I went to the local bowling club a few weeks back. You’re probably aware that bowling greens are no longer just for old folks in whites anymore and that by night they are visited by younger folks in their shorts and thongs, or dresses, as the case may be, out for a social beer and bowl.
While there, I was tempted to do what many around me were doing and I bummed some tobacco from somebody and rolled myself a cigarette. As I started to smoke it, one of the old bowling club vets came around collecting money or announcing that hamburgers were ready, or something like that; at least, that’s what I think he was saying – he was hard to hear because when he spoke he had to hold the plastic button-looking item that was plugging the hole in the middle of his neck where he had obviously had an operation on some sort of cancer or the like in his throat. Needless to say, the cigarette left a bad taste in my mouth and I put it out, cursing myself for my foolishness and thinking that it was a sign that I should give such a practice away.
The images that I photographed at the Coolbellup skate park (seen here) some weeks before that incident are only showing half the picture – despite coloured aliens looking like they are all having a fun-together time smoking ciggies, and mr.cigarette looking cool while he smokes his own likeness, it’s possible that smoking can mess your body up.
I have smoked cigarettes in the past and have enjoyed them. I have smoked others and thoroughly disliked them and disliked myself for lacking the discipline or willpower to have ignored their call. Lately, their has been tobacco around in my vicinity and I have sometimes smoked some. Sometimes I can’t help feeling that cigarette smoking is an act of self-loathing and disregard for oneself. Given that things have not been going swimmingly with employment and “getting on with my life”, I haven’t always maintained a positive attitude of late and have indulged in this strange practice, feeling as though I have a low regard for myself as I do so, and almost not caring because sometimes when life doesn’t seem to be going as swimmingly as one might hope, one sometimes isn’t worried if death comes a little closer.
These posts are not articulate essays, they are intended to be pithy vignettes I guess (as well as a vehicle for showing some photographs), so I won’t elaborate further on my thoughts about smoking. As anybody who has smoked cigarettes (with some degree of consciousness) knows, one’s relationship with the weed is a curious thing. If you do want to read some essays on smoking by people who have written them as part of their giving up on a lengthy love affair, try:
Cigarettes are Sublime by Richard Klein; and
The Smoking Book by Lesley Stern