Devils and Hungry Ghosts

There are certain smells that remind me of my mother.

Oatmeal, cigarettes, Estée Lauder lipstick. Mink coats. Christmas trees.

Assuredly, I find her there. Deep in the olfactory nerves, cocooned in my amygdala. At the intersection of dreams and waking.

My cold finally lifted. Rest, good rest, finally visited me after eluding me for so long. And with rest, comes hunger.

I woke up craving my father’s New England Style Pot Roast with braised pearl onions and Yukon gold potatoes cooked to the point of tender, starchy fudge. The beef chuck roast burnished and drenched with salty gravy and the piquant-ness of horseradish grown deep in the winter soil of Illinois.

But this morning I’ll settle for a pop tart zapped in the microwave.

Yesterday I began watching Ken Russell’s The Devils, something that had been on my queue for some time now. It’s based off of Aldous Huxley’s nonfiction account of The Devils of Loudon and it stars a magnificent Oliver Reed as a wayward Catholic priest and Vanessa Redgrave as the spurned nun who confabulates a story about him seducing her and the turmoil that ensues.

I’m a sucker for 1970s cinema so of course, I love it. At one point Oliver Reed fights a man with a crocodile. It’s magnificent.

Although it goes against what most auteurs wish for their films, I’ve taken once more to watching these motion pictures on my little laptop with my over-sized earphones, puffing away at my vapes. Wintermint. Sour Chill Apple. F**king Fab. Rainbow Rain. Miami Mint. Sour Apple Ice. Strawberry Kiwi Pear.

When those don’t do, I excuse myself for a cigarette and shudder in orgasmic delight when the nicotine overwhelms me.

The other night, I found myself craving two fingers of Old Forester whiskey. The amber tint of it reflected back to me in a crystal glass. The acerbic bite of it that gives way to smoothness and warmth. I eventually snapped out of it, but I suppose those cravings will keep re-surfacing. Autumn for me is entwined with whiskey.

Step 12 is all about helping others. Reaching from the depths of selfishness and alchemizing it into selflessness. Moving away from navel gazing and staring at the bottomless glass into the holographic reflection of the universe. I am not the hungry ghost that bewilders me, but the incandescence of the spirit that moves with imperfection until perfected again. Or something beautiful like that.

Florida is strange with its never-ending heatwaves that simmer and roil over the seaside. But then everywhere is hot these days.