Not today

I’m not a morning person, and I’ve got witnesses to back me up on that. But there is one morning ritual I hope to never give up: the donning of the gear. Riding trousers, boots, motorcycle jacket. The helmet, and optimistically, the sunglasses. And finally, outside now, as the bike warms at idle, the donning of the gloves: the final signal of intention. We’re going riding now.

I do this twice a day, every work day, and as often as I can on the weekends.

Recently, there’s one final step that’s been added to the ritual. As I pull slowly away into traffic, I find myself saying a little mantra, quietly, but as mindfully as possible: “Not today”. I make sure every part of myself has heard it, listened to it, and acknowledged it. Only then do I get going.

Not today. We will not be coming down today. I do make mistakes sometimes: misreading the road surface, or coming in way too fast for a corner, or just not being fully present in the monotony of rush hour traffic. Not today reminds me to stay sharp. (I don’t want to come down tomorrow, either – I don’t want to ever come down, let alone get into a bad situation with another vehicle – but a daily commitment is more effective than some vague, perpetual intention).

One ride at a time, as it were.

It’s not all within my control. Probably not even mostly. But being mindful allows me to influence that small sphere of fate which is within my control. I get so much pleasure from riding this bike, going ever faster, pushing her, pushing myself, especially with these tires.

These tires are special. Fitting these Metzler Z8’s was like a visit to a southern Baptist church. The bike is transformed. What was heavy and cumbersome is now a glorious ballet of lightness and surefootedness. She has found a new spiritual direction, leading me to hitherto unknown states of near rapture.

This is, obviously, a dangerous turn of events. It’s become more important than ever that I remember the mantra: not today.

My ride to work and back is mostly B-roads. I can take the motorway if I like, but I don’t. The back roads are better. Hills and farms. Rises and dips and blind corners. A jump into a counter-banked corner, followed by a 1st gear peg-scraper, exhaust burbling on the downshift, and then a short-shift into second as I swing her back the other way, braking again for another first-gear corner. It’s sheer satisfaction. It’s intense.

Most of these back roads – and there are many options between work and home – have very little traffic. But there are tractors and sheep and cow-shit. And even the occasional young woman on a horse, all decked out in her riding kit, seriously sexy but very annoyed at my racing engine.

So I drive hard but restrained. If I can’t see over this next rise then I’m certainly not going to be nailing it. I drive for the sight-lines, the general road conditions, and the likely presence of human or non-human road-kill.

There are ways to increase one’s chances of survival. I’ve got more than a few defensive driving tricks up my sleeve, which I may explore in another post. Yet some would say the most effective way to stay out trouble is to just not ride at all. I could crack my head slipping in the bathtub instead of on a greasy roundabout.

When I talk to my wife about bikes she says she’d rather me take the train. Fair enough, but surely trains are just an unfortunate but necessary way to get home after a night out? They lack a certain satisfaction.

Or I could just drive slower, though that’s not the first thing that comes into my overly-motorcycled head. Driving slower on two wheels is downright dangerous. Higher revs and blurring scenery increases my awareness. Cranking that throttle a little gets me paying proper attention.

But it’s always back to the ritual. Not today, I say to myself, as I pull into traffic. We may ride hard today, but we’re not coming down. Not today.

It’s a She

It’s a she. What am I supposed to do with that? I have no idea how to feel. A son, yes, I feel I can do it, I can even imagine talking to Bruce in twenty years time without him hating me. I have so much to tell him. But a daughter? What could I possibly have to say to a girl?

She was born just this last Friday, and her name is Marnie. Excellent news, proud and happy – I feel everything I’m supposed to feel. Except there’s all this other stuff that no-one seems to to talk about.

For one, how the hell did this happen? One moment I’m floating blissfully on my once true love, Someday, and then bam, I’ve got a very pregnant Scottish blond on my arm, waddling down the hall of the maternity ward, my two-year old boy at my sister-in-law’s. Sister-in-law? I’m married? WTF?

