped to destroy the purity blanket of snow which I would venture outside to enjoy. This morning, I may finally enjoy the snow without destroying it for those behind me; the only remnant left is my anonymous footprint and the inquisitive mind which wonders the fate of its walker.
Yet, I always overlooked the inherent ugliness and dirtiness of this act. My ash looking like pepper on grits: out of place; like walking into my house and stomping the dirt off my shoes on my living room rug. And the remnant of my cigarettes now invariably remind me of the black snow along the edge of a plowed street. With every ash and every butt tossed, I helped to destroy the purity blanket of snow which I would venture outside to enjoy. This morning, I may finally enjoy the snow without destroying it for those behind me; the only remnant left is my anonymous footprint and the inquisitive mind which wonders the fate of its walker.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Day Thirty-Five
After reflecting on my post from yesterday, I realize there is something important I completely left out. What has philosophically troubled me was my addiction to nicotine and the therein loss of my free-will. I felt that my ability to make the choice to smoke or not smoke a cig was reduced to non-existence. On Sunday morning, I felt compelled by no one and no thing but my own ontological authority. I have a similar issue here when I look into the calm, smooth vat of frying oil in the Alonso's kitchen when it is undisturbed. All I ever want to do is very quickly dip my finger in it to see if it is actually hot. The same happens when I see a boiling pot of water filling with spaghetti. I reach in and pinch a thrashing spaghetti with my pointer and thumb. The question is always a matter of 'testing the waters'. Sunday morning, the water was cold and uncomfortable. I feel am absolute absence of desire to take another dip.
It feels good to, finally, be able to control my relationship with cigarettes.
It feels good to, finally, be able to control my relationship with cigarettes.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Day Thirty-Four
Alright. Perhaps you were assuming I gave up on this project completely as I haven't written a single word in three days. Sorry about that; busy weekend; and quite interesting at that.
I attended an interview day for the Baltimore City Teaching Residency which required me to teach a short five minute lesson. Normally, a stressful day involving a job interview would push me right into a pack of smokes. They would settle me down; functioning as that crutch, that immovable and unchanging constant on which I may rest in an uncomfortable situation. It was always so easy to excuse myself away from other nervous chit-chat with a quick smoke, and with the smokers, we could just enjoy the company with silence and the occasion reference to the weather, now and future.
This time around, such vices were not needed. And, while there is always room for improvement, my biggest fear of crumbling under the weight of expectation without my crutch was itself destroyed. I don't need that shit anymore.
Therefore, I, yesterday, decided to take a puff of a cigarette from one of co-workers on our way in to work. Normally, this kind gentleman smokes those Camel Crushes that make used to make Winstons taste like Dunhills. If you want a menthol, smoke a fucking Newport! However, this morning, my friend handed me a stubbier cigarette and I thought, 'Oh shit. A Red'. Of course, my first puff in Thirty-three days is a Marlboro Red, the king. I stopped at half a tug, and as the smoke slammed my lungs, I wondered if I just inhaled a fucking sledge-hammer; like someone stomping their foot to compact a waste-paper basket. Straight down to the bottom of my tender lungs it hit me, and the illusion was destroyed.
I write this with a certain sense of pride. I didn't steal that cig from my compadre and ravage it as I kept thinking would happen. I didn't even really crave it. I just wanted to know what it was that I was so afraid of; what exactly it was that had made me crazy all that time; what had inspired this entire venture. Frankly, it was a bit of a let down...
Oh yeah...it wasn't a whole cig, so no five bucks. I did specify that before, right?
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Day Thirty
Call back the dogs! I am fucking fiending like crazy right now and have been all morning, and all I can think about it, 'Just one cig', which would be wonderful (perhaps) if I was able to run out to the store and buy one single cigarette and smoke only that cigarette and be finished with it all, but I can't do that. I would have to buy an entire pack and then hide it somewhere and tell my lovely wife I bummed it from someone while on an errand while I am telling myself that I will keep that pack for ONLY special occasions. Maybe it will even remain in my bag for a few days or a week, but that is highly unlikely because I LOVE CIGARETTES. Love them. They taste to disgustingly delicious like the smell of old grease; like the smell of a bleached kitchen. mmmm...
At least I am addressing it, right? No fucking way I am going to ruin twenty-nine days of heaven and clean consciousness for five minutes of death. And there is absolutely no way I would smoke only one. I have fooled myself enough. I would be like a pedophile at the pool in late July. The lack of control disgusts me.
This is a problem, though, because I want to get out of the house and, frankly, cannot trust myself. I just need to walk out the door and face my addiction, my faults, me. Here I go...
