The late 20’s of December

They call it the eve, the last glimmer of sunlight dissipates behind cloud strewn skies. Darkness covers the sky, combatted by light evoked by snow covered fields. The snow’s radiance heralded by many in this place merely because tis the season. Many wait with unbridled anticipation for a white Christmas and cheer it’s appearance, yet jeer if Christmas befalls them without a single flake on the ground. Almost as if the world turned upside down. To me such things are trivial and anecdotal since not only did I not grow up where there was white everywhere I looked, but snow does not make the meaning but does make the word in this world. As I observe the landscape, as far as I can see it is silent. The noise of the city succumbed to the blankets of snow. As if time was also frozen by the icy grasp of winter. The placidity of the visible spectrum is stillness unparalleled. My gaze searches the horizon and beckons my mind into days long gone. I go back to a childhood where everything on television and song reflected the very landscape I now stand upon. I recall the dissonance between what Christmas actually was and what it was supposed to be.

 Make sure you get the spray snow on the windows just right. Water that tree that makes it near impossible for your sofa bed to fit next to. Fret not about how Santa will get in even though we’ve always lacked a chimney. Of course he delivers to apartments. No, I don’t know why Christmas songs never have brown people in them. We’re gonna keep on partying, you lay on the sofa and try to sleep.

My footfalls upon the snow, muffled but quite inviting to a restless mind.  I reflect in the silence and quickly realize such musings inevitably bring about the stench of regret, a life littered with all too much inaction. Every year as far as memory can carry I am plagued by some melancholy dream that provokes tumultuous thought this time of year. Matters little what good I may have done or how many churches I’ve visited. This dream, this glimpse into the mind’s eye, serves as a sort of twisted holiday gift to me. This year’s gift in the form of me sitting in a temple and faced with those I’ve lost. They are battered and bruised, and even my estranged one is there. What’s odd this year is that I was unable to realize it was a dream. The fabric felt all too real as they ridiculed me and made light of my pain. I could make little sense of it besides that I felt happy to see them. From the old Eagle to Lynwood cousin, every right I wronged was in place and had much to say. I felt in some way it was in their right to dress me down. While dreary it reminds me to do right by the fallen, and carry on not only doing better but furthering their causes, their dreams if life permits. Let me be clear that I write such things not for pity, it was just a dream. I put it down simply to make sense to the reader of my occasional need for solitude and subversively how important it is to face one’s pain in order to grow from it. To take the good with the bad and create lessons from it, in order to aid you in navigating your journey of a life filled with change, challenge, and cold winter nights. As a wise Puerto-Rican once postulated, history has its eyes on you. So if you think yourself worthy to have a tombstone at life’s end, what would you have it say? I could go on ad naseum on immortality projects but I fear the point of all this has been lost on you. I will acquiesce to the fact that the cacophony of memory and dreams hand in hand represent a call to better action, active giving and leave it at that for the time being. Since standing in the snow is getting cold, I’ve got work to do, and my sibling says these writings need to be shorter.

I can easily offer up one of several excuses for not having prepared a meal for lunch in anticipation of working this eve, like say standing in the snow thinking, or hoping Santa would deliver a spam laden sammich. However let’s be honest, I was lazy and now I was running late. As is the tradition during the holidays damn near everything was closed. While I hold no ill will to the establishments wishing to be closed, I hold in high regard those people that in spite of festivities and elements sally forth into the workplace and shirk the trappings of Dickensian conditioning.

Aside from lacking sustenance going to work on this holiday brought about in me an apathetic demeanor.  Along the endless chain of memories lies the myriad of questions received when in social environments.

 So what do you people do for Christmas? What do you want for, let me tell you what I want. Do you even know how to wrap presents? Can you find my Christmas pickle? Is our food too bland for you people? **Special 2016 personal fave**=>So what kind of injun are you?

