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smoking
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2020-04-10
Warmth of the sun and the feel of the grass beneath my feet.
The memories that stick in my head the most durning the pandemic are of the time I spent in my backyard with my partner and our dogs. I couldn't go to work and there was not much to do with my job virtually. I spent my days outside playing with my dogs; and sitting or laying on the grass next to my partner. I would sit in the backyard and feel the warmth of the sun cascading over my body; as I inhaled deeply the warm rush of the marijuana smoke into my lungs. I would walk on the ground barefoot feeling the earth beneath my feet and the grass between my toes. Listening to the birds chirp and the bees buzz by on their way to pollinate the many wild flowers and vegetables we have in our back garden. It was such a peaceful time for my partner and I. We had only bought our house a year or so earlier, and during this time we really started to feel like we settled into this space. Our backyard was our shelter from the world. To juxtapose that with what was happening outside of our sun drenched backyard is the most striking thing about these memory for me. Here we were enjoying a freedom that is seldom experienced in this hyper-capitalist world we live in (the freedom of not working). We were fortunate enough that we could spend our days in the sun with our dogs while the world passed us by. There was a brief moment during this pandemic where we hoped that others would see how capitalism ruins our lives and how much better things could be. It seemed in many ways the earth was healing, we had a brief glimpse into what a ecologically sustainable future could look like, but not only that, we had an opening to see what a life that emphasizes people over profit and leisure over work could be. Unfortunately, that was not going to last and was never meant to. The powers that be needed their profits, and their workers to exploit; and slowly but surely they demanded we risk our lives for their economy. The warmth of the sun and the feel of grass beneath my feet was lost to the grinding gears of the capitalist machine and I'm not sure I'll ever get it back. -
2020-02-01
Essential Business
During my undergraduate studies at the University of Oregon, I lived in an apartment in Eugene, Oregon. The apartment complex had a mixture of college students and non-college students, in other words, it was not specifically for college students as many in the area were. Being that Eugene is a college town and the legalization of marijuana, the scent of marijuana was common. Walking my dog in the evenings without smelling or seeing people smoke would have been odd. The COVID-19 breakout and subsequent lockdown would alter my apartment complex's scent. As mentioned before, the smell of marijuana was extremely common. However, the intensity and frequency were increased. The scent of weed became almost as common as the smell of rain or grass in the morning. People began to smoke much earlier in the mornings, whereas before it was usually reserved for the afternoon or evening times. COVID-19 forced people to stay home, which altered their work and college schedules which resulted in more leisure time. Interestingly, or perhaps rather expected, the State of Oregon deemed marijuana dispensaries an "Essential Business". The State would curtail one's ability to go to campus and the library, places of study, and personal development were shut down for health and safety purposes. But people were still allowed to go to a dispensary spend their money on a recreational drug. So I decided to go one, for investigational purposes of course, and after having a conversation with the local budtender, she informed me that people were being much higher qualities than before. She speculated it was either out of fear of the pandemic or the fear of the dispensaries being shut down in the near future. Thus it brought me to wonder, was marijuana deemed "Essential" for economic or psychological purposes? -
2021-10-03
The Scents of a Homecoming
My maternal grandfather passed away late last year amidst a relatively heavy pandemic lockdown, and our family has since tried to fill in for him in caretaking for my grandmother. If he could have asked something of us, I know it would have only been to look after her. He was that kind of man. He didn’t need for anything for time with his family and friends, and his utmost concern was her welfare, even when she angered him. Recurring and cyclic apprehension and uncertainty over transmission rates, long-term vaccine efficacy and inoculated antibody generation have forestalled several attempted return trips to my hometown. Data-driven doubts have eroded my wife’s confidence that our collective vaccinations will protect her aging parents from life-altering illness and death have prevented her from traveling with me, even though she wont readily admit that outside our home. In addition to everything else the pandemic has altered or taken from us, it’s also complicated my family’s efforts to care for each other. My grandmother turned 86 recently, and her birthday was also their anniversary. They would have been married 63 years this month, and we wanted to make sure the day didn’t pass like any other lonely Tuesday since his death. My cousins and I put together a birthday dinner at the best restaurant in town, and I traveled back to New Mexico for a week to visit and help where I could. The trip turned out to inspire a self-reflection on the power of scent in my life, emotions, and memory. *** I drove straight to my grandmother’s home on Blodgett Street. I pushed the front door open, and an unpleasant stink hit my nostrils. Throughout my life, that home had particular smells that transitioned over time. Everyone in my family but the children smoked cigarettes while I was growing up, and it wasn’t unusual for a blue-gray haze to hang in my grandparents’ home during family holidays. It wasn’t uncommon for their 1000 sq. ft. home to sleep ten