At least I am addressing it, right? No fucking way I am going to ruin twenty-nine days of heaven and clean consciousness for five minutes of death. And there is absolutely no way I would smoke only one. I have fooled myself enough. I would be like a pedophile at the pool in late July. The lack of control disgusts me.
This is a problem, though, because I want to get out of the house and, frankly, cannot trust myself. I just need to walk out the door and face my addiction, my faults, me. Here I go...
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Day Twenty-Nine
Having experienced one of the most intense and powerful movies I have seen in a while (perhaps even since The Lives Of Others), I cannot stop thinking about obsession and fetishism. The film, of course, is Black Swan. It is a beautiful and terrifying portrayal of obsession turned into a neuroses, finally becoming physically destructive. I am not going to contaminate the film by trying to insert my own cigarette narrative into what I conceive is Darren Oronofsky's intention. Just go see this movie! Seriously.
What interests me, however, is the connection between obsession and addiction. Over the past few years of my smoking life, it was necessary for me to take various efforts to 'hide' it from view of certain people; I had to internalize my love of smoking. Obviously, nicotine is an addictive substance. My body craved it, and when I was unable to requite this craving, my body raged. Yet, there is certainly a distinction between bodily cravings and mental fixation. Even in those times when my physical addiction was satiated, I still craved the comfort of a Camel in my hand occasionally moving toward my mouth. This notion begins to move away from addiction toward what I, in this consideration, will call an obsession. I certainly fetishized cigarettes as well (as do most smokers) by attributing to them various medicinal properties from calming my nerves (and tickling my grapes) to 'finishing a meal' to sharpening my driving senses. I embedded cigarettes into conception of life so that reality would either become unlivable or utterly cease to exist.
On a political note, the state of Maryland has been considering raising the taxes on alcoholic beverages by 'a dime a drink'. I understand the strain this may place on business-owners and sellers of alcohol, yet who the fuck complained when cigarette smokers watched their cigs taxed to a degree that has more than doubled the price of cigarettes in the past six years. Just like cigs, alcohol is a luxury (and, often, quite a destructive one), and in difficult times like these, these luxuries should not be taken for granted! Tax away...
What interests me, however, is the connection between obsession and addiction. Over the past few years of my smoking life, it was necessary for me to take various efforts to 'hide' it from view of certain people; I had to internalize my love of smoking. Obviously, nicotine is an addictive substance. My body craved it, and when I was unable to requite this craving, my body raged. Yet, there is certainly a distinction between bodily cravings and mental fixation. Even in those times when my physical addiction was satiated, I still craved the comfort of a Camel in my hand occasionally moving toward my mouth. This notion begins to move away from addiction toward what I, in this consideration, will call an obsession. I certainly fetishized cigarettes as well (as do most smokers) by attributing to them various medicinal properties from calming my nerves (and tickling my grapes) to 'finishing a meal' to sharpening my driving senses. I embedded cigarettes into conception of life so that reality would either become unlivable or utterly cease to exist.
On a political note, the state of Maryland has been considering raising the taxes on alcoholic beverages by 'a dime a drink'. I understand the strain this may place on business-owners and sellers of alcohol, yet who the fuck complained when cigarette smokers watched their cigs taxed to a degree that has more than doubled the price of cigarettes in the past six years. Just like cigs, alcohol is a luxury (and, often, quite a destructive one), and in difficult times like these, these luxuries should not be taken for granted! Tax away...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Day Twenty-Eight
Woo hoo! Four whole weeks smoke free! Here is what I have been up to in anticipation of this landmark event!
Unfortunately, I could only capture this mirror-image half-hat picture, but for those of you lacking creative inspiration, it reads 'Ex-Smoker'. I started this hat when I was sick last week. Notice the edge of the 'No Smoking' emblem on the back section.
And yes, I knit. I'm pretty fucking good at it too. Bet you wish you had one of these, don't you!
And yes, I knit. I'm pretty fucking good at it too. Bet you wish you had one of these, don't you!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Day Twenty-Six
In lieu of yet another lengthy post...
Started wanting to put something in my mouth again.
It was a hard day at work, trying of my patience; circumstances out of my control.
I thought a cig would have been a good reward for making it through.
It probably would have.
I did deserve one.
I was a good boy.
Ryan smokes.
Coleman reminded me I didn't need one.
That is true as well.
Still clean, nicotine free.
Started wanting to put something in my mouth again.
It was a hard day at work, trying of my patience; circumstances out of my control.
I thought a cig would have been a good reward for making it through.
It probably would have.
I did deserve one.
I was a good boy.
Ryan smokes.
Coleman reminded me I didn't need one.
That is true as well.
Still clean, nicotine free.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Day Twenty-Five
Happy New Year!
