Since I have begun writing again I have found that alliterations bring me a type of satisfaction unmatched in any other area of my life. I get a kind of joy from tweaking a sentence to within an inch of its life, but the best bang-for-my-buck payoff comes from fashioning a string of words all containing the same sound.
"Core condo cadre" is a recent favorite; "crickets calling cadence" is another. Seems the hard "C" sound figures big in my amazing alliterative allusions.
I have already fallen down on "cognitive quitting." Not enough inches here for all the details, but the good news is that I haven't given up. I am getting ready to undertake the method that the data show is the most successful. Cold turkey.
I have received inspiration from the least likely of sources; an activist street band festival I attended this weekend in Somerville, Mass., called HONK. More specifically, from two people I met there and the comments they made, separately. Although neither had to do with smoking, each has undulated through my mind since.
HONK was described by one reporter in media coverage as the kind of gathering that results when the hip kids in band grow up. It is kooky, creative and cacophonous (whoops, another hard "C" word parade). It's about personal expression through music, dancing, performance and community, a celebration of individuality. This weekend, I wore chapeaus, and tulle and glitter and boots (Google your locally famous Leftist Marching Band for further explanation).
Most days I dress in a kind of pedestrian middle class way, and live a kind of pedestrian middle class life. I work hard at my profession and try to make the personal connections necessary to exhort change in others, which, at its most reductionist, is my charge.
Before leaving for the gala, I decided I was not going to struggle with trying to quit over this weekend. I intended to let the street performer in me win out. And the street performer smokes. At least she does for now.
In my own individual quest, reader, I find myself in a double bind. On the one hand, quitting in print makes for good prose. On the other hand, quitting in print makes its own case for continuing, lest what shall I write about?
Oh, I remain black and white; curses. Where are the shades of gray?
The comments that I can't get out of my head were made by people who are current friends, former roommates and who are both percussionists in Environmental Encroachment; a terrific band hailing mostly from Chicago.
One mention had to do with language being unnecessary for actual communication; the other had to do with choices, and making them despite feelings that urge you toward the opposite.
I love rolling in language perhaps as much as my Atticus enjoys his rolls in sea gull matter on Peirce Island. Language is uber-specific but ultimately unnecessary for communication. Yep. There it is. All these words are icing on the cortical cake. There are plenty of non-linguistic examples that illustrate the point; connecting with an autistic child, communicating a world of feeling through a look, or keeping quiet when words implore to be heard.
The other comment, like the person who uttered it, was more right-brain. The right brain is the part of us that operates on feeling. This half is the seat of our ability to "read" a situation without any specific information, to make an informed decision based on gut alone.
This comment was about making choices, feeling all the feelings related to a particular situation whether happy or sad, but choosing, ultimately, to be positive.
My feelings about not-smoking run the gamut, the gauntlet even. But, in service and homage to choosing positivity, I say that I can quit. Cold turkey. No Chantix buzz, no caving in social situations, no smoking. Period.
It will likely be a terrible but necessary month.
Recently, I have spoken to two people right on my block who you would never guess used to be smokers. They embody non-smoking, are active and unwrinkled and without that gray veil smoking affords you.
Each quit cold turkey. Patty, the erudite house cleaner around the corner, has regaled me with the tales of her first non-smoking month. You want me to do what when I clean that room (raised eyebrow)?
Well, I pledge, in print and to a fairly large circulation, to quit by the day this column publishes (Oct. 18). On Halloween, I will probably choose to be a lion (my sun sign in any case) so I can roar and posture and c-c-c-complain about the unfairness of it all, but I am going to do my damn level best to quit cold turkey for just one month. I will take stock on Nov. 18 and keep you posted, reader.
Wish me the courage of my convictions.
Suzanne Danforth wants to thank Mister Petey and Carlos for just plain existing. Talk to me at suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
