History Revealed ...

It's days like this that I wish I had a digital camera (and a computer strong enough to upload images).

Today, Tuesday, I left my house and stepped into the cold, wet and dreary August afternoon. Temperatures are barely making it out of the 50's today and there is a constant drizzle with intermittent heavy soaking rains as band after band of storms follow the path of a stalled cold front that has been hovering over the city for the past 2 days. My house is a complete mess, filled with plaster dust after 2 weeks of repair work in my livingroom, diningroom and kitchen, all the result of damage from a leaky roof that had finally been replaced about a month ago. Now the time has come for some cleaning, priming and painting, but this will probably be the last day of cool enough temperatures to work indoors and my original goal was to wait until September to start. Besides, I had a few errands that I needed to run and, since it didn't look like the rain was going to end any time soon, I decided to brave the elements and head out into the city.

My first stop was the bank on Walnut Street. I tapped the ATM and was heading to Suburban station to pick up my weekly trans-pass, but made an about face at 17th Street and walked to The Post bar instead.

The Post has been my old stomping ground for years and has been the subject of many postings (no pun intended) within this blog. But, as history has often repeated with this establishment, trouble befell the owner in the couple of years. It is my opinion that owning this bar is pretty much a curse rather than a blessing. Three owners have died (2 by illness and 1 by a drug overdose) and the last owner is now serving time in jail for dealing crystal meth. The new owners (a lesbian with or without a partner) has taken the liberty of finally doing what had needed to be done for several years: close the Post's doors and completely gut the place and remodel. Outside of some new paint and the occasional taping of an extension cord, this is the first remodel the bar has seen in nearly 2 decades. I don't know how long this remodel job is supposed to take, but from what I've seen today, it looks like progress is going smoothly and fairly quickly. Hopefully, this will also break the curse.

Today, I turned onto Chancellor Street and noticed that the door to the bar was open. I decided to have a look at what sort of remodelling was being done. I was more than taken by surprise by both the progress and the reveal of a bar that has been around for more than 30 years.

The core of the main pub, the large oval bar, was completely gone. In its place was nothing more than a pile of old sinks in the center of the room. The tvs that had often filled the room with images from everything from superbowl games to Oscars to the somber images of continuous coverage of the world trade center attack were gone. The ceiling (long ago ripped down to fix a bad leak and never repaired, but instead painted black in an attempt to make the termite infested wooden struts look more industrial) remained, but the ceiling fan was now dangling, hanging at an odd angle like the ghostly images of the barnacle encrusted chandelier taken at the site of the Titanic wreck.

Beyond the main room, past the narrow doorway that once led down a small ramp to the "game room" and the back bar beyond, the black painted walls were stripped, revealing the studs underneath. A lone green light (which instantly reminded me, for some reason, of the green light at the end of the dock in the Great Gatsby)dangled from the ceiling in that room. From my vantage point in the front door, the light seemed to hold a certain sadness to it, the way it dangled from a weak cord. I guess that was why I was reminded so much of Fitzgerald's book, something I hadn't thought about since Junior High when I read it. But I remember the symbolism behind that light in the story; how it represented Gatsby's longing for, not only Daisy, but everything: money, happiness, success. But it always came back to his one true love. And that's what this light brought to me. It was like I was suddenly seeing this bar's true history for the first time and how it longed for what it once was. The bar has seen so much tragedy and chaos. This light (to me) seemed to reflect that.

This image in my mind, this sense of history being revealed and the bar's longing to capture it (as strange as it may sound) became more relevant when my eyes scanned the main room and fell upon the graffiti riddled wall that once held the incredible male nude sketches done by the former owner's lover. As I said, all the walls have been stripped, but what lay underneath the drywall was evidence of another time, a long forgotten time.

