This is Not a New Year resolution!

Warning, swearing, mental abuse, and suicidal ideation.

This story is dedicated to all the maturing archetypal of the starving artist, who ruthlessly are destroying their own poverty consciousness!

The second definable moment, in my early writing experience was injected by an American writer and university lecturer. He expressed to me, within a late Nineties egroup, "You write like Sylvia Plath!" Curious, I typed her name into my then very slow Google Search engine. I wanted to know WHO this Ms. Plath was? And to Whom, I have been pidgeon-holed with? Encyclopaedia Britannica had a condense opening statement, "...starkly express a sense of alienation and self destruction closely tied to her personal experiences and by extension, the situation of women in the mid twentieth century America. I read a few of Plath's poems, like 'Ariel'.

3 am, the next day, I logged on, whilst the kids slept, "If you must- you can put me in the Sylvia Plath melting pot!" Enjoying my own insolence, I nervously waited for the Mod's reply. I had a distinct feeling he would rise to the challenge! He always held his own power base! His ancient dragon claws could easily slice through me and those eyes would veiw my 'running with scissors' attitude. Firmly yanking my tail, he returned an aged-wine quip, "You should try writing in first person!" Now, if the Devil could read my desires, he was that! The consequence of my well-thought out discourtesy and sass, propelled me to Log out. I drew deeply on a cigarette and carelessly threw his statement into the back of my mind.

The following morning, to my horror, the Mod had highlighted his comment; the fluro green jumped out at me and I knew all the group members were 'crouching tigers' That disquieting question demanded I reply! With pent-up, hot emotions, I protested, "But- first person is SO personal, and I feel TOO vulnerable to disclose myself!" Immediately, his reply appeared! Oh yer, Judge Judy declared his verdict, "Our dear, Ms Sylvia Plath, you will write in first person!" He slammed his gavel and closed the thread, "Court Dismissed!"

Twenty-five years later, after His writer's jail, His writer's probation, and finally His Release, I, indeed, write in first person! I write from my own experiences and all my muses experiences, I had the pleasure to find in grocery stores, at bus stops, from morning and night commuter train rides, and especially from Facebook rants and vents. My disclaimer- I keep confidentiality, I only write bits. eg. The staunch lady knitting on a train. Her silk blouse necktie, held in place by a rearing goldplated scorpion broach.

To this day, I have a small part of that Mod infused in me! As a result, I ruthlessly explore my shy, submerged, shaking self. Or, to put it bluntly, let ancestral crows tear at my bleeding crab flesh, found under my hard, cynical shell. I also have his reductionism of raw data and love of feeling and developing characters. I toil and sweat over the little stuff to form clarity and a workable platform. Then, I open the doors, and my readers can peer through the Australian Sylvia Plath Looking Glass!

My biggest problem is that part of my 'Writer Identity' is sadly enmeshed with the Addict. I hate that! I hate the thought of stubbing her out of my life. She really IS good company. That deep thinking and head clearing time spent with her out the back verandah is invaluable! Those morning cups of coffee and chats observing our wild bird and animal friends together would be lost! 

My smoking habit has come and gone. AND MOSTLY gone, and then it started again! Approximately six months ago, a work colleague, with cigarette imbued clothing, tempted me, "Do you want one?" That first lunchtime, I said, "No!" Unfortunately, a month later, my circumstances had changed! Well- let's say things went belly up and flipped like a fried egg! I'm not proud of it, but the second offer - IT got me! I gratefully snatched one out of her cigarette box. And then - I was THE Chicken Little, cigarette in hand, squawking. "THE SKY IS FALLING!"

My first cigarette was actually a cigar! The teenage party host found the expensive hand carved container with sliding lid in his Father's middle desk drawer. He offered me one. I still remember that choking draw of perfume. The Australian 'Old School' was about pretence. I found I could hide behind a smoke. The carpark, or verandah locums of budding smoking artists was a safe sanctuary. I could easily express my squashed opinions and feelings without ridicule or reproach!

 <------------------------------------>

Yesterday, on Netflix, an Australian movie debuted - 'The Boy Swallow's Universe' 

That morning I sort of brooded:

PUFF... PUFF... Better get my act together, or I might miss out!

PUFF! The world might once again have a taste of the average Australian stories and ongoings. In the 1970s, the government funded the Australian film industry to release movies for international audiences... They were Popular!

