. . . all the
gears spitting us out each day
stupid smoke breaks
racist radio shows
trivia, back stabbing
nastiness, hypocrisy . . .
It is cold enough out to be snowing, probably cold enough in here, too. We’re all bundled up on this Thanksgiving day which I don’t want to be reminded of, but everyone, if with simply mad footsteps tumbling down the stairs – in that busyness they enjoy so much when parents are in town or they’re out the door to see them – it’s enough. Turkey day, they call it. Have a happy one. It never fails to make me, as a vegetarian, sick to my stomach just to think about it, how a country in a time ready to bring family and friends together and count up their rights, privileges, and blessings, alternately, is so ready, so quick, to thoughtlessly chop off another living being’s head and put it across the table’s spread as a symbol of pride and celebration, as if this is another one of their privileges, and even an event they have been waiting all year for, to claim something righteous about themselves – especially if a punk jumps up to stomp that spirit out. They defend, for the life of them, all their death, the mass trucking, mass packaging. Forget the idea of tofu grossness, they say. What kind of holiday is that, without that, without that real bird on the table, who deserves it anyway?, because we’re American and the natives, with us, had some, too – at least in the beginning.
I come along and say, no, check me out at the register with a few items and I will wait at home for it to snow all around our building while I spend hours reading and reading like a madman with some sense left in his head.
We run into this couple we know, they’re standing in this crowded supermarket line waiting to look surprised to see us. Oh, it’s you guys. Yes, us. Here we are. There you are, what do you know? What’s going on? Their basket contains one of those beer bricks. It seemed to be mocking us, saying, “This is where the real party is going on. You two, you two go and play checkers or something. Good luck with that.” Casey plays role of the diplomat in these situations when I feel too disgusted to talk, and she jokes, lightens everything up, and before you know it, time enough has passed that I can say oh look at the time, how brutal is the time!, you can hardly blame us for wanting to move along now, go have yourself a happy fucking butchering and don’t think about anything else for a split second between your football commercials and Nelly songs.
What an enjoyable day, on that note – spending all of it in doors, cleaning the dishes up and down, taking naps, reading, working on the computer, the smell of her cake, the warmth of bed whenever I wanted it. Three more days, too, I can hardly believe it. Such a happy shock to the system. Just a week ago I was getting home from work, ready to bust into a million little pieces for all the things I had to put up with that day, just one little thing was ready to set me off into some unknown direction. When it did, suddenly the big blue bean bag chair on the bed became my punching bag for the next few minutes while I shot downward at it with undisciplined fists, a child’s tantrum, a grown man’s losing it, a decent into monstrous revenge, leading me still to tears before a bathroom mirror, punching the wall, ending it there. I had trouble sleeping on my sides for days after that. My arms have been so sore since then. I’m hoping soon for it to be gone, like a bad job in the south on crack!
Much of the day has been spent reading James Baldwin. If things go simple like that, I’ll have a nice vacation on my hands.