Quitting Smoking Day 6; Update on Our Situation

First, as of yesterday, we moved into our own rented domicile, and slept on linoleum in sleeping bags without a chair to sit on, in a house schmegged up by a former stoner tenant with ashes and bud trace everywhere--and seedling pots, and mouse turds in the cupboards.

But at least this slacker launched, since 33% of men 24-32, I read today, are still living with their parents.

Anyway, our new landlord, whom we call "I'm not crazy" Bill (because one morning he called me to discuss the building of a water tank and only afterwards realized I wasn't the contractor--so he left another message assuring us he "was not crazy," and it stuck).

Very nice man; as a landlord he has a lot to learn. Still, in that he's not charging us to crash in the redwoods in the modern two-level studio with the large windows and skylights until the place is ship-shape, hey, where's the downside?--only in our aging bones. Send us a mattress ASAP.

Kathleen proceeds to NY on Thursday for a spell; I proceed to Rachel and Jacob's (first daughter and only grandkid) on the same day and will stay until I'm not welcome, but I figure the more babysit my boy, the happier mom will be, and I might even get three days without a scene. One can hope. "Daughters are forever."

Finally, today, below, the conclusion of The Deprivathon, the longest poem I've ever penned. It may end more with a whimper than a bang, but isn't that the way giving up an addiction goes? I mean, being a non-smoker becomes almost commonplace? (Although I do describe my greatest know dangers for recidivism.)

Anyway, for those who haven't glanced this way, since I'm not announcing a new blog until I post the poem in its entirety, the work covers the first six days of withdrawal. That was enough time for God to create the world, likewise enough time for a poetic journey in a world of video blogs.

Thanks to C. Bagley for hanging with me for the duration!


Thine as ever,

Dr. Chaffin


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The Deprivathon, Day 6


X. Will I Make It?

When asked why she didn't quit,
Bette Davis asked, "Then how would I talk?"
while furiously gesturing with her cigarette holder.



And what if as a non-smoker
I become seriously depressed
when the faces of familiar cars look strange
and I am firghtened by doorknobs and tea kettles,
when whatever spark of self I knew
flies up and out the chimney into the wailing dark?

That is always one danger, when smoking
or not smoking appear equally pointless
in a universe mostly composed of dark matter
so why should I care if I smoke?
In that state, which will come again,
I must pretend to care against all evidence.

The other danger is similar
as on a very good day,
say your daughter’s wedding or grandson's baptism,
when the joyful conviction of invulnerability
convinces you you’ve finally got control
and you can have just one.

Yet on a day like this,
betwee cycles and rather stable,
I choose to imagine a silver angel
with glacier-blue eyes and crystal hair
swooping down like a winged victory
to pluck my desire in her gleaming hands
and throw it back to heaven like a coal.




Finis