I can only imagine that the writing on the wall had been done many many years ago back when the original Post bar was stripped of it's rich history for the first time, back when the rich panelling (from what I heard described) was torn down and the original bar (with its four strong columns standing guard on each corner) were removed. On the wall infront of me today was layer upon layer upon layer of spray-painted messages, some unreadable, some overlapping others, and some stood out: "Rodney Loves Phil", "Glory Daze", "This Sucks - Mike". These were just some of the messages on the wall that I could read (and remember before getting home to write this). It made me wonder about the men who spray painted these messages. Were they regulars back in the '70s? Was this their time capsule, so to speak? I wanted to walk further into the room and examine the writings more, but I heard noises coming from the back room.

As I write this, I am filled with a mixture of emotions: curiosity and wonder. Whatever happened to these people? Are they alive? Have they passed on? What would they think if they saw their little "tribute wall" had been exposed after all these years? Other emotions are happiness and sadness. Happy because I was able to stumble upon this and I know that not too many people will ever see this reveal. Sadness because, like that light, I long for the times when the Post was like family to me. Now all the regulars are scattered, their common thread destroyed by the greed of one man and his drugs.

No matter what is done to the post, no matter how many improvements they make, it will never be the same. Too many things have changed in the last couple of years. People--friends--who were tight back then are no longer talking to one another, while others have found new watering holes.

When that wall of writings is once again covered, it will be joined with the memories of the last of that generation along with the memories of a new generation that had never witnessed what The Post was like in its true hay day. The memories will be drywalled, spackled and painted over, forever covered. Sure, there may be times to remember and talk, but like everything else, the images will begin to fade, being replaced with new memories, some good and some not so good.

As I write this, a new band of heavy rains begins to beat against my bedroom window. In August, I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a button down flannel. The sky is still grey and cold.

...And a bar stands alone, its ghosts calling out from a mold-covered wall.

A Bite Out of the Big Apple (Part 2) ...

Although I have done alot of writing recently (maybe I have a muse, who knows?), I looked back and much of it is negative. Whether it's fighting demon dogs or demon boyfriends, I have been getting out alot of buried emotions and feelings. I just felt it was time to write about something a little more positive; a good memory of mine. So, here it goes.

A while back, I wrote this blog about a trip I had taken to New York City to visit with my friend, Scott. (Ironically, that blog began very similarly to this one.)

Anyway, it was my birthday weekend, 2001, and I can honestly say that I haven't had a better birthday before or since. We had done so much that weekend that I can't really remember if it was Friday through Sunday or just an overnighter, but there was alot we did.

First of all, Scott had been warning me for the entire week prior that there was going to be alot of things in store for me, many big surprises. I had no idea what these things may be and he wasn't cluing me in on a single one of 'em. I was working that last day before heading up and he called me from the road, saying he was about 30 minutes away. I had suddenly gotten the feeling that there was going to be a limousine pulling up infront of work and I started to get alittle nervous...excited, but nervous. When he called again and said he was outside, I said good-bye to my co-workers and headed out. There he was, outside, waiting in his bright red Jeep Wrangler. I felt slightly relieved as I hopped inside, thinking that would've been over the top. But at the same time, I was sort of disappointed. It would've been a real treat to head up to New York in the back of a limo. After we started heading north, I reluctantly mentioned my thoughts to which Scott replied: "You know, I was actually thinking about hiring one, but money was beginning to get tight with everything else I had planned."

Everything else? Geez, what was I in for?

We arrived at his house in Astoria, Queens, a couple hours later and there was just enough time to shower and change before we were due to head out again. I still had no idea what we were doing or where we were going, but I at least figured it was going to be somewhere in Manhattan.

We hopped on the subway and headed into town, all the while Scott keeping shut about our evening. When we surfaced from the underground tunnels of Manhattan, we were somewhere in Midtown. Scott asked me if I figured out where we were going yet, but I still had no clue. We crossed several intersections and I kept my eyes peeled for anything or any place that I may have mentioned to him in passing, but nothing was coming to mind. Then, up ahead, I saw a sign. High above us, rising vertically against the side of the building, red neon beckoning us like a bug zapper to a moth: Radio City Music Hall. Scott looked at me and said: "Have you figured it out yet?"

