10/25/2007 Some mornings on waking into the world with the luster of sweat on my skin I realize I should go back to sleep. Whether it’s the puddle of coffee beneath a cracked, plastic mug or that the windows can no longer be opened, I don’t know. And it is not that I am in a horrible mood, just agitated with the state of things. I decided to take up pipe smoking when I was twenty-one. Perhaps I was a little younger, but I don’t think so. It is an intimate little something, finding the perfect pipe. It should rest easy between the thumb and forefinger. It should fit naturally in the curve they create with a weight that lets the smoker know it is there, but not so heavy or awkward as to become burdensome. My Butz-Choquin is a straight billiard pipe. It is a low end model, a good beginner pipe. It was sixty dollars and discontinued sometime during the last eight years. There are some that run in the the thousands, pipes carved from exotic woods and stones. Pipes with ivory or gold. I’m sure there are some with diamonds and rubies. I am not willing to pay that much. Pipe smoking is something I never mastered. It is a patient hobby. It is built for libraries in homes, dark stained wood and leather that sits fireside. I live in white walls. It is soothing to relax with a pipe; it’s like lazy Sunday afternoons spent contemplating the simple things while in a rocking chair on the front porch. My uncle used to blow smoke rings to entertain us when we were all children. I have no children to entertain. I think there was something built into buying my pipe which is sitting in front of me with the bowl half-full and the tobacco dry from days of waiting to be smoked. The flavor will be off. It will taste a little stale, old. Maybe I thought when buying the pipe eight years ago that with it would come the dreams of those dark walls. I guess I thought with it would come a study with a huge desk made of walnut or oak or some other wood that would gleam in front of a huge fire I had lit. I would sit in an overstuffed leather chair and stare at whatever was laid before me. I would consider playing billiards on the elegant, antique table I had acquired from origins unknown. It would be a place, my sanctuary, where my children were not allowed unsupervised. I would arrange the books in such a manner as to fool them into thinking there was something taboo between the bindings of each. I would fool them so they would learn to read and challenge themselves in a way I never learned to. I thought there would be a tacky, tasteless bearskin rug stretched out in front of the fireplace and taxidermy deer heads hanging from the walls, maybe a twelve-point buck. I would have an old typewriter cast to the side because I would only write on unlined paper with cotton fibers running through it. This pipe was me, at twenty-one, being a foolish child. There are some things which are not inherent in what we buy. There’s something sweet and innocent in believing what I believed. There’s also something that has added lines to this face, these creases that are starting to form around my lips. My skin is no longer as smooth or forgiving. I honestly thought it would bring me the life of the esoteric scholar. It did not give me an education. It did not bring me friends or children. It did not offer me a house in which I could relax at an age far too young, an age where relaxation has yet to be earned. This is why I need a new pipe. I need new dreams. The one I want is colored by some secret process that leaves the wood indigo. It is whimsical. It is not taking oneself too seriously. How could I believe in a dark study with rich, deep colors if I have an indigo pipe? I am finally old enough to realize some dreams don’t come so easy… Dreams are not built into objects. Or better, their coming to fruition does not come from the purchase of something unrelated or any purchase at all, really. No matter how aromatic the tobacco, no matter how much I relax into me when it is lit and resting in the curve of my hand, this pipe weighs me down. It is too heavy for this space. I need something a little lighter, a little more colorful than white walls or walls lined solely with books in leather bounds. I am not the person I thought I was. I am not built for a fine pipe or a fine flask or cigarette cases or long silver cigarette filters, no matter how many of these things I have owned. I am not meant for the soft, forgiving creak of leather as I sit with a book in my lap and stare into the fire. There is no transcendence in those flames for me. I am just a girl with a certain set of dreams that has to be pushed to the side a little…just far enough for newer dreams to come in. Dreams that somehow encompass a pipe with wood that is indigo instead of the dark, weighty cherry brown I love. [This was originally written and posted October 25, 2007...not too long ago but a lifetime ago. I've revised it. It needed to be done. I have become singlur in my journey, thus plurals are no longer applicable. In that, I've found an indigo pipe does not suit my personality. It is far too whimsical for the likes of me. I am indeed drawn to deep, rich colors and woods that gleam fireside. (Please don't think this is a reflection on anyone other than myself. It is but a personal realization.) I've gained great insight into who I am though the journey is far from complete. As a wise man I know is fond of saying, "Change is not an event; it's a process." Indeed! So is filling one's skin, accepting the fine lines of age, and the growth of the spirit. I am still in need of a new pipe, but as I've said, it's a special little something finding the right fit. In due time, I'll find it. Presently, I'm enjoying my stroll.]
(January 14, 2008)
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