Tom Robbins’ Still Life with Woodpecker is a novel that takes place entirely inside a pack of Camel cigarettes. This seems farfetched, but this theory—that a whole reality can be contained in an object (especially an object with such influence as a pack of Camel cigarettes)—may not be far from the truth. Reality is based on perception, and some objects can help us enter a metaphysical reality to see inside ourselves to our unconscious mind. The only drawback is that what we stumble upon there may be something we would rather not see.

I cannot recall when I developed my fondness for Camel cigarettes in particular. I don’t remember that first Camel, I do not remember buying that first pack, and yet now I feel a void without the security of having them nearby. Everyone has a desire to feel fulfilled, and Camels are the vice that fulfill me. When I wake up each morning, I reach to my dresser—an arm’s length away—to grab and light a cigarette before leaving the warmth of my bed. Sometimes it makes me nauseous, but only at first, and the feeling soon goes away. I will drift between consciousness and unconsciousness when smoking: Sometimes directing my attention fully on the ember, or “cherry,” burning at the tip, the gray-blue smoke produced, and the wild sensation of tobacco entering my lungs and nicotine in my bloodstream; other times I am oblivious to the act, and it feels so natural that it is just part of daily living. Regardless of my mental state while smoking, Camels remain very dear to me—even to the point of adoration.

I open a fresh pack and am greeted with twenty cigarettes, perfect cylinders, with clean, tan filters speckled with white followed by a thin, bold strip colored blood red. Then, paper so thin and delicate that it is translucent—filled taut with the sweet Turkish blend tobacco. On this paper, just above the filter, is stamped the tiny shadow of a dark blue camel—the heart of each individual cigarette. Once the embers have reached this silhouette, it is dead—its purpose fulfilled—leaving behind only the now dirty filter as evidence.

Each of these little soldiers of death are packed into a small cardboard encasement of which a glance leaves me more fondness than a cigarette itself, though an image of the pack always leaves a desire to set fire to a little soldier enclosed inside. Like a lover’s body, the inside is what is important, but the exterior is so irresistible. She’s a charming yellow-tan, accented with burnt orange hues in agreeable Indian patterns. Central is the ever-ingrained image of a camel—sloped neck, head held high. Two pyramids stand tall in the backdrop, alongside an oasis of three distant palm trees. These images, these metaphors, are contained by a perfect circle, as if looking through a telescope. Above, in attractive dark blue print is the ever-embossed label,

This graphic imagery is relatable to my own smoking experience. Basic symbolism describes the image of a pyramid as an object of power or control. I have the illusion of power when smoking, or even having a pack in my purse or pocket. This empowering sentiment is exactly what I believe Prometheus was feeling when he stole fire from the Gods, and I am gifted to be able to feel it every day, as long as I have my Camels. It is a power of control: I can ease my mind, collect my thoughts and find tranquility in the practice, and no one can stop me. The baffling paradox of this action is that I relinquish all power in lighting a Camel or buying a fresh pack. This surrender is physically understood through the latter. In the act of buying Camels, I often glance down to the dollars earned from work, see the pyramid topped with the all-seeing eye and Annuit Coeptis—announcing the birth of a new world order. The pyramid symbol is on our American currency, and money is a form of power. I continue the same routine day in and day out: enter tobacco store, pay money, feel guilty, walk outside, open pack, light cigarette, inhale, exhale, experience relief. It is a ritual I can’t seem to escape and often makes me question my desire to truly quit the habit. In spending nearly six dollars for 20 cigarettes, I am relinquishing one form of power (money) for another. This other power (Camels) holds an oasis: peace, tranquility, and relief. This symbol is also an illusion, however. The relief is temporary, and now it is nearly impossible to find comfort and peace without initiation by means of a cigarette. My Camels are a deceptive lover. She consumes my thoughts when she’s gone, and makes my chest ache when she’s with me. It’s an abusive relationship, I know. But I cannot imagine life without her around.

It’s incredible that I could feel such affection at the uttering of “Camel,” an animal I do not have direct exposure to, aside from viewing the trapped creature at the local city zoo. The symbol of a camel shows patience and tolerance, but also suffering and endurance. This may be the most honest symbol she portrays in all of her false promises. This is her conduct, as well as the process of her insertion into my life. She is always patient—never forcing herself, but always subtly teasing and prompting me to spend a few minutes with her. These few minutes here and there add up quickly to several—smoking 20 cigarettes a day at an average of five minutes per cigarette is 100 minutes (over an hour and a half devoted to her). My Camels bring me suffering through taking my time, my money and my health. But a few minutes, a few dollars, and shortness of breath is a small price to pay for the relief from my whirling thoughts or negative focus when I experience such things. And through it all she endures: always present, inciting and inviting me.

Perhaps because I am a science major, I decided to perform an experiment. The variable: my Camels. I intended to go a full day without, then preparing the way towards leaving them to my past entirely. The procedure didn’t last long. I broke down at 3:40 in the afternoon and lit a demon. I smoked as if I hadn’t had a cigarette in ages: fully conscious of her presence and savoring each drag as if it were the last. My heart rate increased, and I felt sick, guilty and weak. This pattern of passion followed by regret seems unremitting. I have begun to accept it as just the way things are.

The purpose of this essay is purely personal. My objective was to shatter the rose-colored glasses and see my infatuation with Camels in absolute truth, so that I could find the courage to leave her to my past. The truth that I have found is that the biochemical nicotine addiction is a secondary dependence. The primary factor, rather, is that I am in love. The lust, the fire—it is irresistible. I cannot live with her, and I cannot live without her. As the variables in my life change, she is my constant. I have discovered both comfort and fear in this realization; I cannot give up the power she provides. Perhaps I may have been more content to not have discovered this disturbing knowledge of deep-rooted dependency, but in stamping out my denial of the truth I have taken the first step (of many steps to come) to stamping out my Camels evermore.

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