I like my life now, but I’m also worried rife. There’s no room for mistakes anymore – especially not the big ones. I worry that this may well result in less risk. I worry that without risk I could well ossify and die.

I want to pull a Sarah Conner and send my son messages into his future. I want to prepare him for the revolution. But do I have the guts to throw down the security of this soul-destroying consumer lifestyle in order to lead my family into that righteous future that we must so obviously embrace? Can I still live this double life, where I am anguished by the unjust rulings of our corrupt, controlling governments and the greedy, sociopathic drive of our corporations, and yet also lead the very life they both expect, whereby I am just another robot gladly bending over at their whim?

I will tell my son about the lies. My passion will be boundless. He will look at me, his gaze holding, intense at first, interested, but I can see him disengaging as he takes stock of what I’ve said. He’ll think for a moment, and then I need for him to say to me: bullshit. I expect to fail in so many ways in Bruce’s eyes, but this one capacity I must impart. Have the guts. Call them like you see them. Bullshit. You’re like everyone else, Dad. You do what you’re supposed to do. You always have. You’re telling me about making a difference, you’re telling me about challenging the status quo, you’re telling to stick it to the man, but what the hell have you done about any of these things? Nothing. Oh, right, you sailed a boat that one time. Good going Dad. But you spent all your waking hours in front of a computer screen, churning out code for the man.

He has me. All my ideas and dreams peaked long ago. All I’m left with is angst and worry over my ability to provide for my family in a fucked economy. Gone is the general expectation of better things. We are many of us hunkered down now, living from month to month. We were promised the Earth, and oh, they made good on that one alright. There’s almost nothing left. My children now have to somehow heal a planet ravaged and plundered and dying. Daily I want to scream. I’m mad with anger but it’s wasted. My bitter iconoclasm has ruined both new and long-standing friendships and has made forging new ones near impossible. My heart’s voice is too loud and, even at forty three, still so unrefined that I dare not speak it.

Where does this leave me, the father, to my son, to my new baby girl? I have two ways out:
1) Accept my pitiful attempt at rebellion and allow my son and baby daughter to see what I really am: angry and spineless. I’m sorry son, I’m sorry my beautiful little daughter. I noticed, but I chose not to do anything.
or
2) Channel my awareness.

The answer is obvious, and it’s what I am provisionally calling Punk Rock. This Punk Rock is everything the original was, but more.

Punk Rock is about stepping outside of our expected behaviours and becoming more than this.  Yet it is more than targeted self-improvement. It’s about freedom and risk. It’s about finding meaning though creativity and colouring outside the lines. It’s about making life more fun.

We are a nasty, nasty people and my hatred for our species is profound. But we also have this tremendous capacity for art, through which we can find redemption, even hope. We also have free will. Combine the two and there’s the real possibility of creating something new.

We also have this tremendous capacity for love. Having children has changed everything for me. Before them my desire for change was in part inspired by my wife. Now it’s my children too. Part of me resists – I’ll change when I damn well feel like it – but mostly I realize that I have no choice, and that my excuses only serve as a security blanket that should have been discarded long ago.

So for me, the way forward is clear, at least philosophically. Instead of angry words, the letters on my banners and placards, written large, will read Big Love and Punk Rock.

Expect a Punk Rock Manifesto in the near future.

The month of the novel

It’s NaNoWriMo, or, in other words, National Novel Writing Month. (They don’t say which Nation, but I have a feeling it’s a certain self-entitled Nation.)

So, within the thirty days that make up this miserable month of November, I’m supposed to write a novel of at least 50,000 words. And then, if I finish on time, I win! And, just by finishing – and no matter how crap it is – a panel of award-winning authors from around the world pore through every brave and lyrical utterance, shaking their heads in wonder: how could such a talent have eluded them for so long? Society has surely been the poorer without this masterwork of insight, exposing as it does the weepy workings of our brittle human souls.