PUFF... PUFF... And so are The Bluey cartoons!

PUFF... PUFF... I should be writing that novel!

PUFF... PUFF... 75,000 words? Woo-eee a lot of hard work!

PUFF... PUFF... But I DON'T own a computer! 

(Lit another smoke)

PUFF! AND I don't know what software is best?

PUFF... PUFF... If I did- Can't afford the internet!

PUFF... PUFF... I can use the local library computers!

PUFF... PUFF... Yeah- Yeah- blah, blah blah, Yadda, Yadda! Stop dreaming, Rose!

The second fag was finished. I sighed. The tabacco pouch was near empty and I had resolved not to replace it! I recollected, years ago, I caught a neighbour, crawling into my tipped wheelie bin. I demanded, "What are you doing?" Pulling his head out and replying with embarrassment, "I'm low on Tobacco and collecting your almost- finished cigarette butts!" Truthfully, the poor soul, I learnt and modified his trick! Now, I tear used butts and shake the remains into packet - 'Waste not, want not'!

And then - 'The Patch Drama'. Everytime I think of reducing, the mouse wheel rotates slow like ferris wheel and speeds like a spinning top! The story? I had smoked around thirty rollies a day. I really needed to say that to my doctor. I forgot thirty racehorses (fast burning, lean, long rollies), probably equalled ten tailor-made cigarettes! The doctor opened my computer case file, "How many do you smoke a day?" I replied, "Probably thirty" With a professional quiet, he wrote out a prescription according to that inaccurate answer! The patch concentration, which I puritanically persisted with, for several days, left me shaking, nauseated, with dysentery and insomnia. NEVER AGAIN!

<------------------------------------->

The small suburbian shopping centre, was the hearth of several Middle-aged housing estates and nursing homes. With the resurge of Covid, I stayed local! I was gauranteed they, the ageing population, had been vacinnated. "That will be thirteen dollars and forty-five cents." Tapping, ready to go, I collected the bulging string bag of reduced, ready-made Cous- Cous vegetable medley, of a discounted two- litre Diet Coke, of a packet of English Muffins. A phone reminder pinged. Balancing and unzipping my shoulder bag, I read the phone screen, "Nicotene chews!"

The Pharmacy was opposite the grocery store. I tried to line up in the clogged Friday morning crush, near the Pharmacy's inquiry counter. Bored, a wail whistled and crackled from a tarnished, rectangular transiter radio. An 'Australian Crawl song' played, "... livin' on the razor's edge, tryin' to touch the sun..."

Then - "This 97-3 playing the widest variety of hits since the 80s"

Their MIX of songs, portrayed the New Year anticlimax. The songs had that taint of ever-present grumbling and whining, which murmured sentiments of 'the little aussie battlers'.

My solitude interrupted -"Can I help you?" I reframed from saying that old childhood joke everyone knows, "No, I'm beyond help!" Summoning my self control, I replied, "I would like to know if Nicotine chews would be good for me?" The assistant's name tag read, "Andrea". She sized me up, was I going to be hard case? "How much do you smoke?" I put my shoulders back, "I'm back to two-a-day!" 

Andrea could have been a hand model. Her soft palms and short, curved pearly nails displayed a shiny box of 2mg chews. Feeling slightly defensive, I stuttered, "I gave up - then my Mother-"

Her compassionate downcast eyes hid something. Click! The handcuffs had latched, then locked around my Addict wrist joining to her wrist! With the tongue of a Goanna she said, "GOTCHA!"

Andrea loudly proclaimed, "Once a SMOKER , always a SMOKER!" Smart! That got the attention of the all impatient customers, who upon hearing the announcement, turned their backs knowing an addiction meant baggage and extra consultation time!. The tin box behind us melancholyly sung, "Communication breakdown- communication breakdown..." I somehow sensed she was one of us. She knew how to trap and restrain a smoker! Perhaps, she had read The 'How To' manual? Darting her eyes everywhere, she seemed unusually perceptive? Yah! AND she instantly connected to me? Hmm?That's way too, SMOKER-ish!