All of which cause oneself to take leave of senses and leave restraint in the shallows of the sea of ignorance time would like to think it forgot. At times I admit being offended, others I try to make a teaching opportunity at others. But of course I am not unique so at times I find myself wishing to be a child again hiding away from the outside world. On many an eve of my past when family or friends would dare attempt to visit the house without calling first. There wasn’t a way you were getting in. If the house wasn’t clean and you didn’t call, you weren’t getting in to visit. I can still hear my mother yelling at me to hide behind the curtains as cousins would come knocking on the door.  The cries from outside proclaiming they could see my tiny eyes peering through curtain and fake snow stained window. A fresh smoldering cigarette on the front balcony. In a time before mobile phones for some of my cousins a quick trip up the block to a pay phone would eventually grant entry. Nevertheless while funny such trivial things now gone would be a welcome solace. In short being kept behind the curtain and away from ignorance, stowed away in solitude was good and bad.

On the wintery traverse to work I came upon a gas station. One of those that for sake of madness or convenience sells eggs, fruit, and even take and bake pizza. Not that I’m complaining, this place was like the last swallow of orange drink to a thirsty kid. As one can imagine the place was littered with everyone getting anything from gas to gift cards, to grapefruit. By what I can only proclaim a Christmas miracle I was able to snatch up the last two roller hotdogs. Their vigor long past, and they resembled more like freckled slim jim beef sticks, but I was hungry. I then got in a line resembling a Walmart line on black Friday, Thursday or whatever day(s) it is now. After what seemed an eternity of waiting in line watching my drool encompass the two forgotten links of old meat, there was one person ahead of me. Finding it somewhat odd she had nothing in hand to purchase, I figured she was waiting to pay for gas or perhaps sing a Christmas carol or two to the ardent workers of the establishment. To my chagrin she incited an impromptu question and answer session with the employee as to what lottery tickets were the best along with several other questions. The display cases being adorned with an innumerable array of scratcher tickets, she wanted to know everything about all of them. Why not? She had waited in line, she deserved to take her time to make an informed decision before just going on feeling. Minutes like hours passed and she conversed about lottery tickets as if it was Socrates facing congress just prior to him sucking down some hemlock (which I wish the store had at this instant). The patrons behind me began to sound like a mix of steam engines and humping humpback whales as they began to hiss and gasp. An elderly man just behind me began to shake and buckle at the sheer weight of having to hold his items far longer than Atlas held the Earth. I offered a respectful hand to the gentleman as someone from the milieu uttered come on. The coach purse was set on the counter and in a style envied only by Linda Blair the lady holding up the show turned and shot a look across the crowd. This look I know, I’ve seen it before. It’s a look adorned by those wanting and thirsting to be angry at something or feel as if they have earned the right to subjugate others or just feel righteous. I see it on every face this time of year from folks that yell Merry Christmas in their oh so great defiance to saying happy holidays. For years I never gave much thought to what is said but rather by what is done, however to these style of pleebs I’ve been wrong all along. I also see that look on that asshat who works for the craze who’s like twenty four and screams into youtube every week looking to capitalize on fanning flames of angst with her off point videos. This same youngin speaks of patriotism but never walked the talk and took the oath like so many of us have and would do so again in a moment’s notice. I even see that look on every person who is so obtuse and oblivious to taking responsibility for themselves that they utter in defiance to the observer any derivative of; only god can judge me, or I’m my parents kid. How lazily convenient it is to just state a fact or cliche and absolve yourself of responsibility and also show that you do acknowledge a feeling of guilt. Say what you will but it is only death that doesn’t judge or discriminate. However I digress as I often do. In this eve of Christmas a selfish patron scolded the crowd and eventually bought two lottery tickets and strutted out the door. Her use of the look and manipulation of everyone’s time had her walking out as if a roman general marching through Rome in a triumph. The elderly man got to go ahead of me and the world kept on turning. In retrospect this was nothing, a mere needle in a stack of needles with the pin cushion imbued with them numb to it’s pain. At this point the reader would probably like to know the point of all this. I have no point, there is good and bad. There are words and meaning.Hold true to your your compass of the rational and civility. Perhaps I do have a point, which is that this is just a simple little journal entry for the late 20’s of this year’s December. A point of reflection, melancholy, hunger, and the trappings of having to go to work. Admittedly cold or not I’d probably like to still be standing in a field watching snow.


Also published on Medium.

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