I’ve made it a week without smoking. I’ll be honest: one reason I didn’t do this sooner was fear. I was afraid that if I tried to quit, then I’d fail, and consequently prove that I was an addict. That’s a pretty stupid reason to persist in a moderately dangerous habit.
But the reason why I haven’t “quit,” so to speak, is that I actually do enjoy the atmosphere of cloves, both physical and abstract. Physically, they taste good, plain and simple. They’re very aromatic, and somehow I’ve associated them with incense. Sure, there are some risks, but there are some benefits, too.
The abstract reasons are far more pertinent. Every time I light up, I recall some good times had with friends, such as: rainy nights relaxing on porches, backyard games of gin rummy, six mile walks on winter weekends. Cloves have (historically) worked as a boundary between “us” and “the rest of them” – and that aromatic space is filled with some of the most important conversations I’ve ever been a part of.
Cloves also bring back a waves of private memories. I have probably smoked more alone than any of my other old “smoking buddies.” I’ve smoked the most on those long solitary nights, regardless of whether I’m watching a pile of wood or simply up because “I can’t stop thinking/writing about her/him/it.”
I said that every time I light up, I invoke a lot of (really good) memories, mostly with friends, sometimes individual. I think, for anyone who cares, one reason I’ve resolved to significantly reduce my smoking is simply to preserve the sanctity of that tradition. The times and places where those conversations happened are gone; they’re not dead, just absent. In the meantime, I don’t want to cheapen the memories by “invoking them” all the time.
Still, I’m considering just quitting and remembering the past in other ways. We shall see after this weekend.
[bye]
-brian.b