Reading my thoughts, Andrea guiltily whispered, "Shh! I gave up 18 years ago! She dug her heels in and hallowed, "I mean, there's no such organisation as Smoker's Anonymous, is there? No 12-step programme, which includes a higher power - God - to help us?" The crowd scuttled, as far as possible, away from us. I nodded and pursed my lips, "Yep, they always cast us out!" I felt the edge of socialised claustrophobic, the Workplace laws, forced, whipped our sort to vacant lots, or rained out benches, near old locked tiolets, to do our sin! I asked the rhetorical question, "Do you wanna get outta here?", as my free, uncuffed hand's pointer finger, imagined and drew the store's vanishing point or the horizon line. 

<-------------------------------------->

A long, blue, smoggy rabbit warren manifested. The shimmering, continuous, collapsible, curtained corridors revealed an eerie, still, Dancehall Stage. John, the garden Rat, helped unpack Jasper, the dog's, bass drum. Mosha, the inland tiapan, carefully plugged, the electrical guitar cord into its Amp. His diamond choker sparkled. The amp HONKED! Andrea unlocked my cuff, so we could both cover our ears. The following SCREECH lasted too long!

The stage centrepiece consisted of a beautiful paisley, gold-trimmed couch and highbacked sitting chair. Andrea motioned that I lay on that couch, "Don't worry after I've pulled you apart. I'll put you back together again! I recaptured a friend reassuring me about counselling and the ilk, "They write, that's all they do!"

The cats, Jija and Franny Winkles nervously shuffled behind us, checking all wires were taped down and musical instruments secure. Their personal space morphed, as they raised their kundalini. The Plover family backup singers and Patricia Parrot, peeked and chatted, from a stage entrance. The used backdrop, a 1960's psychedelic intepretaion, of the outer Planets - Pluto, Neptune and Saturn, really made the atmosphere otherworldly.

Tapping the microphone, Rat, almost 'in the zone' spoke, "Testing 1, 2, 3 - Testing! Looking at Parrot. "Ready?" He signalled the sound engineers by throwing his full extended arm downwards to his thigh. 

🖤🖤

Loud, intense orchestral music rose from the pits? Strobe lights angled everywhere. Like a poledancer, Parrot with her coloured feathered body, twirled up the stand, till her beck met the microphone. Clapping her wings, she roared the duplicate voice, of 1980s, pop princess, Pat Benator: 

"...Close your eyes and try to sleep now.

Close your eyes and try to dream

Clear your mind and do your best to try and wash the palette clean..."

🖤🖤

Ignoring the theatricals, Andrea stated her leading question, "How do you feel about giving up totally?" She waited to scribble. I yawned. I felt so cosy. "Well, it still will be hard yakka!" She threw a sharp gaze. I knew she wanted more than the punch of a few words, or a one-liner! I continued, "Pluto moves into my sign in a few days. It has been in my house of hidden enemies. Funny, during that time, II discovered, I was my own worst enemy." A spotlight swooped over us. 

🖤🖤

Two Pigeons clash Cymbals! Our Jija, meowed Olivia Rodrigo's Hit,

".. You sold me for parts - you sunk your teeth in me..."

Big dog repeatedly slammed his drums and during the sound smash, Mosha, thumped the same chord on his portable keyboard.

🖤🖤

Andrea, not distracted, still on the same page, "Wow! So you seem to have navigated the problem. I'm guessing here, YOU now realise YOUR crutch IS destroying your lungs - IS destroying your good health!" I nodded. Andrea was all riled up like a 'fire and brimestone' preacher who just saved a wretched soul. She firmly asserted, "Yes, Ma'am, I'm telling you this- when I gave up Smoking - Yes when I gave up- not gave in- The universe did not make my thoughts murky. No Ma'am- I was blessed. Honey, (She touched my knee). Oh praise and gratitude- I had Super clear thoughts!"

The audience gave Andrea a standing ovation. When they settled, I stammer, "I guess I've been afraid sometimes! YES - afraid of failing!" (More adulated applause)

🖤🖤

Franny Winkles screamed the song, "...Life sucker, fame fucker..." She hissed, "...You're a god dam Vampire" and sprawl out on the floor. 

Jasper's sunglasses black slammed, "BANG!" The footlights switched off.

🖤🖤

My unlit eyes were wide open. My body was limp, as my hand fell onto the springy floorboards. She, the dark lady her scorpion tail slightly exposed under a dragging, heavy, red velvet robe. With a forced introvert smile, she placed a jewelled crown of thorns on my motionless head!

