THREE SEPARATE PIECES

From the ancient myths of the Orient, there is the story of The Cigarette Spirit, a deity who visits upon natives of the Land of the Rising Sun. The Cigarette Spirit holds court with certain individuals, inhabiting their bodies for periods of time. It is through this apparition's magic that the taste and flavor of tobacco can be transformed into a ritualistic, illuminating experience.

Those who commune daily with the Spirit know of the routine, the method by which to summons the deity and participate in the process: First there is intoxication of the mind and body, usually mid-wifed through psychedelic means but not excluding the imbibing of alcoholic beverages; upon initial euphoria, a cigarette is lit by candlewick, the smoke inhaled to symbolize the relationship with the deity, as if the host and the spirit were "one".

The sensation in the back of the throat, along with the constricting of blood vessels and the almost-alchemical transmutation of the palette, conjures up mystic ideas and concepts, providing insights and visions into the mysteries of existence. In the smoke, visions can be divined, shapes taking protean dimensions and dissolving like clouds into other forms. This is the source of much revelation for those who make an effort to commune with the Cigarette Spirit.

Of course, it is the kind of experience that, at first, solicits devotion, but later on demands complete physical allegiance, almost like an addiction or a compulsion. Those who follow the disciplines of this deity do so at their own risk, and usually the price to be paid is one's health. Only the strong or the foolish can follow such a path regularly.

I think I'm more of a fool than a strongman.


*/*


The other night, while watching DVDs on my futon, Eve and I slipped into a conversation that took many turns. At one point she informed me that she could determine two distinct personalities contained within me: One was that of a mischievious child, and the other was that of an old man. She even had names for these "identities" but they escape me at the time being.

Eve is also convinced that I am a vampire. This has been the source of much amusment for us and bemusement for me. The peak was when we were in Glamis, and apparently I had said something that set off a "vampire radar" in her mind.

"Dude, say you're not a vampire," she insisted.

"What did you say?" I thought she was joking.

"Just swear to me that you're not a vampire."

"I don't know what you're--"

"Say you're not a vampire."

"I'm not a vampire." I looked at her with slight amazement. "Happy?"

"Yes," she said, very seriously.

"You really think I'm a vampire?"

"You never know."

"What did I do that was so vampirish?"

"I'll tell you later." She never did. I chalked it up to eccentricity. What a thing to be accused of! I must be the most tan vampire since George Hamilton in Love At First Bite.

No matter what kind of self-image I have of myself, whether it be inflated with a hefty self-loathing or a healthy self-confidence, it is nothing compared to what kind of images others have crafted in their minds... especially with women-- sometimes I marvel at what women see in me, because a lot of the time I can't see it myself.

Sometimes they are totally wrong in their assesment, but well-meaning. Sometimes they are totally right, and not a lick happier for it. Sometimes sometimes sometimes...

I agree with Eve, that I am both a child and a geezer. I came to this conclusion after completing the first draft of my first and only novel. I finished writing this book when Eve and I were not speaking, when I decided to break free from the spell of another ex-girlfriend known in the novel as "Amy Coates", when I was dating Jeanie my next-door neighbor, and when I was re-thinking my friendship with Anna.

Me and my muses... such a petty indulgence. So typical of me to assign those roles to them, to trivialize them with labels such as "muse"...

Why can't they ever be more than an abstraction designed from inside my mind?


*/*


Last week, on New Year's Eve, I read my horoscope in the paper. I like astrology, and I believe that people do possess the traits of their Sun signs, but I don't believe in the whole "forecasting" angle. Reading a horoscope in the paper is like reading a fortune cookie: it's nice to cotemplate but hard to take seriously. It's always something vague, like "You will adapt to obstacles with aplomb" and stuff of that nature. It's never anything like "Today you will stand in line for four hours at the DMV" and we don't expect it to be anything like that anyway.

But last week, I read a horoscope that eerily specific. It said something along the lines of:


It's best that you let someone else be the designated driver. You should probably avoid being out in public, and you might have a hard time dealing with authorities.


Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but on New Year's Eve I took that to mean that I was going to get pulled over for driving drunk... so I'd better be careful.

Granted, I don't have a car, and thus I didn't have any plans to be the driver... but then again, I don't really drink that often, so there might have come a point where (out of necessity) I would have had to assume the DD status... and maybe that's where the trouble would start.

So I made a vow to not get into trouble, and it worked.

I read the other horoscope entries-- they were all very specific. Here's a few examples:


ARIES-- You should've made plans to entertain at home tonight.

CANCER-- You and your lover will have a spat. Try to forgive each other and move on.

LIBRA-- A night out on the town is just what you need.


Okay, so those don't seem terribly detailed. But at the time, I was enchanted, to say the least.

Only one more week to go, and then I go back to working 11am to 8pm. No more loopy night shift for me. Six months is enough. Hooray.

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND