OK, so I quit smoking, right? And? So what? It’s hard and things suck and I can grumble and whine or I can just get on with it.
And that’s fine, life changes, we move on, and so I keep trying to get on with things, to make life bigger, and I am, but it’s an imaginary life I’m leading. Which is fine, if the illusion is honest, but it isn’t.
And as I’m no good at writing lies, the blog remains empty. This blog was full of promise (to me); a place for me to sharpen both thought and pen. Knowing something will be read by at least a few others had been really motivating.
But I can’t seem to do it anymore. I’ve tried but it all comes out shit and I can’t find the energy to continue. Sure, it almost always comes out shit anyways, but I used to just roll that smoke and then just keep writing. The ashtray was always overflowing. And then somehow during the editing process I would find a way to make it stink a little less. I like that part – always liked it – but now even editing is shit. Nothing good is happening. There’s nothing on the page to work with.
There’s just no enjoyment. Real deadlines have passed; imaginary self-motivational ones are constantly slipping, eating away at my peace of mind. I don’t have to write, but I used to want to. I still feel the need but the process only reminds me of smoking. I get all kinds of reminders throughout my day, but the most enduring and melancholic reminder is this, now: me at my keyboard.
* * * * *
I remember every cigarette I’ve ever smoked. Each had a look and a feel, each its own taste. Freshness of tobacco, temperature of heater. Each its own character. Some were annoying, or brutish, or too chemically; others were works of art, a sublime meditation on pleasure. Quality of the paper, smoothness of the roll. Lips damp to keep the paper from sticking, but not so wet as to sogify.
Smoking was a serious and complicated business, and there was a truth to it that everyone now ostensibly denies. Even smokers themselves have a hard time talking about it now. I was driven from my work to smoke outside, then from people’s houses, and finally from the restaurants and pubs. There was no place left to actually enjoy my cigarette. I had to huddle in the cold, rushing it, getting my fix, while my now non-smoking friends relaxed back inside.
But I found a sanctuary here, up here in my writing room, the only place in the house I could go. I could relax, do what I wanted, smoke when I wanted, and enjoy it I did. My special spot. And now that’s gone too. I am now a non-smoker, and I’m mad as hell.
It’s true that smoking kills. This is acknowledged and accepted and I have no argument.
But.
It’s also true that smoking can bring the two halves together, both calming and stimulating at the same time. But we can’t speak of this exquisite pleasure that smoking can bring. (I’m not stirring up my head here, I’m not talking any kind of bullshit, I’m just saying that life is not always about the long run.)
There’s a truth to smoking that is denied and spat on everywhere I turn. Denied, and denied again. But the sick irony is that it turns ex-smokers into assholes.
“Oh, you quit? Yeah, it’s tough, I still get the pangs. Some people hate the smell of smoke but I still love it.”
Notice that encouragement.
Then you’ll get:
“Yeah, it’s hard, but you’ll make it. You’ll always want one though, I know I still do! That’ll never go away! Keep at it dude!”
Cheers. Thanks. That helps.
There’s an anger there but there’s no easy target so I sit here and stew, while I wish instead I could sit and stew and smoke.
I saw this guy the other day, sitting on the park stairs looking at the River Clyde. It was a beautiful day and he had one hell of a view. Guess what he was doing while he was sitting there, pondering life’s tricks and tangents?
Man, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. That’s the thing, the thing right there, that’s the smoke that makes those moments all the more excellent. It’s that reflective smoke, the one you roll very carefully, getting it just right. The one that means so much but also nothing at all. And for a moment, that man sitting there on the stairs was king.
Admire the moment. Accentuate it. This pause — this thing that happens between the inside and the outside — there’s no bank for it, and you’ll never, ever get it back. You can’t plan it, you can’t avoid it – the best you can do is be ready with a fresh pack of Drum and a dry pack of papers.
Can these moments have meaning without the cigarette? Yes, of course. Sure they can. But fuck they taste so much better with.
* * * * *
I did the right thing by quitting. You can’t argue with the health benefits. And maybe the emotional and spiritual benefits will come in due time. But just now it feels like something has broken off somewhere, like my keel has hit a whale. Core stability is gone. Houston? Hello?
As far as the writing goes, I’m probably just making excuses. I’m sure I’ll be back to motorcycles, roundabouts, and placentas before you know it. But in the meantime, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
This Train is for Gourock 