(no subject)
Too often, we search for transcendent moments. Moments of completeness, connectedness, unity. More and more I find that those experiences which I enjoy the most are more singular. Moments in which I am not achieving some higher ideal state, but moments in which I am happy, now, with the world as it stands or spins. Moments of lovely ordinariness.
I have recently taken up smoking. The story of how is a diversion, but to assuage your worries, it's only about one a day and this routine has remained steady for about a month. Please, don't tell my mother.
I have a small ritual (I am through and though a creature of ritual): I make a cup of coffee, black with one, I warm a pain au chocolat under the grill (using the microwave would spoil the whole thing) grab my smokes and I sit on my back steps and try, with decreasing clumsiness, to juggle the consumtion of all three.
Today was beautiful. This is not the season for outdoorsiness in England, but today was a day when the skies are clear, the sun can fall freely down. I can see straight south, and almost distinguish the sea through the light haze that congregates above the city centre by the shore.
The gulls are out. They spin in a very loose cloud quite high up and look for all the world like the tiny grains of dirty black/white ash that occasionally kick off the end of my cigarette unbidden. Their call is wonderful. As I search my head for the right cliche, I fall upon the Sirens: a call out into the world, sad but enticing. Birds highlight well the vast space of sky which humans can never inhabit, tall council housing blocks to the south looking foolish in the attempt.
Sometimes, tiny stars skid around in my vision; could be the excess of stimulants, could be the deep breaths that I take after finishing the smoke: focusing on the breath is a fundamental meditation practice. It doesn't surprise me that smoking can be a calming, centreing habit for this reason.
And I don't feel transcendent. I feel ordinary. I feel like myself. I feel like I finally have the right gauge of my situation. I am very far from home, but very close the memories of Coffs Harbour, my birthplace and spiritual centre of sorts. Beach towns are my favourite, especially in the winter. Cold gusts off the sea are unromantic and straightforward. Those milling about the streets are inhabitants, not interlopers. They're living their lives, not pursuing escape.
The chatter of Aussie voices tick around in my ears: a podcast from home, familiar sounds, familiar attitudes, I'm reminded I'm not Britsh, I am merely a resident.
When I look south to the shore, through the haze, smoke and clutter of recollections I can see the gentle slope of the land towards the sea, sliding down, sliding under the water. Home's that way. It's a very very long way, but I'm not there now, I'm here. Smoking my cigarette.
I have recently taken up smoking. The story of how is a diversion, but to assuage your worries, it's only about one a day and this routine has remained steady for about a month. Please, don't tell my mother.
I have a small ritual (I am through and though a creature of ritual): I make a cup of coffee, black with one, I warm a pain au chocolat under the grill (using the microwave would spoil the whole thing) grab my smokes and I sit on my back steps and try, with decreasing clumsiness, to juggle the consumtion of all three.
Today was beautiful. This is not the season for outdoorsiness in England, but today was a day when the skies are clear, the sun can fall freely down. I can see straight south, and almost distinguish the sea through the light haze that congregates above the city centre by the shore.
The gulls are out. They spin in a very loose cloud quite high up and look for all the world like the tiny grains of dirty black/white ash that occasionally kick off the end of my cigarette unbidden. Their call is wonderful. As I search my head for the right cliche, I fall upon the Sirens: a call out into the world, sad but enticing. Birds highlight well the vast space of sky which humans can never inhabit, tall council housing blocks to the south looking foolish in the attempt.
Sometimes, tiny stars skid around in my vision; could be the excess of stimulants, could be the deep breaths that I take after finishing the smoke: focusing on the breath is a fundamental meditation practice. It doesn't surprise me that smoking can be a calming, centreing habit for this reason.
And I don't feel transcendent. I feel ordinary. I feel like myself. I feel like I finally have the right gauge of my situation. I am very far from home, but very close the memories of Coffs Harbour, my birthplace and spiritual centre of sorts. Beach towns are my favourite, especially in the winter. Cold gusts off the sea are unromantic and straightforward. Those milling about the streets are inhabitants, not interlopers. They're living their lives, not pursuing escape.
The chatter of Aussie voices tick around in my ears: a podcast from home, familiar sounds, familiar attitudes, I'm reminded I'm not Britsh, I am merely a resident.
When I look south to the shore, through the haze, smoke and clutter of recollections I can see the gentle slope of the land towards the sea, sliding down, sliding under the water. Home's that way. It's a very very long way, but I'm not there now, I'm here. Smoking my cigarette.