Lighting Up

Like many of the pieces I write, no one will read this either but who cares? Sometimes one has to do things simply for the pleasure of it like, smoking. Was there anything more disgusting? Nothing about smoking is ever pleasant—the smell of burnt tobacco and the mess that cigarette ash leaves in the ashtray and all around it. Not to mention, smoking or the consequences of smoking can kill you or otherwise leave your body in a horrible mess.

So, why does anyone smoke?

I cannot answer that question directly. I started smoking when I was 12 but the vice didn’t get serious until I was 17 or 18 when my mom caught me all lit up one summer afternoon. She’d been suspecting all along that I was hooked on nicotine, particularly one night when I came home stoned on ganja.

But seriously, what drives people to smoke or take on any vice?

Many would remark that it was peer pressure that made them succumb. I have no such claim or no one to blame but myself although my father was a heavy smoker in his younger days. Maybe, it’s the things that make smoking disgusting that makes me like it.

Seeing people smoke makes me crave and light up. I love watching smoke drifting upward or sideways in the half-light or I like the sensation one gets when the nicotine buzz starts to kick in after not smoking for several hours. I like watching myself smoke. The smell of a room where someone lit up reminds me of my Papa whom I love dearly. I like girls who smoke but I like girls who don’t smoke better but some non-smoker ladies hate smokers and some don’t so in truth, there is no such thing as a non-smoker. There are only, anti-smokers.

I like the feel of a Zippo in my hand. I like fidgeting with it, hearing the distinct “clink” of brass and the sound of the striker and the “whoosh” as the wick ignites. I also like the feel of a slender, plastic disposable lighter in my hands. I like having a lighter—Zippo or otherwise!

In my experience, cigarettes are a great ice breaker. Once, I met this gorgeous young lady who said nothing when we were introduced until I said, “I’m going out for a smoke.”—and her face lit up and she practically told me her life story after a couple of sticks.

Smoking also practically saved my life one night while walking a tight alley and I bumped into a scavenger who was carrying an old paint roller with the brush taken out and the stem sharpened at the tip, making for an efficient poker which homeless guys use to sort out trash and pick up old cans for recycling. The scavenger was agitated and irate when he confronted me. Even at the time, I was armed with a knife but with no place to run to, I took out a pack of Winston’s and offered him a stick. He grinned and said, “Yan ang gusto ko, marunong makisama!”

He introduced himself and we struck a conversation. He asked for another stick so I gave him what was left of the pack and we became, “friends”. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve gotten out of that situation alive.

In most every place I’ve worked, I became friends with people whom I shared, “yosi breaks” with. I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve struck friendships with simply because I offered a smoke or flicked open my Zippo to light them up.

Smoking is and has always been my way of loosening up. I’m usually wound up like a watch at work especially while in the media and I could always feel my neck tied up in tight knots after a coverage or while writing a story.

I also like to smoke while having a conversation with someone in person or over the phone. I like having a Marlboro while enjoy a drink with friends. I like lighting up after a great meal or just to go along with a cup of coffee as I get up in the morning.

I like lighting up outdoors on a windy day and watching the wind carry the smoke away into the nothingness. I like smoking in Baguio where ironically, smoking is banned. I like sniffing the nicotine-filled air along with the pine smell although the mountain city reeks more of diesel fumes than natural foliage.

I like smoking after talking lengthily like after giving out a lecture or an inspirational talk. I like smoking as soon as I get up in the morning.

I like places where smoking is allowed and I totally abhor places which pretentiously discourage smoking just so to comply with city ordinances or simply doing it for show.

I like smoking in the early morning as I get up from under a tent. I like smoking on a rainy day. I like smoking in a firing range or in between slingshot practice sessions or competition as a lot of shooters are addicted to nicotine as they are to cordite.

I like doing a last smoke before going to bed and peering out the window, pondering the day that went, the night that confronts me and the day ahead. I like smoking while thinking of all the good things or the nasty things that happened throughout the day.

I like to celebrate a personal victory by lighting up a cigar partnered with a dark beer or wine or brandy or black coffee.

I like smoking while I think my thoughts or dream my dreams.

I like smoking while I write this piece as I’ve smoked while writing all the pieces I’ve written before.

I like jacking up a Bob Marley and beating the skins on my Dhoumbek drum while caught in a ganja-induced trance. It’s been a while since my Malate nights but I don’t mind doing another joint just for sentimental reasons.

I smoke when there’s a lot to be done or when there’s nothing to do.

I don’t know if I’ll ever quit. Thinking about it drives me to smoke some more. Shit, this piece makes me want to light up. Oh fuck, I’ve already got one going!