Santa Claus or Krampus are not enough to break the malaise that chains me to personal doubt. I was not planning on using this blog as a personal journal, but entorpy always strikes this time of year. I am not overly sad or depressed, I am indifferent, flat, and disinterested. I thought I would be able to put it aside with a month of travel and holiday fun. It has come and gone, and I still don’t feel anying other than the ubiquitious dullness of the everyday. This mood patern returns every year at this time. I am not dead inside. I want to be happy, to feel the joy and enthusiams that the season promotes, but I am lackluster. I can’t work up any ethusiams, even for the simplest tasks or dullest routines.
The events of November were fun, and I thought it would build momentum for the holiday season. I visitied family for two weeks; my sister underwent minor back surgery, and since mom is a shut-in, I wanted to be there for them if anything went wrong. I thought I would have time to engage some old friends, but time always gets away from me. I do what I want, but could not get it togther to add anything new. Tacid entropy strike two.
I journeyed to Boston for Thanksgiving. Two friends moved there a few months ago, and it’s our second year of traveling together over the holiday. Last year we shared a condo in Amsterdam. Boston is not a slack city. The area is rich in American History and humanities. It seems somehow more real than the Emerald City that I live in now, San Francisco. Boston’s working class is actually able to live in Boston. Their are bad neighborhoods and good, like every city, except the average Norm on the street is friendly, if not hard to understand with the local loud compressed accent. The impatient tone is a gate to scare the faint of heart. Down in the train tunnels focus shifts to quick and efficient movement. Dallying, impeeding the flow is met with hyperbolic frustated sighs, and barely auddlbe profanit; even I could tell who were the tourists. On the surface, Boston is not as dirty; SF is covered in layer of wrappers, plastic bags, cigarrette butts, and worse. The SF locals can be judgemental; the city takes itself too seriously. We are extremely tolerant to your face, but mostly indifferent. I am guilty as the rest. It’s easy to maintain a good impression about Boston when exposure is ten days over a holiday, and baseball is out of season. I’ve heard Red Sox fans are the most obnoxious. We visited a reactment village, Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth MA, and spent one night in a small harbor town, Provincetown. We slept late, stayed up late, and made some most excellent brownies for a Thanksgiving treat. The trip was restful. Again I had hoped to hook up with some old friendships, but the timing was bad, entoropy strike three.
Since my return to the EC SF, I’ve been so disinterested that even banging hours of gibberish on these keys can not break inertia. In process, I use it as a warm up, but all is incoherent stagnation. I love Christmas. I perform all of the Christmas traditions: I light the candle, hang the garland, and stir the punch; I sync desires with reality and give small gifts; and I match one for two on donations to my favorite charites. The excitment builds from All Hallows day to the final climax on New Years Eve, I can’t seem to find the spirit this year. Halloween begin better than expected, and then it all crashed down around me. I’ve not been able to pinpoint what happened? Am I disgusted with my success this year? Have I spent too much time alone and accepted as normal a bad side effect of my choices? After projecting my pschye onto the wicker man, have I burned him too brightly?
I wrote several poems and finished my first novella. I joined a writing group. I am well fed, and live in a beautiful city. I have my health. I am working on a sequel and have a queue of short story ideas. How do I escape this yearly wankery?
As I hurtle through space and the existence in my life, I run into this pasenger every year. He waves, smiles, holds out his thumb as I pass. I don’t stop and then further out in time, there he is again. He tips his hat and smiles, winks and holds out his thumb. I pass. Is he a dangerous reflection or the future? If I pick him up, what will I learn? What am I afraid of? I know this malaise will pass, but every day is a long, long, lonely day, and I know I will see my friend again next Christmas.