Where there's a will, there's a word

So Paris texts me this morning saying, “If you cannot be the poem, be the poet. Nice na?”
I get suspicious. What is she implying? Huh. I could be a poet if I wanted.
If I wanted to
I could say boo
To scare you
Or I could coo
To comfort you.
I could write a line
With a pen of mine
I could write nine
They would be fine.
See? Explains a thought in rhyme. Poetry. Poet. Ha.
Having comforted myself with this jiffy rhyme I text her back.
It would be lovely to be someone’s poem. It’s like being someone’s song only without the tune.

If you could be a poem which one would you choose? If you could be a song which one would you be? If someone was to read you a passage what would you like to hear? If you could command words from a mouth that you love what would they be? If an artist were to come to life whose Muse would you be?
I take Dali. I’d like to imagine that all my restlessness and motion and mobility of lips, eyes, hair, hands would be his fluidity of brush. (I write for myself all the time as you can see.)
If I could hear a passage, heck, even find someone to read it to, I’d pick Wuthering Heights – Catherine’s talk with Nelly.
If I could be a poem I’d like it to be one written for me. Good, bad but mine.

Wisps of Smoke

I feel like talking about cigarettes. Everything I can think of about them.
When I was in school I used to judge guys on whether they smoked. Not harshly but I preferred a non smoker over a smoker. I guess when you’re busy defining yourself at that age you come up with these list of dos and don’t. Nice girls don’t being the most popular. So I thought nice boys don’t either.
But then came the other defining realization. I don’t like nice boys.
I think it started with dating Aldair (who gave up smoking or claimed he gave up smoking for the period that we dated.) But he needn’t have bothered. I no longer care if guys smoke or don’t. I’ve grown up to bigger don’ts.
There was this para in Atlas shrugged on smoking that I love…

"I like to think of fire held in a man's hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression."

I remember I mailed it to Aldair and he didn’t appreciate that I was encouraging him to smoke. But I wasn’t really. I just appreciate words like fire and man and force and tamed and burning strung together. Heh. Freud would have a field day with me. Or actually I’m too pedestrian for him.
The other thing I read about cigarettes that I like the imagery of is that the writer Amrita Pritam was madly in love with this man and they would meet and sit in silence while he smoked and after he left she would smoke the butts he left behind to inhale him. In fact she has written a few lines on that:

Ek Dard hai

Jo maine cigarette ki tarah piya hai

Kuchh nazmein hain

Jo maine raakh ki tarah jhaadi hain...

There’s an English translation that I don’t really think is right. Either way I just like the story behind it.
The only story I have with cigarettes involves a night long smoking session. Kat’s sister had a house party and the clean up involved her getting rid of cigarettes from all over the world. Somehow that packet landed with me as the best candidate to regulate contraband. So it lay in my cupboard for months with Mars and Salvatore trying to convince me that they’re smoking anyway so I might as well save them some money. I could have I suppose but I was pain in the ass sister.
And a good thing too. One night Paris and I had nothing better to do. We got into Lauran Bacall mode and smoked every single brand in that packet. More, Marlsboro Light, Classic Mild, Nice, Gudang Garam, Dunhill, Lucky Strike, Benson & Hedges… that was it I think.
There’s a cigarette brand called Elixir (pretty self explanatory) and another called Romeo y Julieta… isn’t that interesting? I wonder why they named it that and what it tastes and smells like. A little sweet, a little tragic?
That was it for me and cigarettes. In later years when some classmates in my post grad course urged me to beat the stress with the sticks I was amused and disinterested. Without wanting to sound condescending I can’t believe that’s why people smoke or start smoking. When I think of myself smoking I feel like a poseur. Like a little kid playing dress up in front of her mom’s mirror as she clanks around in heels too big for her. And now that I think about it I never played dress up either.
Cigarette aficionados can tell the smokes apart I’m sure but even to a non smoking, weak olfactory nerved person like me the smell of a cigarette is the most definite thing. It’s as distinct and strong as the smell of my first heart break.

(I think this might be part of a Pensieve tag where in I write all the associations I have with a particular word. You are welcome to throw me a word.)

picture's from flickr

Never Say No

This has been going on for days. In the quest for a better lifestyle, better skin, better work output I decided to start sleeping early and waking early to put in some serious solo writing hours. But it isn’t meant to be. Everyday something comes up.
Just last night I’m practicing deep breathing to relax my body into sleep when I’m nudged awake.
“Come on sweetie… wakey wakey.”
“No. Go away. It’s late. It’s already 12. I should sleep now.”
“But I’m up and I want to do it.”
“I’m tired now.”
“Oh come on! I’ve got some great new ideas I want us to try out.”
I am tempted. I am caught. My silence is taken as compliance and I am wooed. Soft words float over me, powerful words arouse me. A magical touch lingers in my blood taking over my thoughts, my mind is coming alive and compelled by a greater force I feel my hand reach out…
It hits the clock.
“Listen to me. I am tired! Why don’t we do this in the morning? See? I’ve set an alarm. We’ll get up and do it then. All fresh.” I try for a jaunty tone.
“I may not be in the mood in the morning.” The threats really fly.
A little worried I change my tone to a wheedle, “Don’t be like that. We need to break patterns and I’ve been told early morning is a really good time.”
“Really? Good for you. Let’s see you do it on your own.” Bang. And gone.
Damn. Now I really am screwed.
Come morning. I open my eyes and sit up. I wait. And wait. I decide to start on my own. But I’m not able to hit the right zones solo.
That’s when I give up. You can’t mess with the Muses. They’re Greek. They’re on a different time zone. I have to work on their schedule. I utter a silent apology, pull up the covers and go back to sleep.
Moral of the story: When you’ve got the energy flowing forget routine or you’re definitely not going to bed satisfied.