Yes it is early winter, and I’ve gone to ground. In my yearly, personal self-evaluation during the holiday season, I dive deep into center of my core with self-loathing, self-aggrandizing, wankery and zeal. I do not know what it is about the season that drives my quest, romanticism or doubt, but every year at this time, I am in flux. I hate myself, I love myself, I had a great year, I had the worst ever, I succeeded brilliantly, or I am the biggest looser. It is enough to make any sane mortal puke until they’ve turned themselves inside out.
It usually starts with my Nov. birthday or a trip home before or after, and picks up momentum over Thanksgiving. The meal itself is a blessing, but on either side of it, I find it difficult to find footing with the way I am feeling, reminiscent, redundant, and reluctant to just be. My absolute attention is diverted to shallow material pursuits, and I spend way too much time searching for the perfect bobble for family and friends. I love it, but the seek takes away focus and energy from my work.
Smarmy films and the small screen are barbiturates for the warm glow of dashing, gnashing, and noshing until physically out of balance, belly heavy and listing to the port and bow. I watch the Wizard of Oz for the nth time (I can’t remember how many) or the current team rivalry and competition for bragging rights and “honor.” I usually do not know the rules, but does that really matter?
The next day after more trough time, it’s out on the street with shoulder-to-shoulder masses of the panic stricken, pushing pushed flesh-time. I practice the delicate balance of simultaneous standing, walking, and napping in the ebb and flow; and with a Zombie’s shuffle and stagger, I make extra effort not to trip over flat ground or cracks in the sidewalk.
Do not even get me started with the overnight dreamtime. Apparitions, familiar and not, flitting about with unusual devices for improbable acts, and I feel more home there than elsewhere. Luckily, it’s only a four-day bacchanalia, and hung over on Monday with one foot still stuck in mire of strange bedfellows, I climb up onto the plateau for a breath. I smell the lay of the land, and plot a course to finish what is some adulation, but mostly just fatigue.
This year like every year, I curse it to be different, and yet, I always come back for more. More eating, more spending, more laughing, more drinking, more rushing, growling, smiling, and yes, love. I wish you the best; now get back to the quest. Nothing more to see here today, move along, because this holiday’s initial crash is only memory and twisted beer cans, evergreens on lifelines, and turkey skin stuck to the bottom of the trash can.