The Holidays
Que mal herido cayó
Tengo un hermano en la mina
Que mal herido cayó
Dejame pasar por Dios
Que yerba del monte traigo
Y quiero curarlo yo
Holidays are a strange time for me. Sure, one can get cynical about holidays.
Last night I attended a Halloween party, where the children of all of the parents in my brother’s wife’s social circle walked blissfully down cookie cutter streets in a modern suburban landscape. The adults of the festivities sat on their porches greeting the parade of children and their guardians; candy for children, mini-bottles and plastic ramekins of Fireball and tequila for the adults.
Many of the men of this social circle are alcoholic workaholics. They married their Polish wives who give them exactly three children a piece. To maintain this charade, one must buy a big house out of a catalog; and to win the game, one must buy a really big house at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Ah, good Christ… Being born on Christmas has fudged up my holiday circuitry. Yesterday I attempted to explain this to my brother, as we walked back to the friend’s house at the end of the cul-de-sac. My brother carried his four year old son on his shoulders, and I carried my conscience on mine. Perhaps conscience is the wrong word, more like the hulking heap that is my attempt to live in domestic society, and particularly during holiday season.
My brother is an analogy-smith. That guy can make a clear and concise analogy or explain just about anything. My attempts at analogies are rambling and mostly incoherent. I began to relay the struggle to him that I experience during the holidays. Namely that on any given holiday, the first words that mistakenly come to my lips when meeting revelers is Merry Christmas. This is the result of being born on Christmas.
On my own birthday, the first thing that mistakenly wants to come out of my maw when greeting people is Happy Birthday. This glitch extends to the other major holidays of the season. Instead of saying Happy Halloween, I first remind myself not to say happy birthday, then I remind myself not to say Merry Christmas. The same thing happens on Thanksgiving.
At first it made no sense to him. I was fine with that, it was the closest I was going to get to telling him what was really on my mind. In a surprise burst of intellect, I was able to explain that holidays make me feel like it’s my birthday. Consequently, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve said Merry-fucking-Christmas to someone on their birthday. It made sense to him, surprisingly, he said. It was a success.
People often say that holidays make them depressed. I can’t say that I’m any different than that loose ilk, excepting that I peek below the surface, as the term depression is a useless term. So I’ll replace it with the term loose elk for obvious reasons. Much like loose elk, its bright eyed and obnoxious twin happiness is no better a term. I would give happiness its own name such as blight eyed, but I don’t have the patience at the moment to mix metaphors. Loose elk and happiness are ubiquitous in the lexicon, because they are place-holders for large categories of generalized experience.
I experience loose elk during the holidays, sure.
The usual answer is that the holidays can remind one of all the things in life they did not or have not yet attained or accomplish, such as siring children or making a million bucks. This supposed lack, they say, makes one sad. I have nothing against worldly attainments, but there is a frightening reality hiding just underfoot. There is a very deep chasm below, and at the bottom resides an existential beast. Though its shape and size in unknown, some fools believe that it is identical to whomever gazes upon it.
So follow the sputterings of serotonin. Work, buy a house, make children, but whatever you do, do not look down! Isn’t that what all of this work is about anyways, turning a blind eye to oblivion? Loose elk stands at the edge of this chasm, milling about and foraging. One day he, and all other things will be swallowed up by the creature below.
I find that it is better to do direct battle with the beast. I have known many who focus their attention on work or the attainment of things that prove to themselves/the-world that they existed, but sooner or later they find themselves staring down into that same abyss. This can take the form of a cataclysm if one is not careful. If they stay drunk long enough however, they might never really have to deal with it at all. If they are lucky, one night in their slumber the word Mama will cross their lips in an exhale that never recoils.
This is where the conversation would end with someone like my brother, who would cut me off with a de-motivational lecture about sour grapes before he got to hear the end of my mutterings, if I were able to even intone them at all. This is often the point where he confuses my quiet chuckling for madness. The point for me is that the beast is there no matter what you do. If I were to live this domestic life, as illustrated by the drunken Halloween party of last night, were I to ignore the existential beast and drink my vodka shots, and talk about real-estate, and who’s running for this or that; I would fall very gravely to the ground, vomit into the chasm, and be lapped by loose elk as I lay.
My holiday glum is not directly related to the attainment of what society calls success. It is that I am reminded of the existential beast, my relation to it, and the entire thinking process required to process and deal with it. This is a finer point, an abstraction, a product of subtle thinking, and not the kind of thing I would raise at a holiday fiesta when asked if I wanted a shot of Fireball. I could just get drunk like the rest of them, but it would result in more loose elk.
How do I know this? Loose elk and I have spent many a holiday together; me, immobilized with a hangover in the swaying grass near the black abyss, and “he”, chewing the cud and kicking me from time to time.
This is how the holidays usually start their rock-slide of a journey to the new year, for me. The whole process is about as confusing to me as having your birthday stolen by Our Lord and Saviour.
My brother would think that I was poo-pooing having a wife/children/monetary success. Not at all!
This is where a crucial piece of the puzzle comes in. There exists a book called The 50th Law, by Robert Green. To sum up this “law”- In times of feast we become complacent. In times of famine we become motivated. If one wishes to escape this cycle, one must remain motivated regardless of the feast or famine.
Self motivation, I hereby point my finger at you, you cunt.
This is my burden, or conscience, to use the same poor term as before. It sits upon my shoulders like a nagging child on Halloween, making up excuses that his leg hurts so that he doesn’t have to walk. Self motivation is the only way I have found to quell the rumblings of the beast below. It is a struggle, and cannot be ameliorated by candy. I’ve had enough candy to know.
I carried my nephew’s candy. My brother didn’t really want him up there, but drudged along just the same. He did not drink either. His wife drank. It’s how she cuts loose. If she has a really good time, she’ll spend the night on the bathroom floor. Her abyss is a toilet bowl and a damp rug.
~ 11/1/2021