Well, no. There’s no prize. Not even a tee-shirt. In fact, no-one even reads it.

There is a website. You tell them how many words you’ve written, and they take your word for it. You can type “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”, over and over again, if that’s your thing (and it sure was Jack’s). And then you submit it. And then it’s over.

Last year there were 120,000 starters, 21,000 of whom finished on time. Impressive. Some of them have even been published, and, of those some, a few have even won some award or ended up on a best seller list somewhere – Kazakhstan, maybe.

Myself I’m now just shy of 24,000 words*. But then, last weekend, one of my characters did something I wasn’t entirely happy with, and I haven’t written a word since. I spent days worrying about it, trying to find a way out of the dead-end situation she’d gotten herself into, but I couldn’t find an out.

So I stopped writing and bought a new video game instead. I’ve been playing it ever since, every chance I get. Words? Novel? I couldn’t face it.

It’s ridiculous, really. The excuses. Because I really was quite enjoying it. Sure, I had no outline – just a couple of characters and a vague idea of a plot – but things were happening, new characters were appearing out of nowhere, fitting in perfectly and helping to drive the main characters’ delusions that there is some meaning to be found in life.

I started worrying about the logistics of it all. Everything must be neatly and logically tied together. I panic as soon as the threads start to fray. I find reasons not to continue.

It is a resistance I’ve mastered over the years. The better I can thwart my potential, the happier I am.

50,000 words is a lot for one month, what with work and family and rock band – and my new video game. The only way to achieve it is to write without stopping to edit and pretty things up. I find this difficult.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I realize that my comfort with the status quo just isn’t Punk Rock at all. So I’m going to continue with this pathetic dead-end attempt at a novel. And that corner I wrote Ruth into? It’s just logistics. I’ll figure it out later. I can leave that bit and jump straight into the action of what happens next. Who cares how she got there? I can fix it in the mix.

In writing fiction, the only brick wall is the one you erect yourself. Mine is a good wall, and my bleeding head has become familiar with the comfort of its unyielding brick. I know I can’t remove it – that would probably destroy me. But I think I can sneak around its side.

Enough. Back to the novel, yes?

*That’s a self-motivating lie. It’s closer to 12k.

Emergency bike wash

I washed my Yamaha FZ1 today for the first time in weeks. Months, probably. Cue shock and awe among the general biker population. What kind of a man? Not washing means not loving, means not caring, means, in the end, neglect. Poor Yammy.

My rear tire challenges this conclusion. 4,000 miles and it’s down to the steel belts. Neglect? We doubt this.

We say that driving the snot out of a highly-rated tire suggests enthusiastic usage of the machine – within, of course,  its recommended operating parameters. I drove that tire to the dealer carefully, paranoically, though that wasn’t my primary purpose there. The brake disks were getting replaced again. Problems at the factory with their lathe or something. I’m now on my third set on the front and second on the rear. I change them more than I do my tires.

But that’s not why we’re here. We were talking about not washing motorcycles.

The emergency bike wash was necessary to suck up to the head mechanic at the dealer. He’s given me trouble in the past. Says they can’t honour the warranty unless I look after it. A fair enough statement, but I don’t know. Have you ever seen what a bike looks like after two or three weeks of winter driving in Scotland? Not so shiny anymore.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way. Gave me a stern talking to.

This is the only Yamaha dealer any where close to me, so I need smiles and goodwill, especially as these warranty issues gather steam. So I did a quick rinse with the hose, a quick once over with a soapy sponge, another rinse to finish. Quick and lazy. I tightened and lubed the chain, too, while I was at it – he might really have had something on me if he’d seen the shocking state of it.

