The big confession

When I was fifteen, I started smoking cigarettes. It was my first day at a new school. I still remember what I was wearing, because I tortured myself for hours over it; Black jeans, a white t-shirt and dirty white boat shoes. I remember thinking all black would be too much. A plain white t-shirt didn't say anything at all (at least not that I was aware of). I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I didn't want anyone to make any assumptions about me.

I was early and sitting on some stairs outside when I realized there was another girl sitting a few steps above me. She was smoking. I'm sure she said "hi" first. She asked me if I wanted a cigarette and I said yes. Luckily for me, I didn't cough and gag and generally make a fool of myself. I remember thinking five things: 1. I have finally caved to peer pressure. 2. I liked the way the cigarette made me (and yes, it is a drug). 3. My mother would be so disappointed in me, her being an ex-smoker and all. 4.The feeling of nicotine in my system may have felt good because my mom smoked several packs a day when I was in utero. 5. It seemed so much easier to talk to someone with a cigarette in my hand.

By the end of the week, I was a smoking a pack a day. I smoked for eleven years and then quit. I was smoking two packs a day, had just moved to an apartment in Brooklyn that was a third floor walk up, and I was winded by the time I got to my door. By day six of that quit, I was weeping non-stop. I couldn't imagine a life without a cigarette in my hand and the craving was insane. But I made it through and didn't smoke another cigarette for ten years.

Stupid woman that I can be, I started smoking again when I found myself surrounded by a surprising amount of people who smoked. I knew the dangers of picking up that one cigarette, but I did it anyway. For a year, I kept myself under tight control - one cigarette in the morning, one at noon, one after dinner, and one before I went to sleep. I loved sitting outside at night, gazing up at the stars while smoking.

But, when I started working for someone who only allowed breaks if you needed a smoke, I started to smoke a lot more. And before I knew it, I was working hard to keep myself at one pack of marlboros a day. I quit twice (or maybe more, who can remember?) and went back to it. I hated the fact that I could be seen on streetcorners smoking with 18-year-old kids. I had a notion I should be a decent role model. I bought a box of nicotine gum and it worked well. I'm not sure how long I haven't been smoking at this point. I've quit so many times, I didn't believe that the last time was for good, so I didn't bother to make a mental note of it.

I still chew nicotine gum. Now, I'm a full-fledged addict. But no doctor says it's bad for me, so I chew away.

Last night a friend was over, and she smokes. I smoked two cigarettes, as I've discovered I can do once in a while. Why I bother is beyond me. I always wake up feeling awful, like I do today. My clothing stinks (and it's in the wash) and I feel as if I've got a hangover even though I didn't have a drop to drink.

These days, smoking almost seems worse than professing to a "real" drug addiction. Heroin? Poo! A person who has done that can write a book aftewards (and have you ever seen one book about "My life as a smoker"?). Cocaine? Even Obama has used it. Esctasy? The New York Times published an article about how it might be good for you.

But cigarettes, no. Smokers have become pariahs, being forced to smoke 100 feet from the nearest building.

This reminds me of when I finally told my mother I was a smoker. She was such an anti-smoking zealot that I worked hard to keep my habit a secret from her. By the age of 21, she still did not know I smoked, which was absurd. One part denial (on her part) and a lot of lying on mine ("I just spent the last hour with a heavy smoker").

The day I told her, I was so nervous. I said, "I've got something to tell you that will make you upset. I've been keeping something secret for years." I couldn't get the words out. My poor mother, she was scared. Was I a heroin addict? Was I pregnant? Was I gay (even though that would have been okay with her)? When I finally said, "Oh no! I smoke cigarettes", she laughed and said, "So, you'll quit. It's easy."

What did Mark Twain say? Quitting is easy. I've done it hundreds of times. . .

Image note: A 1920's flapper, back when it was glamorous for a woman to be smoking. I have no idea what this card is for. I found it here.

