Retreat Writings, 2012–Part 2


Here I am being honest. There is no one here to lie to–

Here I will give in to wants. I pour a glass of whiskey and stir in a measure of water. I drink it fast to hit my blood quicker.  This time I wanted it. Is this solitude to be wasted indulging my senses, feeding the cravings of a former-current-future addict?

I give up the binding control which has ruled me for so long. I surrender to the quiet.  There have been so many pressures.  Money, fights, disorder— I am so conflicted.  I think it is all the more reason to be here.  I can’t control them. I am a weed. I want the garden to flourish.  I keep waiting for this CD to skip in the same place my vinyl album from 1981 skips. Tattoo You.

I think it is time I take a shower. My throat smells like a cigarette.  My lungs stink. My blood is a toxic sludge of carcinogens. I quit smoking five years ago after Daddy died.  I did it in his memory and because I was concerned for my health. I have high blood pressure and I don’t need to risk my health any further.

The day I left for this retreat, I told myself I was going to buy a pack of cigarettes just for this getaway, just this once, and I plan to stick to that. When I get on the road home I am chucking them out of the window, or in a trash can, I am no litterbug. Then I am done.

I think smoking is a way of escaping/delineating from others. It is also a sign that I am misdirected on my path (I think) or maybe I am just taking a detour with potholes. Whatever it is I know I will be done with it when I return home. There is no place in my day-to-day life for smoking. I just had the Five Year Itch and I scratched it.

Do you believe me? Do I believe me?  Be careful what and who you believe.