I washed the Dragon often and with due respect. Those lingering, soapy moments were perhaps my favourite thing about that beast. But this Yamaha is no dragon. She’s a beater. A fun beater, full of warts and cramps, freaky fast for sure, but certainly no looker. So why bother spending two hours of painstaking scrubbing of rims and spokes when I really just don’t care? Sure, I want her to last, so I spray her down with anti-corrosion when I think of it. I maintain tire pressures (at least semi-annually) and adjust and lube the chain. I may not trail my fingers over her like I did the Dragon, but that doesn’t mean I ‘m just going to throw my money away.

Some guys spend more time washing than riding. It’s the same with boats, too. Yachties down to the marina of a Sunday just to scrub and polish, leaving the dock maybe once in a season. Someday may have not always been the most polished of boats, but I kept all her systems in good working order. And I left the dock. Surely that’s the point?

Go to any bike meet. Aside from the grunge they picked up on their way there, every last one of them is spotless and gleaming, no matter what gutless thumper is cradled within. Car owners across the UK can relate. Here, if you have a motor, no matter how pathetic, you wash it. At least as often as your neighbour.

I used to ride with a guy* that brought two terrycloth towels with him everywhere he went. Once we stopped – for a coffee, a beer, a vista – he’d pull out the damp one and begin cleaning off mostly-invisible spots of dust, followed by a careful but furious polish with the dry one.  I didn’t understand. Me, I’d park my Vera within line of sight, then stand back and smoke, taking in the vista, my emotions heightened by her silhouette. She was something to look at, especially dirty. That was Vera’s thing. She was better dirty.

Bikes are for riding, not cleaning. But maybe, in most biker’s eyes, the one they’re on right now is their own Dragon. Who am I to say?

I used to drive a gorgeous Kawasaki ZRX11. I had her for five years and didn’t wash her once. It became, almost, a matter of pride. When I lived In South Carolina I’d park her on the dock close to Someday. Convenient, but salt water and metal fall madly, sickly, in love. A parasitic relationship going nowhere good. Sometimes I’d see another ZRX and I’d think, wow, that does look good. Seems every ZRX owner but me was obsessive in their worship. Oh well, I’d think. It was too late anyways, and surely not worth the effort.

Washing a bike is fundamentally different than washing a car. The innards are inside-out, so it’s not just body panels – it’s every metal bit, especially their fasteners. Nuts and bolts get fuzzed with corrosion, rusting at the faintest smell of rain. I ride every day, no matter the fickle Scottish weather. A proper wash is a compete detailing job that takes a certain sick level of devotion that I’m glad to be lacking.

In the end, the head mechanic didn’t say anything, at least not about her filth. It was the steel belts in the tire that caught his attention. I don’t think that impressed. And the parts man continued his gradual distancing – I think I make him uncomfortable. Too many questions, demands.

I understand the obsession. I’ve flirted with it myself. But for this bike – for all the bikes I’ve ever owned – I’d rather ride than polish. And besides, a little road spoodge speaks to the motorcycle’s true purpose, which is not about short skirts and lip gloss.  It’s about you, the machine, and the road. The spoodge is a bonus.

*Chris, if you’re out there, get in touch.

Rocking

I’ve recently joined a rock and roll band. Every rocker’s dream, right? Actually it is pretty cool – I’m really enjoying it. I’m wondering why I waited this long.

It’s a bunch a guys from work, getting together for a bit of fun. The plan is to put on a fund-raising charity show sometime around Christmas. Some of us are experienced musicians, some of us not so much.

It’s a bit of an odd group, actually. We’ve got people in their twenties all the way through to their mid-forties. Our tastes, musical experiences, and skill levels differ wildly. We’ll not be making any records I don’t think, but there’s a certain safety element in such a configuration. We all work together, we all like music, and we’re trying to create a passable sound that might entertain for an evening. At best we’ll be an entertaining cover band. At worst it’ll be a decent team-building exercise.

This being a bunch of workmates, there are additional professional considerations to keep in mind: the singer can’t throw a temper tantrum and walk out in a huff; you can’t just fire the heroin-addled guitar player; and the drummer can’t die by choking on someone else’s vomit.

Groupies are probably out too, as half of us are married. This is a serious bummer. Likewise, extreme drunkenness is probably a bad idea, as are hard drugs. What are we left with? The glamour evaporates. Maybe I’ll just knock over my drum kit at the end of our final set – surely that’s allowed.

I’ve been practicing the same six songs for weeks now. That’s all we’ve managed – six songs. Our goal is two 45-minutes sets, so that’s probably 12 or 15 songs all told. We have a lot of work to do.

The bass player is tight, which makes my job a lot easier – now I just need to reciprocate. Actually I thought I was doing ok until I recorded my practice last night. My favourite song from our set – The Clash’s I Fought the Law – sounded a mess. I was all over the place. The heart was there, sure, but it was a train wreck. Well, maybe that’s ok, maybe even a bit Punk Rock. A train wreck with heart.

It’s fascinating to me, how seriously I’m taking this. I know it’s just a lark really, but I have this drive to excel with this project. Realistically, all I can hope for is competence.

Fear of failure is a constant companion on most of my adventures. Sometimes it’s an expectation of failure, which ends with us both rolling in the gutter, blaming each other, but usually the fear’s presence motivates me just enough so that I can do what I have to with a certain kind of flaky competence, rough around the edges but the heart in the right place. Put another way, I can get by with most things I put my mind to, but I’m not particularly talented in any one discipline.

So, for me, any attempt at excellence takes a full and continuous commitment that must be nurtured and constantly renewed. I’m not much good at it, but I’d sure like to be.

Such it is for the drumming. When I first started I would just play the songs I enjoyed playing, cranking up the walkman and getting my ya yas out. And I suppose that’s been pretty much the pattern for the last twenty years. (twenty?? Where do they go?) I’ve been just playing for pleasure, once in awhile practicing a new pattern because I liked its sound. Yet despite always having a drum kit around, I don’t even know if I’m holding my sticks properly. I’ve never practiced the rudiments. I’ve never played to a metronome. In short, I’ve never really practiced. It’s all been about fun rather than hard, focused work.

I do have a certain style on the drums, developed over years of listening and hacking about. But it’s a messy style, and I’ve had to rein it way in for these rehearsals. Tight over flash. My number one priority here (as it should be any drummer’s): rock solid timing.

I think it’s mostly going pretty well, but only a recording of the rehearsal will really tell for sure. It sure is a kick. As we progress from week to week I’m offering suggestions, getting excited, animated, last time even showing the guitar player how to do a Pete Townsend windmill. It’s a weird layout, too… the drummer is at the back, but everyone sets up across the room in a wee semicircle, facing me. It’s cool. I’m the man. By the end of the session I’m energized, sweating all over like good sex in South Carolina, and near deaf.

Rock on, dude.

The return of sanity

There was a break in the blog, a time when everything was chickens with their heads cut off, hallucinations in the night, panting and fidgeting and then sinking ever lower until I could barely filter my own thoughts.

And then my sister died, and I started smoking again. I won’t say too much more about my sister except that she was onto something, something good and spiritual, and I’ve made a promise to remember, to continue that good work on her behalf.

I will say something about the smoking though: it’s damn good to be back. Any guilt I feel is more than made up for by the return of my sanity. I suppose there’s a “right” time to quit for all of us sinners. This wasn’t it.

I’ve still got the Yamaha and I still drive it like Billio (whoever he is), and at some point I did finally bury that placenta in the garden. There may have been chanting involved but I’m not sayin’.

There’s something in the air recently, something that’s driving me forward, and my family too. It’s all about Punk Rock. Well, not all about Punk Rock, as there’s no spitting involved. Which isn’t really Punk Rock at all, is it? Suffice it to say (for now) that there are a lot of exciting ideas nudging me, and I’ve chosen to stop ignoring them.

Stay tuned.

Is there a smoking car on this train?

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.

