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modern-day dragon, burning all the kids
I quit smoking back in November 2023.
I had been smoking since I was like seventeen or something. I remember I would sneak out of the house and go into the garage to smoke, and one time my mom caught me, and she actually cried. It was the first time I had seen her cry. She was always a stoic, almost emotionless woman, so seeing her cry was actually a profound moment, but I guess it wasn’t profound enough for me to quit smoking. Go figure. I remember, back then, wondering why, why she cried, why was smoking such a big deal, but now, as a parent of two kids myself, I think I know why. If I had caught my son smoking, maybe I would cry too, not because of the smoking, per se, but because of the symbolic nature of the whole thing, like a stark image of my son growing up in real time, innocence lost in the here and now, or whatever. Growing up is such a tragedy that, when you see it happening before your eyes like that, it’s hard not to want to bawl your brains out, but of course, when you’re young, you don’t think about that stuff, that’s the paradox of youth, right there.
Anyway, like I was saying, I quit smoking back in November 2024. By that time, I had gone up to like a pack a day. My brand was Marlboro Lights. I loved smoking, especially the first cigarette of the day, or after a long day of work or societal obligation or whatever, that sort of body-melting feeling after the first drag, that heady pressure like the brain is being enveloped in the best kind of storm cloud, the kind just off in the distance with heat lightning and low rumbling and all that stuff, and especially that sensation of smoke traveling its way down the trachea, subsumed by the lungs, then exhaling the leftover smoke like some sort of high-fantasy dragon. I can’t think of much else like it, to tell you the truth.
So you might be wondering, then, why I quit smoking. You might have already assumed a typical answer to that question, something health-related, like I was running out of breath or my blood pressure was high or I had developed a bad cough or I wanted to ensure that I lived long enough to see my kids become happy, flourishing adults or something like that. But, honestly, none of those reasons were why I quit smoking. I’m not that farsighted or selfless, I’m really not. I quit smoking because, when I sat down to read or write or play a video game or whatever, there was always this nagging thought in the back of my head to go smoke a cigarette. It was disrupting my focus, especially on things that I enjoyed doing. Back then I was smoking a cigarette every hour or so, and immediately after smoking, the timer for the next cigarette would start running down in my head, and I was very aware of it. I’d be playing like Final Fantasy XI or something, an online MMORPG, and I’d be thinking something like, “I’m going to smoke a cigarette in 32 minutes, which should be after about ten more Goblin Ambushers,” and I’d think like that about every activity I was doing, as if cigarettes were some sort of mythical demon, stalking me at all times, seducing me, beyond my control, like some sort of Nicotinic Lamia or Siren or Succubus or whatever. So, yeah, that’s why I quit, because it was consuming my brain. I was thinking about it all the time. Smoking had become my focal point, more important than all other things, sucking everything else in, like some sort of supermassive black hole around which all thoughts swirled. Oh, and because it was expensive as hell.
So, what’s the point of all this?
Well, I started smoking again, a few weeks ago. Actually, earlier than that. I had been smoking on and off at social events, especially work events, bumming cigarettes from people here and there, telling myself that I was now only a social smoker and that I could moderate it and all that stuff, but after a while, that morphed into wanting a cigarette at home, so now, as of just a few weeks ago, I’m smoking at home.
Well, kind of.
You see, my wife doesn’t know I started smoking again. I bought a pack of Lucky Strikes and I hid them in my office, and now, when I go on my daily bike ride, I take my Luckies out with me, stop at the neighborhood pond, the one with all the turtles and ducks and geese, and I spark up, watching those little turtle heads poke up and drift along the surface of the water, and all the ducks come up to me, expecting bread, because everyone around here feeds them, and all the geese that hiss at me because they’re total assholes, and I inhale and exhale like a modern-day dragon, and the whole hiding-it-from-my-wife thing adds an element of excitement to the whole thing too, as if I’m seventeen again, hiding it from my mother. Maybe this is my version of a mid-life crisis, but I would argue that I have one of those every week, so this isn't really anything new.
For now, smoking out there, on that pond, with those torpid turtles and those demanding ducks and those grouchy geese, is almost a zen-like experience, in a way, with how tranquil and melty and heady it is. I even saw a great blue heron one time. Next time, I'll try to take a picture, and post it.
