A Shocking Cessation – a musing

I greet you, one and/or all.

As ever, I hope that all is well.

This post concerns a lifestyle change. The last poem I posted here was (and you get 10 points to spend at the funfair if you know the answer!!) about smoking. I have quit, at a time when I never thought such would be possible. Seriously, I felt the slowdown of how many years I’d been inhaling and was in the process of cutting down from 6 to 4 a day, a difficult thing by itself, and then… HA!

My cousin recommended to me an e-cigarette. Now, I’ve already got three of them, the ones that look like cigarettes. Didn’t really believe her when she said another would help. I am happy to be wrong. So this week on Tuesday I met her after work in the south of the city and we travelled to the northern area of the city centre.

The shop was inside of a garage and the staff were extremely helpful. To put it mildly, I ask a lot of questions when making particular purchases. They bore my queries and concerns with good humour and we left after I made a massive purchase totalling £76.22.

I will not be buying tobacco for the rest of this month, probably a lot longer than that even.

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So I bought two, just in case. That very same day, Tuesday, in the evening, I realised after puffing for a while on the e-cig that I had no desire for a real cigarette. It felt great. But then I started wondering just how many cigarettes I’d had since I began smoking tobacco. The previously mentioned poem concerns the horror I felt at that moment. The initial figure was about 10 000, which is where the title came from. Then I understood that my calculations were incorrect, and the minimum possible figure was actually 21 900. Now I remember that I’ve been smoking for longer than 5 and a half years. The actual number is roughly about 7.5 years. Of course, the number of cigarettes has jumped up to 100 000+.

 

And that’s still a very conservative number, based on 5 a day. I didn’t smoke 5 a day for years, that was only something happening in the past two. The horror!!!

One of the main times I smoke is while writing. Despite the lack of desire for a cigarette on Tuesday I still thought I’d find it difficult to use the e-cig when writing on Wednesday morning. I was wrong. I feel free now and can draw breath much easier. The e-cig on the left differs from the right in that it is a cartridge system, while the other is a tank. The tank is much heavier, and so unsuitable to hold whilst typing away. Lightweight and easy to handle, the left e-cig is ideal to puff away on during writing.

 

So, in conclusion, to anyone who thinks they cannot quit, I would highly recommend one of these. Totally Wicked will sort you out, right and proper. If you don’t want to order online, check out a local retailer.

To all and sundry, smokers and non, I hope that this has been of help.

I know it has been to me.

 

Safe.

Asian Mist.

X

A Slim Ten Thousand – a poem

Standard estimates place 5.5

Years all told, to be safe,

Maybe a bit more over life

And it’s various twists, turns,

The midnight’s hours of witch time

Running candles through long runs.

The mathematics begin,

Numbers rush forth filmy

Like synapse strands;

365 days per year on average,

12 months passing par

Each cycle turning round,

So let’s say 5.5 years passed.

Add up the average estimate

Of conservative figures

Based on notions considerate,

And we reach the numbered figure,

365 by 12 for the days,

and 4380 by 5 daily fries

Up to 21900.

The horror! The horror!

This horror stirs only now

In after-sight’s hind behind furore.

Storms rose and settled with each one,

So many rolls and many more burnt,

The number 5 per day a minimum

Where 10 might be better

As an estimate fetter,

But hope lies ahead

To cut the numbers down

And form a fragrant bed.

A Land of Some Other Order – a poem

With careful trackless step I went

Cautiously down the crumbling stairs,

Heedful of the light’s lack

And how the light made shine bare

Those rough hewn rectangles.

 

Trackers and followers of many kinds

Might have traced my way here,

But for them is not why

I seek down there to find

The source of the terror uneasy.

 

Personal motivation guides one along

The starkly lit descent

Down into that realm of song

Which bards long dead sung of,

Where fear may motivate another.

Not I, however,

For such stairs are not mine

To ponder over, but to clamber down

And nevermind the demon clowns

Which I may encounter far below.

 

Below the surface of the world they linger,

Sharp teeth and strange minds

All a’fire with the promise of fresh meat,

Eyes gleaming malevolent and heated

Despite the last wanderer long deceased.

 

We shall show them what wanders their way

Now when the rest lie in other places.

Down, down the crumbling stairs

I wend my trackless way,

To a land of some other, older, order,

There to glide past the demon clowns

And perchance discover

That secretive heart of all matters.

Wide World – After the Office

I am writing this following a period of appreciable mental strain.

Now, entering a time where the chase of the novel does not serve to fill the gap, I find strange tendencies come to the fore, old habits trying to force their way through new neural pathways. Such is the affliction of the cerebral-

Nah. If you’re a Lovecraft fan, you will have recognised the above as being fairly similar to the opening lines of Dagon. While I am not hastily scrawling pages while bemoaning my lack of forgetfulness inducing opium, I do feel a great deal of loss.

I’ve been off the radar, or under it as you will, for a while. Coming back with the odd poem has greatly heartened me. The deluge style likes of my fellow bloggers of said poems is fantastic for any writer, especially one such as myself who has only recently come out from under that cloud of ‘appreciable mental strain’. So, thank you. :)

The reason for this is studies. Teaching English as a Foreign Language, of TEFL, to be exact. I began around the start of this year, 2014, and finished about two weeks ago. I felt as though I had left it a bit late following my 3 day classroom portion, but I managed to complete the course 3-4 days ahead of the end. Nevertheless, I strove mightily, writing a few hundred words of prose in the morning (sometimes more), and then studying for some hours during the rest of the day. It wore me out.

Little writing projects did I take on, and I found my style growing, my capability expanding. Of late I wrote about a South African expatriate in Birmingham, basing almost the entire story on real life events that I have experienced, or have been told. Now I write a tale of wizards in a far off solar system. It focusses on the Triad style aspects that John Woo is such a proponent of in so many of his films, including the facet that burning tobacco heals all wounds; it’s a fusion aspect, one in which I seek to unite various stories from many mediums that I feel aren’t lauded enough, due to the formats of media they are in.

The prospect of leaving the country, getting a visa, doing a new CV, are all frightening. Enquiries of a friend are leading my mind toward Indonesia for a first teaching experience.

I know this, my friends, there is a Wide World beyond that of the stereotypical Office Trap, and I want to see it. To live it.

Wish me luck!

Asian Mist.

X

Underground Police – a poem

Tall, slender, sinister and exotic,

Dark of hue and tantric

By nature, the pointy eared police

Stand guard on the barren world,

And beneath it, no need

Of being heard.

 

Underworld Elves, dwelling deep

Below the surface of the 8th,

Far out from the blue star

With certainty more than faith,

Guardians of order and more,

For hubris may be committed

Both near as well as far.

 

A breathless sense of vague

Expectancy grows high,

Exempt from hate

But lit not by flickering flames

That would banish the dark

If they had a chance marked.