Quitting smoking with Allen Carr

I’ve quit smoking. I’m now on Day Five, and it sucks, really, really badly. I can’t imagine anything more physically uncomfortable or mentally excruciating. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I sit here trying to type, but all I can think about is the smoke that’s lacking. So I think of things less painful, like sticking a knife into my temple. Slowly, so I can enjoy it.

Every swallow of beer causes some level of anguish. Sure, I want the beer – that’s not going to change – but I don’t want that after-taste, that taste that’s just screaming for a drag to make it whole.

(I could give up the fight. But Allen Carr tells me I’m not even supposed to be fighting. He says there’s absolutely nothing to give up!  Hah! How silly of me to be thinking otherwise!)

My discomfort has stretched past the painful now, reaching a terminal monotony that has me glumly fantasizing about rolling up one last smoke while I prepare the noose.

I’m long-time smoker, a heavy inhaler, and it was a full-time habit  – witness that trapped look in my eyes, see my stained teeth and hands. I used to drive myself crazy at work, smelling that tarry goodness on my fingers, winding myself up until I could contain myself no longer. Somehow it helped my concentration – or seemed to – by breaking it, then making it, then breaking it again.

(An illusion, Allen says. All an illusion. Must keep this ailing brain well-washed)

It’s now Day Six and the physical addiction is supposed to be gone. But how can it only be psychological now? So it’s just my brain after six days which is wanting to stick an ice pick into my eye? It’s really my brain doing that? How can that be?

That last sip of beer there just about killed me. Just as it was sliding down my throat there was this full-body need for fullness, wholeness, one-ness with self. There’s no one without the other. How can this non-smoking even be remotely possible? Please, someone, help me help myself. Load up that gun; pass me the cyanide; do something useful.

Allen Carr can go fuck himself. If this is the EASY WAY I’d hate to see the hard one. If you’re exceedingly stubborn (check) and actually loved smoking (check) then what are you supposed to do? The very problem with Allen Carr is that he tries throughout that stupid book of his to convince me that I didn’t enjoy it. Sorry Allen, I did – I genuinely did enjoy smoking. In fact, I fucking LOVED it.  I knew this long before I quit and knew it would make for a difficult time. But there’s no help from bullshitting dead-from-lung-cancer Allen, no-siree, cause he’s positive I didn’t enjoy it. Well fuck you, Mr. Carr.  I’m glad you’ve helped so many people stop smoking, but you’re wrong. Getting out of this duplicitous agreement I’ve been living with for so many years is going to take a little more than telling myself even more lies.

Oh, I would smoke one of those beauties right now. Nice fresh Drum, rolled slowly and with care. And just happily smoke away until the ship sinks under me…

I loved smoking, but I hated what it did to me. I can’t even climb a flight of stairs anymore without worrying about a heart attack. What kind of a life is that? I have a family now, and I love them dearly. But I fucking love smoking too. Tough shit, eh? These thoughts need to be answered. Sometimes you gotta choose what’s important.

Allen Carr’s instructions state specifically not to use any form of nicotine replacement therapy. This, I think, has made it more difficult that it had to be; but at least now I don’t have to spend months trying to get off the gum, the lozenges, the patches.

It’s Day Eight. I’ve now been through a whole week of this torture. But the longer I go the more I realize how important it is that I succeed. I do not want to go through this again, not next month, not next year, not ever. There’s no point in going through all this and then just giving in.

Suicide no longer interests me in the same way it did earlier in the week. Now I want to hurt things. I want to hit and kick and pummel. It’s tiresome keeping it all for myself.  But I won’t hurt my wife, nor my boy… how about my cats? Maybe I can get away with just a bit more of my loving torment than usual. Like strangling them until their eyeballs start to bulge and their throats twitch and pulsate. Their back paws start making pathetic defensive gestures, but they are getting weaker and weaker, and their eyes start glazing… um, wait. It’s still just fantasy at this point, right? Fantasies about killing my kittens?

Ah fuck.