I know I shouldn’t smoke. It’s stupid. I know I’m burning the child inside, making my mother cry, but I’m thirty-four years old and, if I want to burn a little part of myself sometimes, shouldn’t I have the right to do that? And I enjoy it, so shouldn’t I be allowed to do the stuff I enjoy, sometimes? That might sound a little hedonistic, but is it really so different from any other self-gratifying thing we do, like sit around playing video games instead of doing housework, or lazily watching TV all night? And before you say something like, “you’re just making excuses,” let me assure you that I know damn well that I’m just making excuses. You don’t have to tell me.
Anyway, I’m going to go play some SaGa Frontier II, then I’m going to read a chapter or two of Moby Dick, then I’m going to maybe work on the novel I’ve been stewing on.
But first, before all that, I’m going on a bike ride.
I had been smoking since I was like seventeen or something. I remember I would sneak out of the house and go into the garage to smoke, and one time my mom caught me, and she actually cried. It was the first time I had seen her cry. She was always a stoic, almost emotionless woman, so seeing her cry was actually a profound moment, but I guess it wasn’t profound enough for me to quit smoking. Go figure. I remember, back then, wondering why, why she cried, why was smoking such a big deal, but now, as a parent of two kids myself, I think I know why. If I had caught my son smoking, maybe I would cry too, not because of the smoking, per se, but because of the symbolic nature of the whole thing, like a stark image of my son growing up in real time, innocence lost in the here and now, or whatever. Growing up is such a tragedy that, when you see it happening before your eyes like that, it’s hard not to want to bawl your brains out, but of course, when you’re young, you don’t think about that stuff, that’s the paradox of youth, right there.
Anyway, like I was saying, I quit smoking back in November 2024. By that time, I had gone up to like a pack a day. My brand was Marlboro Lights. I loved smoking, especially the first cigarette of the day, or after a long day of work or societal obligation or whatever, that sort of body-melting feeling after the first drag, that heady pressure like the brain is being enveloped in the best kind of storm cloud, the kind just off in the distance with heat lightning and low rumbling and all that stuff, and especially that sensation of smoke traveling its way down the trachea, subsumed by the lungs, then exhaling the leftover smoke like some sort of high-fantasy dragon. I can’t think of much else like it, to tell you the truth.
So you might be wondering, then, why I quit smoking. You might have already assumed a typical answer to that question, something health-related, like I was running out of breath or my blood pressure was high or I had developed a bad cough or I wanted to ensure that I lived long enough to see my kids become happy, flourishing adults or something like that. But, honestly, none of those reasons were why I quit smoking. I’m not that farsighted or selfless, I’m really not. I quit smoking because, when I sat down to read or write or play a video game or whatever, there was always this nagging thought in the back of my head to go smoke a cigarette. It was disrupting my focus, especially on things that I enjoyed doing. Back then I was smoking a cigarette every hour or so, and immediately after smoking, the timer for the next cigarette would start running down in my head, and I was very aware of it. I’d be playing like Final Fantasy XI or something, an online MMORPG, and I’d be thinking something like, “I’m going to smoke a cigarette in 32 minutes, which should be after about ten more Goblin Ambushers,” and I’d think like that about every activity I was doing, as if cigarettes were some sort of mythical demon, stalking me at all times, seducing me, beyond my control, like some sort of Nicotinic Lamia or Siren or Succubus or whatever. So, yeah, that’s why I quit, because it was consuming my brain. I was thinking about it all the time. Smoking had become my focal point, more important than all other things, sucking everything else in, like some sort of supermassive black hole around which all thoughts swirled. Oh, and because it was expensive as hell.
So, what’s the point of all this?
Well, I started smoking again, a few weeks ago. Actually, earlier than that. I had been smoking on and off at social events, especially work events, bumming cigarettes from people here and there, telling myself that I was now only a social smoker and that I could moderate it and all that stuff, but after a while, that morphed into wanting a cigarette at home, so now, as of just a few weeks ago, I’m smoking at home.
Well, kind of.