For a while I remember thinking: Is he going to take me to see the Rockettes? It was December after all and Rockefeller Center was a world famous destination at Christmastime, the Rockettes being the headliner. But I wasn't a big fan of seeing a row of women kicking their legs up infront of me. I told him I still hadn't a clue. We turned the corner and headed towards the entrance to the main building in the complex, 30 Rockefeller Center. Once inside the lobby I became completely clueless. Until I noticed the bronze plaque hanging next to the elevator: Rainbow Room.

I looked at Scott, my mouth hanging open. "You've got to be kidding me."

"We're not eating here, but we don't have alot of time. We're on a tight schedule and we're just here for a drink."

We stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us. My stomach turned and my ears popped as the express elevator quickly raced upwards and opened at the 65th floor. Waiting for the doors to open, I was anxious to see one of my favorite paintings come to life: Ken Keeley's Welcome New York, Day. It was my understanding that this was the view one would see when approaching the Rainbow Room. I was disappointed, however, when the doors opened and we stepped out into a darkly paneled hallway. But that disappointment didn't last long when we were escorted to our table in the Rainbow Grille, with it's panoramic view of lower Manhattan. Although we were seated in the center of the room (apparently, the tables along the windows were reserved days in advance), the view was spectacular. Evening had arrived and the city was aglow all around (and below) us. It was a crisp clear December night and the lights of the city and New Jersey were spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.

The one somber image three months after the event was the stark white glow coming to us from Lower Manhattan. Ground Zero. Like the last burning embers of a dying campfire, the glow beckoned everyone's attention, the buildings surrounding Ground Zero silhouettes; bordering the perimeter like dedicated soldiers keeping watch. Around the glass enclosed room, you can see all eyes stealing glances in that direction, whispers being made, memories kept fresh with the site of a thin layer of smoke still drifting up from underground even after all these weeks.

As with everyone else, Scott and I looked out, thinking our own thoughts, reliving our own fears and memories. It was something that needed to be done before moving on. Before long, however, we were toasting over deliciously overpriced drinks and readying ourselves for the rest of the night.

I don't remember the exact order of things that happened next, but what happened when we left 30 Rock was a surprising treat. We stumbled upon a street artist. A crowd had gathered in the chilly night to watch the man crouched down on the cement, an assortment of spray cans and household tools surrounded him. We watched as he set out a blank sheet of paper and went to work, layering color upon color of spray paint onto the paper and then scratching combs and putty knives and paint cans across the surface in practiced precision, created a colorful skyline of New York City. I was amazed at how this guy worked and stayed to watch him do a few more. Scott tried to urge me on (the time frame for our next destination was apparently growing thin). I held off leaving to watch the street person do a couple more. It was taking him all of about 3 minutes to create each image.

I finally turned away to light a cigarette. When I turned back, for a second I couldn't find Scott. I looked up and down the street until finally I spotted him emerging from the gathering crowd. He smiled and handed me a rolled up piece of paper.

"What's this?" I asked, taking the baton.

"A taste of New York." He replied.

"Thanks again, Sir!" A voice called out. I looked past Scott and saw the street artist looking in our direction.

Our next stop was a place I have only heard of by reputation, although that rep was long dead. We arrived at Studio 54 to see Molly Ringwald in "Cabaret". What amazed me about Studio 54 was the fact that it was alot smaller than I envisioned. What amazed me more (about Cabaret and Scott) was that I found ourselves sitting in the front row of small cocktail tables. Floored was an understatement. The actors, when entering or exiting the stage, had to pass right by us. At one point, I looked up and Molly was standing right next to me getting ready to run up on stage. It was really something.

During intermission, we had a drink or two at the bar up on the balcony, talked about what it must've been like to have been here to witness all that had taken place within these walls, all the screwing, all the drug taking, all the celebrity spotting. Things that will never be repeated again with such debauchery.

After the show, we had to jump into a cab for our next destination. We exited the cab in The Village and walked down a narrow alleyway to a small carriage house once owned by Aaron Burr, Vice President to Thomas Jefferson, but who's political career was completely severed after duel challenge led to his fatally shooting Alexander Hamilton. One if by Land - Two if by Sea was a an incredible place to have dinner. We waited at the bar, beside the 2-story illuminated Christmas tree, waiting for our table to be ready. The bartender offered us a glass of wine while we waited and, although I can't remember the details, we watched as some wealthy woman sat at the bar and got drunk. I seem to recall her singing to the piano player, but I could be mistaken. Once at the dinner, we shared a bottle of wine, toasted my birthday and ordered dinner. I don't remember what I had for dinner, but one thing I do remember was desert.

At work, there is a coffee shop downstairs that I went to every morning. A wide array of flavored coffees offered, my favorite pick when available was always the creme brulee. Scott, at some point, had prearranged to have my desert be the crem brulee (instead of the traditional slice of birthday cake). Incredibly rich, it was the perfect ending to a great night.

After dinner, we went to a couple of bars, had a few drinks and hopped into a cab for the ride back to Queens. I thanked Scott for a fantastic night on the town to which he replied: "There's one more thing." He set a large wrapped box on the bed. I stared down at it, unable to figure out what it was. He had already done too much for me and this, I felt, was going to be over the top and I pretty much told him so.

"It's something you mentioned liking and really, it wasn't all that much." he said.

I unwrapped the box and pulled back the flap. Inside was something wrapped in bubble wrap. I pulled it out. It was a picture...

Okay..this is where I have to do some explaining: We were both co-workers in 2 separate Thomas Kinkade Galleries, me in philly, him in New York. I, personally, cannot stand the artist, but I knew when I took the job how popular he was and that it was going to be some easy money to make, which it was. What I didn't know about Kinkade was that he had a series of Plein Aire paintings. These were images outside the normal "light" thing that he is best known for. A more impressionistic style, these were quick paintings he did on location around the world, often using these as studies for his more detailed works. Of these impressionistic paintings, my favorite was a small 8x10 image of London's Tower Bridge. The oringal not for sale, his canvas lithograph was an already sold-out edition of 550. I've never been to London, but for some reason the image of the Tower Bridge was something that I really liked. And here I was unwrapping it from a roll of bubble wrap on Scott's bed.

The next morning, it was back into the city. A walking tour in midtown. We took an elevator ride up to the top of the Empire State Building (kind of a surreal feeling considering 3 months prior we were at the top of a building that was no longer there). We did a little bit more walking before heading back to Queens and jumped into Scott's jeep for the ride back down to Philly.

So, that was it...

I have thanked him time and time again and I'll do it one more time. Thank you, Scott, for giving me the best birthday I have ever experienced, filled with drinks, fun, celebrity spotting and cherished gifts and memories. It's great to have a friend like you and I only wish we can share more good times together instead of over the phone or the internet.

Scott recently paid me a visit a couple months ago. I'll write about that in a future post.

Goal 1, Day 1, Part 2 (The Demon Dog) ...

When last we left our non-smoker, he was battling temptation by refusing to get out of bed and make coffee...

Before I go any further, I need to best try and describe this smoking addiction and how I view this battle between myself and my demon. I tend to be a very internally visual person, allowing my mind to race into parts unknown, creating scenarios that more often than not become nothing more than an overactive imagination. My friends often say that I over analyze things and sometimes they are right. There are other times when my thoughts and feelings are right on the mark, or at least within the in-field. Psychic? Some say.

But I'm drifting away again...

Back to my monster...

On my first morning as a non-smoker, I decided to walk the 20-25 blocks to work, meandering through the tree lined streets of Center City. What I didn't expect at such an early hour, however, was the heat. At nine a.m. it was already pushing 80 degrees and the humidity was climbing at a rapid pace. By the time I was halfway to work, I found myself trying to find every sliver of shadow to hide from the blistering sun. As I made my way down Walnut Street, I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only person walking in this fashion. It seemed like several people were hugging the stone and brick facades of the storefronts, afraid to step out into the harsh morning sunlight as if they may instantaneously burst into flames if any bit of their sweaty flesh should come within direct contact.

I watched as these people (and myself) inched closer and closer to the buildings with each passing block as the shadows grew shorter from the rising sun. And all the while, I kept wanting a cigarette even though I knew that, in this heat, inhaling a lungful of smoke was about as pleasurable as kneeling down behind a 30 year old VW Bug and inhaling the fumes through the exhaust pipe (not that I've ever tried, mind you). But the feeling; the need for a cigarette continued to eat away inside me, trying to get me to reach into the breast pocket of my shirt and pull out the 1/2 empty pack of smokes I foolishly brought with me that morning (for just such a mental breakdown). I realized that this feeling was really taking control, eating away at my insides to the point where it was beginning to feel more physical than mental.

The feeling was beginning to take on a shape...

As I begin to describe this monster within me, I can't help but be drawn back to a short story I once read: "The Sun Dog", written by Stephen King, and found in a book with three other novellas titled "Four Past Midnight".

In "The Sun Dog", the main character, a boy of about 11, receives a Sun camera for his birthday. It's one of those poloroid jobs where each picture is spit out of the camera with a mechanical whirring sound and you can watch as the picture slowly begins to develope infront of you. The camera this boy received, however, only took what appeared to be one photograph; a photograph of a picket fence outside of a rundown house. With each click of the button, the camera would spit out the same image no matter where you pointed the viewfinder. Even replacing the film didn't change the outcome. Except for the shadow...

Slowly, from the left side of the developed photos, a shadow starts to appear. In each picture taken, the shadow grows larger until a dog, mangy and hungry looking, appears from outside the shot. With each picture it takes a step further into the frame. If you were to stack the photos on top of one another and quickly flip them (as they did in the story) a little movie would be created with this ugly dog walking into the shot from the left.

Then the dog slowly begins to turn toward the camera. Whomever is taking the initial photograph is spotted by the dog and the dog, in each photo progressively snapped, begins to charge the photographer; snarling for the camera; leaping into the air to attack.

So, the image of The Sun Dog became stuck in my head as I felt this monster deep inside me scratching, biting & clawing his way out, trying to satisfy its own need by making me light up. I can feel the pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket pressing against my chest with each step I took; a heartbeat against my own, pulsing in sinc with my own footfalls. It's the heartbeat of my demon.

My Sun Dog started to take shape in my mind. If you can imagine a poorly documented commercial on television, maybe one for some new pain relieving pill. "University studies have shown how this little green pill, when swallowed..."

--Cut to the bad diagram, white on a black screen, used as a visual tool. It is nothing more than the outline of a human being, the head turned in one direction, a raw diagram of the throat leading from the mouth down to the oval shape representing the stomach. Animating the diagram (a green circle being the pill) you see how the medicine reacts to the body, getting absorbed into the bloodstream and suddenly turning in many happy faces floating throughout the body, eliminating pain as they go.

I started to imagine that bad diagram as me. My insides consisted of nothing more than the outline of a throat and a stomach (and of course a bright box of Marlboros floating around in the left chest area where my breast pocket was located. My demon, not a Sun Dog as Stephen King described but my own demon dog, was not even really a dog per-say. It was more of a arts and craft creation gone wildly possessed.

For starters, my Domeon Dog appears in my mind as mostly 2-dimensional. He is like a piece of heavy duty black construction paper crudely cut into a shape that can only be described as part Jack Russel/part Pitbull, a combination of my most loved and most feared breeds. The edges of the cutting are slightly curled, casting the faintest hint of a shadow along the edges onto the background, the interior field of the human diagram (me). Its ears stand upright, giving the impression of a devil's horns. The mouth is cut out to appear always opened, but ready to snap shut; never smiling, always hungry and angry. The mishapen rows of upper and lower teeth, childlike cuttings of slightly different sized triangles cut from the blackness of the rest of the figure are razor sharp. The eyes are two construction paper cut-out on one side of the Demon Dog's profiled silouette, cartoonish, but alive with fire. The eyes are unseeing, but they know...they know the hunger.

When my Demon Dog moves, it's like stop-motion photography. Each movement is sharp and unflowing into the next; twitching. But it is constant and ferocious at the same time. The snarls from the Demon Dog are viscious and gutteral. The sharp claws on the black paws are feverishly clawing away, faster and faster, like a dog scratching at the base of a door, desperate to be let outside to relieve itself.

The Demon Dog is trapped in the crude outline of the stomach in the diagram. It's scratching and clawing at the outline, pushing and stretching the stomach from inside making it look like a mishapen elastic ball. The snarls are deep and angry. The firey eyes are fixed on the floating pack of cigarettes just inches away.

As I made my way through the tree line paths crossing the grounds in front of Independence Hall, I could actually feel the Demon Dog's prescence inside me, scratching his way to the surface. My hand reached for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, but fingers never actually touched cardboard. Instead, I took a deep breath, held it a second and slowly let it out. I could feel the Demon Dog settle slightly in the pit of my stomach and I could actually hear him whimper softly. In my mind, I pictured the diagram stomach and the Demon Dog trapped within its outline. The stomach, in sinc with my deep breaths, seems to be shrinking slightly around the Demon Dog, giving it less room to move. I took another deep breath and imagined the Demon Dog being forced to crouch within the walls of the outlined stomach.

After a few more seconds of deep breaths, the Demon Dog was settled; the craving had passed.

But that dog was merely lying in wait, buying his time. There were several more opportunities for him to jump and stretch that stomach lining. Like a celebrity stalker, he just rested...and waited...

**Author's note: I am completing this posting on the morning of my forth day of Goal 1. Although I am doing well, I must admit, the Demon Dog has won a few battles over the last couple of days. The war will be long, I can tell.

Goal 1, Day 1 ...

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I awoke this morning as a non-smoker. Or at least that was my intention...

A few weeks back I wrote on here about my three life-changing goals I have mapped out: quit smoking, get back to the gym/eat more healthy & get out of debt. I have myself three separate dates to begin each, but never mentioned them to anyone. If I failed, or worse yet, never even attempted to start, then I really didn't want any more disappointment that what I would've dished out upon myself.

Yesterday was supposed to be my "prep day" for goal number one: cleaning, wiping down the mini-blinds, basically ridding the house of the aroma of stale cigarette smoke that has undoubtedly accumulated on every surface but unnoticed by me. But instead of cleaning, yesterday I awoke with sudden need to get things off my chest. I don't know if I had possibly had some sort of a dream to make me feel this but all morning, I felt a desperate need to write.

So, stealing a page from my friend, Rob's self-help manual, I sat infront of my computer and began to write a letter. A letter to a long-ago ex-boyfriend who had controlled my life. A form of "Therapy E-mail" as Rob likes to describe it. I really had no idea where the letter would take me or what I would write about. Nor did I have any clue that I would wind up sitting there at my desk for nearly two hours typing feverishly and reliving details from a relationship a lifetime ago. Least of all, I never realized the feelings of anger and hatred that would rise and swell inside me and spill out onto my computer screen.

By the time I had finished I was emotionally drained, but I didn't feel finished yet. There was still more to be said about a few other things going on in my life. So, I turned back to my computer, opened my email program and wrote a long winded letter to my friend, Scott, up in Maine.

When that letter was finally complete, I felt even more drained. I was seriously wanting a cigarette and my pack had already been finished off about an hour earlier. It was mid-afternoon and my original plan was to finish the pack of cigarettes I had that day (trying to spread them out into the evening) and that would be that. No more smokes. During the course of the day, I would be cleaning non-stop. But after writing for over 2 hours on my blog and then writing another long emotionally draining letter to Scott, the last thing I could think of was cleaning and the ONLY thing that dominated my mind was the need for a smoke.

I quickly grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out the front door. I bought a pack of Marlboro's and walked the city streets, trying to clear my head. I found myself soon heading towards Uncles and quickly ducked inside for a beer. It was still early and I knew no one would be there, at least no one I really cared about. However, the place was loud with afternoon drunks and Willy's voice bouncing off the mirrored walls was enough to give me the feeling that my eardrums were about to begin bleeding, so I finished my beer and continued my walk.

Without even remembering how I got there, I found myself staring into the dark waters of the Delaware River, twenty blocks from my house. I stood on the cement banks and stared. A PATCO train slowly crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. Joggers passed by me on the brick pathway. A sailboat lazily drifted downriver, its occupants basking in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there, unmoving, for about five minutes, taking everything in, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Across the river in New Jersey, past the waterfront development, I could make out the hazy treeline of some distant hill beyond Camden's city limits. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm summer air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, everything was the same. I really didn't know what to expect; maybe some sort of revelation, some clue as to what I was doing here. But everything was as it was; no clearing of the mind, to great idea, nothing. So, Like Forrest Gump when he reached the Atlantic Coastline, I simply turned around and headed back towards the city.

Needless to say, no prepwork was done to help me with Goal #1. The furthest I had gotten with that yesterday was a few loads of laundry, emptying and washing out my ashtrays and making the decision that, for the remainder of the day, any smoking will be done outside on the stoop. No great battle plan, but it was a start.

So...back to this morning, this first day of this first goal...

My alarm sounded at six a.m. and my eyes opened. I reached out and hit the alarm off. I was a non-smoker and I felt as if I could take on the world!

The feeling, unfortunately, lasted a fraction of a second when I remembered the 1/2 pack of cigarettes lying on the table downstairs in the livingroom. I can almost feel them taunting me; urging me out of bed to share with them that first cool drag of the morning which would ultimately set the tone for each drag thereafter. I can imagine the pack dancing across the back of the sofa, long female stockinged legs in high heeled shoes tapping across the back cushions, a provocative little twist of toe on the pillow, mimicing one stamping out a cigarette on a sidewalk. I can almost hear them calling out to me, begging me to smoke them. Their chorus of tiny voices sounding much like the high pitched giggles that first drifted out from deep within the colorful bushes to greet Dorothy when she took that long ago trip.

I needed coffee, but coffee would only encourage the smoking. They go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Shaggy and Scooby.

I eventually fell back to sleep.

I awoke a half hour later to my phone alarm going off. I quickly silented the second alarm and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I decided that my need for coffee was driving my desire for a cigarette, so I wasn't going to get out of bed to make any. I was just going to stay here until the time came to get into the shower. If the craving got too strong, I would simply force myself to nap for a few minutes.

Most people find this odd, but it's a habit I had long ago adopted from my mother. We are both slow morning risers and each set our alarm clocks hours before we actually need to be up. This gives me the opportunity to lounge around in bed while the coffee's brewing, watch the morning news and not have to worry about rushing to take a shower and get out the door. So forcing myself to take little naps to avoid the urge to smoke, even if it is making me miss my much needed morning coffee, wasn't such a major issue. I still had at least 90 minutes before I had to leave the house.

(To be continued...)

**author's note** unfortunately, by the time this is posted, I will have already failed my goal of the day. I really don't feel all that bad. I've been up since 6am and I had one cigarette at 6:30-PM All of this writing about the desire to smoke actually made said desire that much stronger. I'll talk about that more tomorrow.