To help allay my depression I bought a video game. I couldn’t immediately figure out this one particular section so I just wandered around the game’s landscape for awhile. I found a nice oak tree with some shade, away from the melee, so I sat myself down for a rest. I still heard the screaming in the distance, but in my immediate space things were tranquil. I sat for a minute, enjoying the summer afternoon, but then, in a flash of inspiration, I dropped all my grenades at once – right at my feet. Big bang! And there’s me, all torn to shreds on the grass. What a hoot! So I kept at it, trying more and more creative and violent ways to kill myself, but the more satisfying it became, the more I wanted a smoke. It’s like that with everything good. One satisfying moment begets another, and a moment is nothing good without a smoke.

I think I’m going a bit nutso. I didn’t think I would get nasty but I have zero patience at the moment. My boots just got a kicking cause they looked at me the wrong way. The thing is, I hadn’t even realized they were looking at me, let alone me caring about it one way or the other. Then all of a sudden I’m in a rage.

I think I’m doing ok with Bruce but I’ve noticed my wife is now choosing the chair nearest the door.

My soul is on a plate but the plate has been left fouled at the bottom of the pile for months now so it’s stinking something rotten. And so the writing of this requires a pause here and there, n’est ce pas? A wee moment to roll it up while the words form. A drag or two to incubate that bon mot. The writer lets the smoker roll up another of those beautiful little cancerous muses; the smoker obliges, lights her up and inhales like we’re getting through some kind of crisis. But maybe the words start coming, and so it’s back into the overfilled ashtray, and now life can go on as it should until the next dragful moment. How in the hell can I ever make it work without this ritual? How can I ever feel alive and effective without it?

I understand how shit it is, the smoking – how it ruins me.  This is no way to go about life, especially now that I’ve got a young family wanting me to stay around a few more years.  Yet at the same time I know I can be happy and so me if I just allow those evil smoking instincts to take ahold. I will go with thee, and gladly.

Bullshit.
It’s all bullshit.

Day Nine.

And now I find the things that used to just make my lip curl, or my feet clench, or just make me type these keys that much harder – these minor irritants are starting to hurt my knuckles. I must be careful with myself, walk quietly, whisper. Maybe wear a helmet. I’m not trusting my fists.

Day Ten.

This is easy! No problem! Now, can I have a fucking smoke please? This is getting ridiculous. This depression has taken hold again; the violence interalized. Instead of sparkling eyes and boundless energy I am cloaked with a listless emptiness. I have lost something very dear to me, and I am missing it profoundly.  The usual bright spots in my life – my wife, my boy, my bike – these are still lovely but are no longer punctuated, italicised, underlined.

Day Fifteen

Surely day fifteen is a magic day. It is getting easier – or, more precisely – less difficult. I had my first genuine moment of pleasure today when I realised I was a non-smoker.  I think some part of me was still just taking a test-drive down this evil path, and maybe I’ve finally realized that this really is my choice. The three weeks – the hardest bit, they say – is almost over.

My disgusting boy

I have a ten-month old boy, and he’s utterly disgusting. He’s tolerable straight out of the bath, but this baby-fresh loveliness only lasts as long as his first drool. It gets steadily worse from there.

If Bruce is exclusively in my charge I make sure he’s squeaky clean at all times – especially during mealtimes. I put on his full-body bib (the best baby gadget I’ve come across) and clean up after each spoonful. A full pack of baby-wipes is nearby, along with a face cloth and a roll of paper towels. I do not give him finger food or allow him to feed himself. No toast, no biscuits, and especially no bananas.

But it still doesn’t matter. Even what looks like a perfect open-mouth opportunity goes awry: he’ll swat the spoon away at the last second, spraying both us and the general area with gunk. And when my wife is feeding him – forget it. I won’t touch either one of them until they’ve both been in the bath and changed their clothes. I’ve actually seen her spoon up bits of food dribbling down his chin and then put that spoon into her own mouth. It’s horrifying.