Billy the Kid day

First, I offer you Ry Cooder, singing "Billy the Kid" live:
And now I offer you the trailer for the movie, "Billy the Kid", about a 15-old-boy in Maine. This is a real kid, not fiction. There is a scene in the movie that is so funny that Dick and I watched it three times. I wish I could find a clip of that scene, but I couldn't. Though some reviewers say that scene was staged, one reason that we laughed so hard is that it was so Maine (and not the one the tourists see). Enough from me, here's Billy:

After watching this, I do not understand why Bush, Cheney, Rumsfield and a few others aren't being charged for war crimes.

As they say, "practice makes perfect"

I've quite a fan of Malcolm Gladwell. I've enjoyed his books and his articles in the New Yorker. I also think he's an interesting character and I'm a sucker for certain types of geeks.

The reason for this quickie post is only this: In his new book, "Outliers", Gladwell writes about success. Gladwell cites a body of research finding that the “magic number for true expertise” is 10,000 hours of practice.

I did some math, which I am not good at (no 10,000 hours there for me). This would require 4.8 years of 40 hours of practice a week. That's no small thing, but it's not outrageous either.

The reason for this post? NaNoWriMo.
Writing a novel in a month is not going to make me a novelist. It might, if I was very lucky and some kind of genius. But I am guessing I am neither. Besides, my novel is truly awful. Maybe that's an overstatement, but it's not exactly good. How could it be? I've written over 30,000 pages in less than twelve days. How much thinking do you think went into writing that fast?

It's practice and practice is what people do to become good at something. Practice is also just good practice. Look: I'm a process vs. product kind of person, so I'm enjoying myself. That doesn't make me rich (or even close) but I'm having a good time. Maybe I'll publish a novel in 4.8 years. No, make that 13.7 years (at fourteen hours a week, not forty). Yikes. I should have started writing a bit earlier in life.

Painting note: Gerard Dou
Old Woman Reading a Lectionary c.1630
No comment.

I don't know much about sticky notes

Every day at least one person winds up on this blog because they've googled the words "sticky notes on my dashboard." I thought it was because of one post. The name of the post? Sticky notes on my dashboard.

If you have a Mac, I suggest you go here to find out about the latest sticky notes on your dashboard. In spite of my post about the subject, I don't know much. I don't even use a Mac these days. Now that I've visited that link, I'm even more miserable sitting here typing on this aesthetically miserable PC.*

I wrote that post back on March 23rd of this year. It was my fourth post. In a way, those sticky notes on my dashboard were the impetus for this blog. I had so many of them that it was becoming a problem. Many were thoughts about a new scent and I had green notes for colognes and all things light and airy, gray for incense, pink for floral and so on. The yellow notes were for ideas about whatever was on my mind at the time, mostly snippets about translating poetry and the vagaries of language.

I had had other blogs, a website for my tat business, and a myspace page where I mostly wrote about music and tattoos, but I never kept up with any of these for long. In spite of all conventional wisdom, I decided that I just had to be who I am and put it out there. I'm a generalist, a dilletante, a jack-of-all trades and master of a few, and someone who flits from one interest to another.

And lastly, I had this crazy idea that being interested in everything was some kind of remedy for depression. I think it is, though my life hasn't proved that to be entirely true. Yet, without this crazy desire to find out more, to continually explore and learn, I am not entirely sure I would have survived. No matter how depressed I've been, if there was a good book to finish, I'd have to read it, even if the demons of depression were screaming at me that life was not worth living. If I had some knitting to do, how could I leave it?

There might be new perfumes in my mailbox on Monday or a moment of pure bliss on the cushion while meditating. There have been days, weeks and even months when the weight of abject misery was crushing and rendered me useless, but still, I was always easily distracted, in a good way.

Driving in my car to see a therapist, lost in delusions and desperate for some relief, I saw a flock of snow buntings, hundreds of them, swirling over a barren field, raising and falling as one undulating mass. Who could be miserable in the face of such beauty? One eye was always open to these things, thankfully.

So, sticky notes, well. . .if you've landed here and wanted to find out about them, I presume you've gone already. And too bad, for both of us, for the other thing that is interesting is stumbling onto new things and starting a conversation with a stranger. Speaking of which, can't you silent people lurkers leave a few comments? Do you need a bribe of some sort? I may be late with the gifts I already owe, but I still have one slot left for a free gift! Speak up!