Let me tell you a story.
I was working at Alonso's last night, which isn't that bad because I never feel like going out and partying on the days when one is expected to do such things. It wasn't exactly a busy evening, and I was excited to get home earlier than usual to my lovely wife. She was watching 'Big Time' starring Tom Waits on This Network (Channel 45-2) on the local antenna television, and I love that man; saw him live in Nashville a few years back and almost shit my pants with awe.
My final table, however - a ten-top of people who must be related in some way to the McPoyles or some other kind of inbred assholes who haven't communicated with another not of their kin or even left their hole of a home since last New Years - obviously sensing my excitement, decided to torture me. There was a woman who sent me back to the kitchen FOUR times to get mayo, onions, decaf tea, and then pickles (for her already half eaten hamburger), and then the jerk who said, 'Oh, you have pickles? I'll have some'. So I got this jerk some pickles and assumed he fine until five minutes later, when the dick who demanded to have his own separate check because, 'All these people always order more food than me and I only want to pay for my food,' asked me for a dessert menu - 'And, by the way, I'm not going to order it, but how much is a coffee': WHY THE FUCK DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THEN? The jerk decided to throw in at this time, 'Oh yeah, and can I have some pickles when you bring out his dessert' with an ugly, Bush-voting smirk. When I asked him if I had forgotten his pickles, he said simply, 'No'. Ohhhhh, so you wanted MORE pickles then? Is that what it is? It certainly would not be too difficult to merely ASK the question rather than assume I know everything that rattles around in your empty brain, like the most annoying and stereotypical girlfriend ever! This was, of course, before the table proceeded to pass around a dirty Safeway bag full of broken cookies which they all stuffed into their mouths like mice and after they arrived for their reservation they made for 8 people and then seemed confused and put off when the hostess and I didn't realize that they had walked in with 10 people; they just stood around the table and stared at it, clearly attempting to WILL two fucking chairs into existence!
These are just a few examples of the torture I endured last night for the sake of my beloved employer. As this clusterfluck of humanity exited the restaurant, I realized I had not once yearned for a cigarette to help to ease my anger and disgust. Normally, in such situations, I storm outside and ravage a cigarette, walking back in lightheaded, a bit dizzy, and forcibly calmed. Yet last night, I had not even a glimmer of an urge to smoke. That is a fucking BREAKTHROUGH!
Let me tell you a story.
I was working at Alonso's last night, which isn't that bad because I never feel like going out and partying on the days when one is expected to do such things. It wasn't exactly a busy evening, and I was excited to get home earlier than usual to my lovely wife. She was watching 'Big Time' starring Tom Waits on This Network (Channel 45-2) on the local antenna television, and I love that man; saw him live in Nashville a few years back and almost shit my pants with awe.
My final table, however - a ten-top of people who must be related in some way to the McPoyles or some other kind of inbred assholes who haven't communicated with another not of their kin or even left their hole of a home since last New Years - obviously sensing my excitement, decided to torture me. There was a woman who sent me back to the kitchen FOUR times to get mayo, onions, decaf tea, and then pickles (for her already half eaten hamburger), and then the jerk who said, 'Oh, you have pickles? I'll have some'. So I got this jerk some pickles and assumed he fine until five minutes later, when the dick who demanded to have his own separate check because, 'All these people always order more food than me and I only want to pay for my food,' asked me for a dessert menu - 'And, by the way, I'm not going to order it, but how much is a coffee': WHY THE FUCK DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THEN? The jerk decided to throw in at this time, 'Oh yeah, and can I have some pickles when you bring out his dessert' with an ugly, Bush-voting smirk. When I asked him if I had forgotten his pickles, he said simply, 'No'. Ohhhhh, so you wanted MORE pickles then? Is that what it is? It certainly would not be too difficult to merely ASK the question rather than assume I know everything that rattles around in your empty brain, like the most annoying and stereotypical girlfriend ever! This was, of course, before the table proceeded to pass around a dirty Safeway bag full of broken cookies which they all stuffed into their mouths like mice and after they arrived for their reservation they made for 8 people and then seemed confused and put off when the hostess and I didn't realize that they had walked in with 10 people; they just stood around the table and stared at it, clearly attempting to WILL two fucking chairs into existence!
These are just a few examples of the torture I endured last night for the sake of my beloved employer. As this clusterfluck of humanity exited the restaurant, I realized I had not once yearned for a cigarette to help to ease my anger and disgust. Normally, in such situations, I storm outside and ravage a cigarette, walking back in lightheaded, a bit dizzy, and forcibly calmed. Yet last night, I had not even a glimmer of an urge to smoke. That is a fucking BREAKTHROUGH!
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