Sometimes, for “fun”, she’ll even allow him to feed himself. This is thoroughly revolting. I can’t say how much it grosses me out. He grabs handfuls of this nasty-looking creamed vegetable puree and just squeezes it through his grubby little paws for awhile, before finally spreading it all about the general area of his mouth. What little makes it in gets spit out in a disgusting trickle down his chin, neck, and into the inside of his vest. Beautiful.

Bruce likes his toast. He takes a soldier and squeezes it through his fingers, then forces an end into his mouth, leaving the bulk of it hanging out. He then proceeds to “blah blah bah bah mah mah mah”, chewing and babbling and spitting all at the same time. The highchair tray is soon covered with half-masticated goo, as is his face and nasty little fingers. He then gets this purposeful look on his disgusting little face and starts hurling foul bits of half-chewed toast onto everything.

His high chair is permanently covered with a shiny sheen of dried-up goo, mottled with petrified bits of banana and assorted slimy lumps. Between mealtimes he likes to crawl around under it, picking up left-over crumbs and solidified bits of fruit and munching on them. I’m feeling sick just thinking about it.

We try and share mealtimes together, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult. It’s hard to eat when you’re struggling not to throw up.

I’ve taken to carrying around some extra paper towels in my back pocket, just in case. I get panicky when I run out.

It’s not just that he’s inherently messy: it’s also his mother. She seems to think it will help him develop naturally if we allow him to eat how he wants. Sometimes she’ll just leave us, right in the middle of his dinner. My anxiety rises as I notice he’s fully soaked in some kind of nasty green puree. Bib-less, and not a wipe to be seen. And I’m still trying to eat my own meal. And, right on cue, he starts screaming, done with his high chair and demanding to be let out, and now I have to be the one to do it. I love this boy dearly, but the thought of touching him in this state makes me nauseous, so I yell out to my wife, “HONEY DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS REVOLTING BOY!”

The mess is not just confined to the house. I went to roll down the window in the car the other day. The window switch was covered in some kind of half-dried mucous-like grunge. Fucken hell. Probably yoghurt with live banana chunks. My old self would have just kept going – and going, and going, as fast and as far away from this gooey nightmare as I could get. But instead I just sighed and wiped my finger on my jeans. Fucken gross, but what are you going to do?

Time

I want this clock. I really, really want this clock.

Grasshopper clock

It’s called the Chronophage.  (Greek for ‘time eater’). Every five minutes it displays the real time, but in the midst the evil grasshopper eats at time, at the pace of his choosing.

The grasshopper clock slows down, speeds up, even pauses… then finds its rhythm again. Isn’t that exactly how we experience time?

Time is big, scary, and subtle. Time doesn’t care. Time doesn’t wait for the peak experience. It will click clock your soul to hell if you don’t keep an eye on it. Time is a gooey, fluid substance that you can let flit through your fingers – or, if you keep your wits about you, it can be shaped into usefulness.

The mind cannot hold every moment; the best and the worst become blurred and blinded. Sometimes this is just the need to keep the continuity of one’s character in focus. Without this we would lose our footing, our very grasp of the life we lead, and time would have us.

Time treats with indifference both the silliest of wasted moments and the momentous events of human history. It is a resource that we can choose to hoard or spend frivolously. But how do we fill the emptiness between the clicks?

I like this clock because it’s both technically perfect and artistically compelling. They don’t have to be separate things, science and art, logic and poetry. I think the most visible example of this fusion is great architecture, where a passerby’s mind and heart are taken with form and function on a grand scale.

I love such unions, but I always want to see inside and underneath. I want the plumbing, the service shafts, the meat behind the veneer. I want to understand how the architects and engineers solved the design issues. This to me is the greatest thing worth doing – combining the left and the right hemispheres to produce an excellent thing that inspires people. Not a stick over the head, but the subtle inspiration than can leave people smiling inside without knowing why.