You see, my wife doesn’t know I started smoking again. I bought a pack of Lucky Strikes and I hid them in my office, and now, when I go on my daily bike ride, I take my Luckies out with me, stop at the neighborhood pond, the one with all the turtles and ducks and geese, and I spark up, watching those little turtle heads poke up and drift along the surface of the water, and all the ducks come up to me, expecting bread, because everyone around here feeds them, and all the geese that hiss at me because they’re total assholes, and I inhale and exhale like a modern-day dragon, and the whole hiding-it-from-my-wife thing adds an element of excitement to the whole thing too, as if I’m seventeen again, hiding it from my mother. Maybe this is my version of a mid-life crisis, but I would argue that I have one of those every week, so this isn't really anything new.
For now, smoking out there, on that pond, with those torpid turtles and those demanding ducks and those grouchy geese, is almost a zen-like experience, in a way, with how tranquil and melty and heady it is. I even saw a great blue heron one time. Next time, I'll try to take a picture, and post it.
I know I shouldn’t smoke. It’s stupid. I know I’m burning the child inside, making my mother cry, but I’m thirty-four years old and, if I want to burn a little part of myself sometimes, shouldn’t I have the right to do that? And I enjoy it, so shouldn’t I be allowed to do the stuff I enjoy, sometimes? That might sound a little hedonistic, but is it really so different from any other self-gratifying thing we do, like sit around playing video games instead of doing housework, or lazily watching TV all night? And before you say something like, “you’re just making excuses,” let me assure you that I know damn well that I’m just making excuses. You don’t have to tell me.
Anyway, I’m going to go play some SaGa Frontier II, then I’m going to read a chapter or two of Moby Dick, then I’m going to maybe work on the novel I’ve been stewing on.
But first, before all that, I’m going on a bike ride.
no subject
Re: smoking, you're 1,000 percent self-aware about your motivations and the costs and benefits. You don't strike me as someone who settles complacently into any one stance--this essay is the opposite of complacent. You don't need anyone to interrogate you or call bullshit: you have that job well under control all on your own.
My best memory of a cigarette is a hyper privileged one because it involves travel. I was in Timor-Leste, traveling from the mountains down to the capital in one of those little busses where people bring chickens and so on with them. It was night. I had a jacket and other people had blankets--they got on the bus wrapped up in them and then went to sleep. (The bus was scheduled to arrive at like 4 in the morning.) The guy who had offered to escort me didn't have a jacket, but he said not to worry. "I'll smoke a cigarette to keep warm," he said. And that's stuck with me in the decade-plus it's been since that trip. Cool night. A cigarette to keep warm by.
I doubt you'll be able to keep it a secret from your wife, though. Might as well just tell her?
Would enjoy heron photos as and when.
no subject
A cigarette is certainly a source of warmth, in more ways than one.
I've put The Egg on hold. I had about 10k word written up for chapter 5, but I think the whole thing was too ambitious, because the story I had in mind would have to span multiple novels, and the prospect of it all became too daunting. Maybe I'll go back one day. I'm also quite fickle, my obsessions change on a monthly basis, almost, so right now I'm working on a shorter novel more akin to "literary fiction," whatever that means, and I plan to write and edit the whole thing before even publishing it. There's something about serialization that makes writing a novel more difficult, marrying you to certain elements in previously published chapters, which can become sort of a headache, although serialization has its own benefits too, I'm sure, mostly to generate hype and recognition, which is something I have always been uncomfortable with, even though I find myself persuing it, regardless, although, now, I'm trying not to, so much.
A few months ago I kind of became obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye, seeing something of myself in Holden, so that has been a huge influence on my writing ever since. I wrote a short story titled Blue, Red, and Freddy, which wears that influence on its sleeve, so to speak. The story is actually set in the same setting as My Time in Arcadia, a mythological version of my youth, based on real stuff that happened to me. I'd be interested in your thoughts on that one, if you ever happen to read it. It's quite long. The novel I'm working on is in a similar vein, but far more fictionalized.
Also, note, I am not stalking you or nothing. I was actually searching through the directory, for users with similar interests, and your profile showed up, with your familiar avatar, and I thought, "oh, I know her!"
no subject
I loved My Time in Arcadia--I think we talked about it back in the day? I ended up sharing it with friends, who also liked it. If you point me to Blue, Red. and Freddy, I'd like to read that too.
no subject
Yes, I remember, and I appreciate you sharing it around.
Here's a link, there are a few different places to read it, all linked there, so the choice is yours.
no subject