or fifteen people when we had something to celebrate or grieve. Ashtrays often overflowed if late night poker games grew too intense to step away from the dining table. I recall one Thanksgiving from my early childhood in which heavy cigarette smoke obscured my view of the backdoor while I stood near the front door. Even through those early years, I associated their home with the smell of sweets. Baked goods, chocolate cakes, snickerdoodles, and sugar cereals, although I’m now surprised any of us could smell anything. I never ate Fruity Pebbles anywhere but their house. Word reached my family in the mid 80s that hotboxing the house was bad for everyone’s health, and they began smoking outside. Grandad hated that; he’s the one who paid off the mortgage, so he oughta be able to smoke wherever he damned well pleased. Still, he took it outside for the grandkids. Since they stopped smoking in the house, and especially since they quit smoking fifteen years ago, I associated their home with a particular and pleasant fragrance. I never placed it, and I’ve never smelled it anywhere else. It wasn’t solely the scented wax my grandmother leaves on warming plates for too long, which are almost always homey food scents, like apple pie. The scent of their home welcomed me back to a place I am unconditionally loved, missed, and wanted. My jokes always hit, my cooking never failed, and everyone was always glad to see me. They were also glad to take my lunch money at the poker table, which I imagine might have contributed to my perpetual welcome. As of this trip, that unique aroma is gone, replaced by a light odor of stale animal waste. My grandmother took in a low functioning chihuahua about three years ago, and the dog is slowly and thoroughly ruining all the flooring surfaces in her home. It won’t housebreak, and it’s incapable of turning right. Seriously. The dog might be a reincarnated Nascar driver. It only turns left. When it’s excited, anxious, fearful, doesn’t matter. The only emotional arrow in its quiver is a left turn, and the only dichotomy is the circumference. The dog can run around the whole room or spin in place, but only and always left. Lefty shit on one of my most important and reassuring emotional stimulants. ** I also stayed with my parents, who live across town, and we share a love of food, especially comfort food best consumed with big spoons or served in casserole dishes. Because we’re New Mexicans, that means a heavy dose of Hatch green chili goes in everything produced in our kitchens. Throughout the week, my folks made all the staples for fall: red beef enchiladas, fire roasted salsa, smoked burgers, and green chili chicken stew. While I associated backed goods and sweets with my grandparents’ home, I’ve always associated the aroma of meals with my parents, and especially the foods that take a day or two to get just right in a crock or stockpot. Bubbling green chili anything reminds me of the best parts of my childhood, and I have no unfond memories or emotions associated with it. I never caught a beating over the dinner table, never fought over a kettle of green chili. Comfort foods have historically made all the hurt and misery of the outside world go away. That’s their magic, isn’t it? No matter what the day and the world brought to your doorstep, the right foods and aromas improved everything they touched. ** As such, the consistent and predictable wonderfulness of my parents’ home helped buttress my emotions and the loss of the Blodgett Street Scent. The disappearance of that emotional, olfactory experience altered my perception of the trip. I regarded its replacement as a bellwether of things to come, a foreshadowing of my grandmother’s seemingly imminent decline into managed in-home care. My concerns over what the light stink meant conspired with her increased hearing loss, the occasional repeated story, and the often-repeated questions to erode my confidence in her long-term stability. Although she’s now 86, she remains independent and self-sufficient. There’s nothing she can’t accomplish on her own with enough time and naps between exertion. I think I’ve taken that for granted, though, and I should begin managing my expectations. Thanks to a left-leaning chihuahua, I have to confront my grandmother’s increasing fragility and forthcoming dependence. I regret having never attempted to define its source ingredients, although I doubt I could recreate it at any other time or place. In the meantime, I need to get her out of the house long enough to have the flooring scrubbed and sanitized. If you’re in the market for a left-loving fecal factory, please inquire within. -
2020-11-12
"How the pandemic got people smoking again" - Vox
With the advent of the COVID-19 pandemic, many people have been pressured to develop bad habits such as overeating, alcoholism, doom scrolling, and impulse shopping. But one pandemic indulgence that stands out to medical officials and journalists is smoking, which damages lungs and puts one at an increased risk from dying of COVID-19. In an article for Vox, journalist Melinda Fakuade provides readers with an overview of the reasons why more people have taken up smoking during the COVID-19 pandemic in spite of the increased risk of death. According to Fakuade, a major factor that explains the increased prevalence of smoking during the COVID-19 pandemic is the sheer boredom that comes with being unable to leave home without risking contracting COVID-19. Not being able to leave home and spend money on other amenities also increases one's access to discretionary spending, which can be used to fund cigarette smoking and other bad habits. Fakuade also emphasizes the role of stress, which induces people to take up bad habits such as smoking as a coping mechanism. According to her, smoking functions as a way of maintaining a routine and sense of control in a time of extreme instability. Finally, Fakuade considers whether or not the increased prevalence of smoking during the COVID-19 pandemic constitutes a reflection of an internal "death wish," on the part of smokers.