smoker ovenbird I was once a heavy smoker of Popeye candy cigarettes. I can distinctly remember the red box they came in, the sticky-chalky-pressed-icing-sugar texture that would melt into a gummy mess in your mouth, the red food dye on the tip imitating a fiery glow. I would stand outside on winter days and smoke four in a row, letting my frosted breath stand in for a cloud of exhale. I assumed I looked glamorous, but that’s probably a stretch. Glamour is hard to achieve when you’re an eight year old in a bulky snow suit, with chapped lips, and a balaclava pulled over your face. In my early 20s I moved on to clove cigarettes. Fundamentally I thought smoking was disgusting. I had sensitive lungs. I hated the smell of tobacco cigarettes. Second_hand_smoke left me feeling dizzy and jittery. But I was attracted to the sleek black paper that defined the barrel of a clove cigarette and the scent was spicy and pleasant. So I smoked them, about as effectively as I smoked candy cigarettes. Mostly I drew smoke into my mouth, rolled it around a little, and blew it out again, without ever letting it enter my lungs. It was a prop, a shield, a warning, a disguise. I felt as glamorous as I did as a child with a crumbling sugar stick pinched between my index and middle fingers. It made me feel like I was the sort of person someone might fall in love with. I sat in bars and smoked clove cigarettes and listened to jazz and read philosophy books and Canadian literature. My boyfriend wore all black and painted his nails to match. We thought we were edgy, but really we were unsure of ourselves, no longer children but unclear on who we would become. Someone eventually decided it was inappropriate for candy companies to market fake cigarettes to kids and the Popeye candy cigarettes became Popeye candy sticks and the food dye glow disappeared from the ends. I haven’t seen them in stores in decades. I don’t even know where you would get a clove cigarette these days and I’m no longer looking for a prop to distract from my fear and uncertainty. Though once in a while, when the winter is dark and deep, I lift the menthol tip of madness to my lips and inhale as deeply as I can. 260204 what's it to you? who go blather from