A Merry Lesley Christmas (2018)

Posted on: Tuesday, December 25th, 2018

I. Christmas Shell

I sit here again about to be an emptied man,
With my menacing keyboard and a full stomach of cheerful food, (Hurrah!)
And the mostly passive clock, silently ticking, hurrying up the reintroduction
Of the re-hollowed man, is the one honest company at this hour.

I could care for some company. I guess everybody’s busy during the holidays,
Or at least, everybody’s pretending to be busy; switching their phones to vibrate,
And looking every thirty minutes, or during commercial breaks. At least. the TV
Is never too busy for anyone. The TV is a well-drawn plan for the empty man.

II. Christmas Strays

Don’t drink too much carbonated drinks. Don’t think too much about the vices you’re trying to leave behind.
Cigarettes, feel-good pills, fill-your-soul-from-your-hole-for-a-night strangers– they all need to take back seat.
From hereon, you’re steering, even when walking into Church’s akin to walking into the Apocalypse.
O’, little landlocked astronaut on heroin, everything shining tomorrow is yours for the taking.
Take a little bit of everything, you, silly little you. Take a piece of somebody else’s skin.

(O’, AVANTA: Ikalawa. Nawawala na ang aking pag-aalala para sa gabing hindi ko rin maaalala.
Maaalala ko pa kaya ang kawalan ng saya? Gabi ng ligaya para sa mga taong naggagala, nagwawala.)

III. Christmas Comeback

I don’t feel it. Do you feel it? I don’t feel it… I’m sure most of my town is celebrating, probably half-drunk now,
Having pissed frequently but still not quite finished with karaoke. None of it reaches my room. No kids caroling,
No fire in the sky, no smell of smog yet… It’s all quite calming, and damning– this anticipation, like waiting for The Big Bang.

I still remember the absence of feelings I’ve had in the last two Christmases…
Weird how listless I’m becoming. The Era of the Lethargist is having a comeback.
I would very much appreciate it if he stays.

(I had his piece blacken my wrist, and below sits the symbol of the Master.
I bellow to the Master my what-ifs. Its mouth opens, jet-black and never bleeding.
I hope they bleed onto me something. I would very much like to be excited by something.
Anything, Master. Anything. Any goddamn thing.)

IV. Christmas Sadists

December 25th is not the time to change. Nobody promises a personal makeover on the day reserved for Jesus rising.
No. All that new me nonce comes a week later, which has always been a lesser celebration of sorts for my house.
I would like to ruminate, tho, that I start changing now. I start reapplying course. I start revamping the self.
I like that illusion, the one where all the past me’s are leaving, even when leaving is impossible, even when revamping is a lie.

I’ve gotten too old for presents. Everybody’s too busy to buy gifts, much less wrap them.
My parents are way too tired serving, or getting served, or wishing they could walk again.
Even the walk to the Church is a task for the Apocalypse. It’s just the holidays.
The end – the end to it all– is still far from us, my dear… But the end of this me to me depends.

I can force the world to dance only in the confines of my bedroom that smells
Like donuts and cigarettes and brassbound bœuf bourguignon. I give the rulings here.
I allow elaborations and corroboratings, and I can kill the confidence of the bah! humbugs,
Slug the glances of the drab, and refund the vandalized parochial spirit with spirits singing sovereignty.

I could use force, but empathy is a stranger weapon. It simply cuts better.
I could experiment and aerate amends, or I could just live baller forever.

V. Christmas Sadists Dos

Have you ever felt like you’ve lost all your confidence? And I’m not talking about not having any because you lost a lover, or because you lost a job, or a limb, or a mother. I’m talking about that loss which just casually rides out of you, snapping one by one, in tiny manners, like twigs lit erring a backyard forest. Have you ever not believed in God for prolonged periods, only to wake one day aware of your breathing, and every hint upstairs leads to that dim two p.m. where you crawl to pray– pray to be restored– pray to be saved– pray to be un-vandalized. Have you flailed without another reason but to flail? Have you ever lost a child? Have you offered genuine tears to the altar of your God without witness? Every version of God man has invented has cursed us to be Absurdists. The version you’ve inherited, just as sadist as your self.

VI. Christmas Back-Steps

In every purpose of the holiday, I see a charity of purposelessness and a cavity being filled with hope– and they are both beautiful.
I am never, at my most awake, aware of it. Only from the distance have this perfect cynic learned of such things.
I must confess, if not to a god, then to myself and to a book, that I thought the entirety of this December would be mine.
How cruel is time to only give me half. (Still, the half glitters in comparison to the fangs of the uneventful April.)

Heat and heartbreak seeped from a summer of nuisance. The ivory tower built by hand also became felled by the hand.
And the perception I have brewed in preparation for the days when the stars no longer twinkle from where I will later stand
Has been stripped like a war criminal. I am, after all, a prisoner to my health. I have paid it no attention,
And I paid for that with everything. (Still, the body glitters with memories of the body that was and the teeth that is no longer.)

I seek to be different since the month made the prisoners of Earth all aware.
(Two minutes now… I still do enjoy seeing the sky light up. Please, light the sky the fuck up!)

(Lokāh Samastāh Sukhino Bhavantu. Lokāh Samastāh Sukhino Bhavantu.)

The thing that I am substantially certain of is that I, like many others roaming, may not be capable of real change.
The next adjust will be a supercut of overlapping things I am to abandon. I would likely be too far away from them before noticing.
I will be waving a handkerchief by the dock as their ship is leaving.
And I will fail the test of the stiff upper lip at least sixty times in the next fifteen days.
And I would ignore the blind bottles thrown by those that hold the lamp to my yesterday’s hell.
(And the bruising will escalate, and escalate, and escalate.)
And I will leave many lovers behind to make room for the lovers of the arts, lovers of life and mythology and cuisine.
And I will rescind half the unlawful social coupons dropped for many an acquaintance.
And I will get interviews for jobs and be disappointed in not being hired, and grieve the money not earned.
And I will load my wallet with a few tricks, to at least make myself feel more admirable in the company of the dust.
And I will erase from my dear dying mind many of the people I have been, allowing myself to be reborn in the later, at last.
I know that I will be stubborn in remembering my struggles, and I will be the best at it.
And I will give my imaginary biographers hell.

By the next glass of sherry, you shall realize, as I have,
That we had nothing to do with betrayal, or wanting something other in the immediate, or pointless abandonment…
I had moved on, as the wind and the waters called for me. And I will, maybe– just maybe– become grateful for our meeting.

How minute were the chances, my Love? My body, now heavy, then, shall finally float
In the beach that dared not contemplate, but only complicates,
And pardon the soul I met when the year first tore into my abdomen.

(Hindi na kita papangarapin kahit na aalahanin kitang mahalin, paminsan-minsan.
Matulog ka nang mabuti at mag-ingat ka palagi, ikaw na aking dasal sa umaga hanggang gabi.)

VII. Christmas Residuals

Be kind. Be gentle. Be everything the gods are not.
Be understanding, and extend nothing but warmth–
Anything, anything but wrath.

Say what you mean and eat what you want, and watch, in your most careful,
To whom your toes point towards. And smile a smile that is not barren.
And laugh the apex of all laughs.

…May our little six-year mongrel have a good night’s rest. Tonight,
May our humbly-assembled house be warm enough for her.
May the Earth be kind to those who are both rising and falling,
That every tenant sin peacefully and kept safe.

So long, and season’s greetings, and shit.

A Merry Lesley Christmas to you all.


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