I’m nearly 24-hours smoke free. I wasn’t going to have one at all yesterday, but my will is weak. I skulked around the house, glancing in drawers, checking my emergency-cigarette locations. I found one, limp and gorgeous, at the bottom of my purse.
Right now, though, a day into quitting, wonderful things are happening in MAH BODY. It’s like a little New Year’s miracle, on a cellular level. (Humour me here. I am in misery.) My blood pressure and pulse have returned to normal, as have carbon monoxide and oxygen levels. Unfortunately, the healing is accompanied by a dull, throbbing headache, a sore, scratchy throat, and a hateful disposition.
To stave off the cravings, I’ve been reading. Voraciously. I finished Tropic of Cancer and began it again. Because I’m reading Miller, I am also reading Whitman. Naturally.
Whitman is the greatest American poet. Don’t argue with me. That said, he’s awfully fuckin’ cheerful. Last night in the bath, I read the first three pages of Leaves of Grass before launching the book across the floor. I lurched, naked and soaking from the bathtub to recover my bent-paged, wrinkled copy of Tropic of Cancer.
“Today I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany — “Fay ce que vouldras! . . . fay ce que vouldras!” Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.”
His words move over me, around me. Phrases that caress and strike. Penetrating, tedious words. If you’ve not read Miller, you should.