Alex Stangl
Absolutely underground and struggling songwriter.
1
songs
29
plays
This Place Is Quiet This Place Is Quiet
Unlike the easy going nights of spring, summer and autumn, the winter nights were a challenge, as I would make my way up the seven steps to the landing and carefully step out onto the porch and seat myself in the smoking chair. Once I was seated, I would quickly unzip the cigarette pouch in my purse and withdraw the Sunkist Sours tin that contained my fourteen cigarettes or less, depending, of course, when I had last filled up my tin. The cold temperature and, commonly, the wind, did not stop me from venturing out into the frigid AM hours and lighting up a contemplative cigarette, almost every hour, on the hour. Beside my smoking chair was a small nicotine stained cookie jar which I used for collecting my cigarette butts. Once a week, I would empty the jar into a small Glad garbage bag, when I was sure that all the butts were safely extinguished. Smoking cigarettes was so much more than a nasty habit; it was a spiritual ritual that I much enjoyed and looked forward to. It was a time to ponder and think.
The snow twinkled with small diamonds under the streetlight. Occasionally a car would drive past, as I sat in the dark. Or a red-eye flight would pass overhead with blinking red lights. But for the most part, the neighbourhood was silent and asleep as I quietly inhaled and exhaled my reserve-bought cigarettes, which I purchased for $15.00 per bag of 200 in Hiawatha, every 6 weeks or so.
I thought about many things as I puffed away; eternal recurrence, J.D. Salinger and God; essentially, my life. I made note that I hadn't experienced deja vu in many years, and so I thought, perhaps, that I hadn't lived this part of my life before. Maybe I had died and had been immediately resurrected back in 1987 when I had attempted to end it all. It was a strange thought that I tossed around from time to time. Maybe this was heaven; maybe this was hell. I could never be sure.
My time on Sherbrooke Street was a time of loss. I sat by the kitchen window for many lonely years staring out between the nicotine caked blinds, wondering where I had been and wondering where I was going. I lived on Meals-On-Wheels frozen dinners, coffee and Diet Coke. I kept copious, forlorn notes detailing my depressive observations and insights in lined journals that had been gifted to me by a friend, who I would meet up with every now and then over coffee at the old Country Style Donut shop on Chemong Road. Most of the journals were lost when my Mother sold the house on Aberdeen Avenue, when she and I moved into Jackson Creek Retirement Residence. Many of my belongings were lost in that move; books, DVDs, Compact Discs and records. Only material things, though at times I felt the sense of loss. But that was all behind me now...
It was a new day. I had made it through the night. The morning sun was shining. My love had yet to awake from her dream time escape. I put on my jacket and climbed the seven steps to the landing and carefully stepped through the door onto the porch and sat in the smoking chair. I lit a contemplative cigarette and thought about my journey from there to here.Contact
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