smokes

I’m lying in bed, feigning sleep, when  I can feel a line being drawn from the back of my neck to the bridge of my nose. I imagine myself being peeled in two, exposing my innards as empty black shells. My body is filled with pinkish substances, and then I'm closed up again. It's usually after these images pass that I know I have to write to be able to fall asleep. Before that comes, my brain switches into reverse, and I’m plagued with memories.

I remember a time when my cousin and I snuck onto the beach for late night smokes. Lying on our backs in the sand, looking up at the clouds as we shared a stolen cigarette. Only this memory is completely false. We never stole smokes and snuck out onto the shore. This is a weird memory I’ve created in my mind, in hopes of illustrating a point – which of course, is now long forgotten.

It does however make me remember how much I despise smoking, but also how many good nights I’ve had smoking. My friend Nick and I have many of these nights together. Huddled in the wet grass one late night at a park, while other friends stood meters away, flirting and talking. We shared a cigarette, muttering philosophically, in the ways we knew to be cool. Another night, I abandoned conversation with his now ex, my then best friend, to spend an hour on a cold car deck, smoking a pack of Camels as we went back to our old conversations. Philosophy, haikus, and story telling filled the air around us, as dense as the smoke. It was one of the greatest nights of my life.

Much of the poetry I have written involves smoking. There are still nights when I want to sneak out of my apartment that I share with my fiancé, and light up a clove cigarette. To sneak behind our apartment complex, onto the well-worn path, and smoke. To think of Nicholas, and the town where I grew up. To envision memories that aren’t real, and attempt to recreate more elaborate, illustrated ones. It’s never been odd to me, to want another life, so different from the one I’m living and loving. But every once in a while, I do want to sneak out for that last cigarette break.

The first time I ever seriously smoked a cigarette was also the first time I made a drinking mistake. After combining too many different forms of alcohol at a friend’s party, I lay on his kitchen counter, moaning in agony as my stomach writhed. Whether it was drunken genius or intoxicated stupidity, I felt that smoking would alleviate my pain. Stumbling to the coat closet, I riffled through pockets and purses until I found a pack of smokes. Grabbing two, I headed for the deck. I lowered myself onto the steps, and lit up my first cigarette. After the first drag, I knew I had made a wise decision. My stomach relaxed, and I could sit up straight. By the second cigarette, a group of college guys had come onto the deck to discuss politics, science, and religion. I knew I could top them all.

I lazily wandered to them, hovering for about 5 minuets to catch the tail end of the conversation. Holding my cigarette so delicately in my hand, I interjected. I spent almost an hour debating, relating, and conversing with the boys, all a least 3 years my senior. By the end of the night, 2 of the 4 had given me their phone numbers and attempted to grope me. I was convinced that the cigarettes had given me the gift of genius. This hypothesis of mine was later proven over the conversations I had with Nick, and others like him – conversations only held while smoking. But was it the nicotine, or the people who brought out the genius in me?

So now I sit here, too late at night to know what time it is, and I still wonder. If it were a different crowd, but those same smokes, would I have been the genius that I was with the others? What if the cigarettes had been absent, and it was just me in a cloud-free haze? The logic in that is simple – there were no cigarettes needed for me to speak my mind. It was, undoubtedly, the company. And yet, so much of me wants it to have been tie cigarettes. It adds a complete eeriness, an unexplainable serenity that both entrances me and disgusts me. I’m allergic to cigarette smoke. Why I can smoke and not have a fit is beyond me, but god help the person who sits next to me and happens to be a chain smoker. I go into a fit of coughing, hacking, and the inability to breathe every time.

Maybe it’s the same as my tendency to recreate memories, even though I know the true version. It’s as though these simple props and one-liners add certain sheens, and perfection to my life that makes me seem more literary. It’s enchanting, I know that for sure, and something that I’m sure I will continue to do for a very long time. Until then, I will just have to crawl back in bed, and wonder about those cigarettes.

 

Reviews

[Hedra Helix]

you know, you're just naturally gifted, your writes have no fat love, no coddle to dull the readers mind from the sharp edge of your thoughts fed to us inta-venus almost. no un-needed curlycues on the edges of already solid thoughts. & I thank you for that, I am never dissapointed.

In this, however, I found certain inconsistencies with..... s**t its late.... I cant even figure out exactly what its was, tense maybe? ...Im not sure, but I think an edit in a few days when its new to you would fix it right up.

Otherwise, Pip as ALWAYS your effortless genious (sans ciggy, and even with just the imaginary) and your ability to craft ephemeral out of the base bread and butter of human desire is fabulous. and i ALWAYS KNOW MY READ WILL BE WORTHWHILE, AND MORE, FILLING, WHEN IM ENTRUSTING MY EYES TO YOU. aND IM ALWAYS RIGHT.

f*****g caps.