🖤🖤

The Rat drew a deep, concentrated breath into his lungs. Unsettling, synthesised helicopters blades rung out. Rat plucked a Pink Floyd introduction on his electric guitar. The back-ups- The Plover couple and their three juvenile sons, sporting Mohawks- danced, "Wooh- Wa- Wooh- Hey!" Rat, in his best David Gilmore voice spat out:

"We don't need no education! 

We don't need no thought control!"

🖤🖤

Dark shadows gathered, densely surrounding my dying body. THEY mocked me, "Screw case - mental health bitch!" THEY scorned me, "She said- she said, then he said! They heckled and backhanded me, "Oh yes, you have a huge imagination don't you?" THEY poked me with sticks and threw handfuls of river stones.

🖤🖤

Booming, the band chorused, "HEY TEACHER LEAVE THEM KIDS ALONE!" At that moment, The bird's and rat's upper torso stayed rigid and oscillated at their hips to the gunfire instrumental. All their heart chakras streamed lasers! They burnt and destroyed the ugly, negative psychic cords attached to my slumped, overdosed body. The 'Hanging Crowd' of subconscious programming vapourised!

The audience stomped the floor. "WE WANT MORE! More! More! The artists together, holding wings, paws, claws, choraled the chorus again. As streamers flew, they bowed in unison. 

Rat heaved, "Ladies and Gentlemen - Intermission!"

A cardboard cut out of church arches, pushed by the on rollers was positioned, near the organ. The cats, who now wore stage camo - dark balaclava and clothing - scurried away. The spotlight roved over the last of the returning and refreshed audience. Pumping with her feet, my daughter built up air pressure, she began playing a melody on the pipe organ. My granddaughter, showed up too! Shy, she plucked her toy Ukulele, beside her Mommy. Her tall Daddy and Uncle- my son- hunched together over one microphone. In their best, soft Phil Collin voices sung,

"I will follow you. Will you follow me

All the days and nights that we know will be-

I will stay with you. Will you stay with me

Just one single tear in each passing year..."

🖤🖤

Andrea scribbled line-after-line. Hearing of my children, she raised her eyebrows, "Seems we have the whole Kit and Kaboodle then!" My closed eyes, opened and refocused. Seeing the wall clock, I remarked, "We've been talking fifteen minutes!" Andria calculated, "Hmm, four songs, at about three minutes each? "Umm, probably twelve minutes!" We definately had tranced out - as Smokers do! I purchased the chews. Giving closure, Andrea instructed, " Roll your pen when you have your coffee!"

 <------------------------------------>

Two days later, I rolled the pen with my fingers, it still triggered the same sense of comfort, concentration and relief , I gained when I rolled cigarette papers. I put up with the acrid taste of the Gum AND the parched throat at night. My chest give a 'thank you' rattle', as I had coughed a bit of flem.

Chew... Chew...I kept my hands busy. Chew.... Chew... Sewing, writing, painting, drawing and applying for jobs. I drunk water mixed with a drop of Peppermint Essential Oil. I consumed fresh Holy Basil leaves to stop any thought of chest infection. I started and still continue to listen to a 'Stop Smoking' hypnosis for the next twelve days.

I have to confess, I did go a bit feral and split open a herbal teabag. It was ugly- as I smoked the tea, the grit stuck in my teeth and with saliva, muddied my mouth. I had to distract myself - I could do a mock up for this March's Expression of Interest to the local Arts, Regional Funding Grant Committee!

Feeling I might need to buy some more Tabacco... Chew... Chew... I distracted myself, I furthered the ideas of my forming novel. Hmm? I needed to research how Homicide investigations were conducted in the 1980s? I surmised, How will Ishbel, now an adult, process her Mother's fateful death? And what was that Rosicrucian blog, that quoted that latin phrase I wanted carved at the statute's Angel feet, near the iron gates and stonewall of St Anne? And can I remember 1980s stuff? Hmm? Yep, the Boom box on the school bus back seat, "Hey, Hey Saturday' before night clubbing, bad hair gel and Molly Meldrum's "Countdown"?

Chew... Chew.... Chew... Typing notes on the phone app, I gaze wistfully at a pop-up Add! I muttered in my dishevelled state of mind, "Hmm- Well- maybe- if I'm lucky? "Hmm- one day real soon - Mr Tom Bromley - I might write, with your expert help, in your 'Novel Writing Master course!' And then with sass quip, "As I fade-to-grey, Mr Bromley, can you hold Froddo's ring while I type?"

( to be continued )