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.

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.

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?...

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. 

Tweek?

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'.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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...

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...

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!

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.

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!