*I will certainly offend someone by saying that I abhor that little dog who shows up to find my files. Not only is he not cute, but he does a very poor job of finding files. Just this evening I showed this to Dick and he said, "Isn't there some way to turn him off?"

Photo note: Check out the things people have done with post-it notes here.

Not all natural is good for you

I tried, in vain, to find where I had read the difference between synthetic and natural patchouli.

I had remembered some of it, was sketchy on the details, and thought "better get it right on the science", but here's what my memory offers up: I had once thought I was allergic to patchouli and could just not be around it. I've sent workers home because they were wearing patchouli, asked tattoo customers to return when they're not, made a rule where I once was boss that noone was allowed to wear it, and once had to leave a restaurant where my waitress smelled of the stuff, for I was nauseated and couldn't imagine eating.

Now I wear some scents with patchouli in them and think, "This stuff smells wonderful." Not always, of course, but there are a more than a few.

What's going on here? Not much. I still can't abide by what's sold in the health food stores or artsy clothing shops.

The difference is this: The patchouli in my perfume is not natural. Does that surprise you? After all, natural is supposed to be good, and synthetic is bad.

Here's what Luca Turin has to say in his book "Perfumes: The Guide"; ". . .the difference between naturals and synthetics is complexity. If you smell them, pure, natural raw materials are more interesting than aromachemicals. That's because most naturals are mixtures of tens, sometimes hundreds of molecules, and the nose recognizes this. . ."

So, if I remember correctly, there was just a whole lot more to be sensitive to in a natural patchouli. Who knew what it was exactly that was bothering my sensibilities?

Don't forget - everything is made up of chemicals. Just because it's natural doesn't mean it's good for you. My mother grew lovely foxgloves in her garden, but I was told quite strenuously that I should not eat them. Not a silly warning, for I had been known to eat flowers (and even caught once on camera doing so). And not a silly warning, for eating digitalis can cause a heart attack.

Latex, which looks absolutely unnatural, is not. There's so much latex allergy in this country that most doctors and hospitals ask if one is allergic to it on intake forms.

Last week I layered a bit of Oshadi Roots, an all natural organic scent over some Bulgari Blu, which most assuredly has nothing natural in it anywhere. Neither scent smells great on its own, in my estimation, but the two together were heavenly (though not enough so to purchase either). The point? Together, naturals and synthetics can make a lovely brew.

I once thought I'd only wear cotton, wool and linen, but I've been thrilled with the jeans that have a bit of spandex in them. I'm not casting aside their comfort and their accomdation for a bit of weight change or a big meal just because there's something unnatural in them.

Image note: I've having quite a time of it today. My head hurts and my eyes ache and I can't find where I've read this or that. The discussion of natural vs. synthetics and allergies does continue in Perfumes: The Guide. I must apologize to Tania Sanchez for not mentioning she is the co-author. And, last but not least, somewhere is a quote from one of them about patchouli and the "dreaded dirty hippie smell".

Not really paying it forward

TMC gave me this badge, above, and now I'm supposed to send it to seven other blogs, ask them to post it, and then award it to seven others, and then. . .well, it's another paying-it-forward game.

I am sorry, but I can't play! Most of the blogs I read daily will not participate, either because they are just too huge to do so, and certainly don't need any more readers, nor would they care if I sent them this (or they'd find it quite funny, I'm sure). Others would not partcipate because they are not that active. And some wouldn't because I just know they don't do that sort of thing. And lastly, one of daily reads that contains blogs I peruse is not public. That's Ravelry, "a knit and crochet community."

The rest are on my links list, except for Now Smell This, a blog that is completely devoted to scent, all scent, and all the time (unlike mine).

Addendum: Another one of my daily blog reads is Ta-Nehisi Coates, at the Atlantic Monthly site. I love this blog. Lots of politics, but also hip hop, poetry and team sports (which I skip over). I'm glad to read someone smart who loves rap.