Culture, Sports, Writing…or whatever
Holidays remind me how conservative I am. Reduced to its essence, conservatism insists a sort of cultural stasis be maintained. And no holiday leans right with it like Christmas.
Tradition really equates to repetition in motion. Reunited families for holidays. Turkey, potatoes, green beans, and bread product at dinner. Presents in the morning. Stunted emotional interactions. Encouraged alcoholism. Fights.
Winter holidays: A yearly ritual like any other.
Christmas can’t be the term to describe it all, though. H-O-L-I-D-A-Y-S. Only that, please and thank you. Really all that PC talk is just proof of an ideological divide stuffed through a self-masturbatory glory hole. This is how we reach a War On Christmas. Really I don’t care.
Probably because my insecurities never breach beyond myself. Rather, the outside world doesn’t dictate my identity and issues with it. Another lie, try again. Okay here we go. What an outside public requests or demands kosher holds no bearing personally so long as throughout a closer inner circle those signifiers and conservative traditions repeat exactly the same into infinity. Nailed it. A highly reasonably request I find.
That describes accurately enough what happened this year, anyways. I got what I wanted. More questions about my current career ineptitude than desired, but if there’s one thing I’ve grown skilled at, it’s slipping those probing jabs. “Got some opportunities over the horizon” followed with a cross-up of “Stats lie, the economy just tightened, not bounced back” and knock ’em out with a “No, mentors and industry friends tell me I’ve been super unlucky…there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me at all.”
And still reigning undisputed mediocre class underachiever of the world, by a sixth-round TKO, in a stunning upset…Me.
To get away from already pretty much being away from it all, I ran. Nothing too dramatic, just a loop and a backwoods trail I hit three times. Over the years, I’ve understood a cabin fever or S.A.D. sets in if you keep hiding from the outside world this time of year. Particularly when gray days and snow seem like they will sustain existence forever. Rest too long inside, the same feelings bouncing off the same people in the same setting and you start understanding murder. Cannibalism and the zombie apocalypse aren’t too far behind. It’s probably why God invented seasons.
So I kept hitting this woodsy trail that hit a picturesque view of Hidden Lake. While I desperately wish that was a clever metaphor, this is in fact the lake’s name. And the first day I ran mist absorbed the view, like we were in a Stephen King novel. The second time spooky setting and feelings dissipated, revealing deep blues and popping greens and textured browns and it was all such a beautiful day. But the final day it snowed, the trail icy, and everything gray.
Not only did this perturb me as human but also as writer. Where in that is there a metaphor? How does that cycle unmask a fundamental existential truth? Only one reasonable deduction from the sequence exists: That life functions at randomized chaos that’s sometimes ultimately meaningless.
Who knows. Just another confusing unimportant question I ask myself. Holidays are fun because they’re mostly the same within a day-to-day so often frustrating and incoherent. This is why children grow up to be conservatives one day. It’s such an easier fight to stay the same than reinvent yourself. Just ask your parents.
The more I grow up the less I believe American Beauty is dumb movie. Slight clarification: Never thought it was a ‘dumb’ movie. Couldn’t buy its ‘meaning’ scene. That moment an artist nakedly reveals their core expression. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but: A plastic bag dancing in the wind can’t be the most beautiful thing in the world. I used to feel that rather strongly.
Everyone seems happy I’m home. Including the local bartender. He recognizes me and fills my drink as I sit down. Our relationship provides the most comfort. He never asks anything of me except money.
I’m not sure what I’m running from but I’m running still. It’s not sad. Probably daily media reminders of our frail mortality. Guns, terrorists, heartbreak, the Jaguars losing, what racist morons will perpetrate to rid the fear we all feel. It can be a lot sometimes.
Anxiety and claustrophobia encroaches. I leave. I skateboard and snapchat myself. A$AP Rocky’s “L$D” rotates on the shuffle playlist. High and heartbroken I feel.
Lights blind me from a distance. A street aptly named “Candy Cane Lane.” Well it’s not a lane. It’s a cul-de-sac. And there’s no actual candycanes. I’ve never seen any. But everything’s bright and attracts neighbors and many photo-ops and overall creates a scene. Movies aren’t a dead medium.
We had a talk to agree we shouldn’t talk anymore. We talked about what we weren’t talking about to conclude why we won’t talk after this talk. This talk devolved into another talk regarding the last talk of why we stopped talking. Our present talk repeated the past talk. There were regrets expressed on talking again only to stop talking again. We talked some more after concluding we wouldn’t be talking following this talk so we felt pressured to fit in some final talk. Then the talk ended.
I forgot to ask about my sunglasses. I remain blinded by the light. Maybe I should write a song about it.
The next day I lie out beside the pool. It remains hot enough to do this though I don’t like that. I try to read but I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting. Like a plastic bag dancing in the wind. Beautiful is a bloated word.
Tradition doesn’t die because change is hard. We drive to my grandparents as I think this. My thoughts, as usual, scatter inside my head, each competing for frontal lobe occupation. This time it’s not my fault.
We head west as dusk sets, fading sun beams crashing through pine trees. A harsh, unwelcomed yet natural strobe light effect. This is nature’s rave, its turnup, its music makes me lose control beat drop. I’m not a fan. I lost my sunglasses so I lack protection is why.
Another attempt at subterfuge: I didn’t lose them. She still has them.
Relationship with Grandpa changed ever since he started hugging me. Family members swear he embraced me when I was younger. I don’t remember so it doesn’t count. All I recall are the handshakes.
The offering of a firm, former military man hand met with whatever I decided to do that year. Some years I tried impressing by squeezing hard, others I was awkward, my hand clammy and nervous because I wanted to impress but wasn’t sure how.
What I’m trying to say is there’s less space between us now. But he still doesn’t hug Dad, his son. Dad swears it doesn’t bother him.
We repeat the same activities as usual: eating, golfing, arguing, not-so-subtle criticisms from elders of How We Choose To Live Our Lives, more eating, everyone trying not to drink too much in front of Grandma, miscommunication, shopping, Republican family members badmouthing Democrats/dissuasion efforts to convert me from liberalism, eating out, more golfing, more shopping, me not saying much, me hiding away, me raiding Grandpa’s liquor cabinet when everyone falls asleep and watching movies.
But I savor the deviations. For example, like me drinking unidentifiably aged brandy instead of the usual Jameson. (It is knock-you-on-your-ass strong. Military commissary stickers still adorn the bottle.) Or mini-croissants instead of rolls at Thanksgiving dinner. Or how Grandpa’s eyes betray him, double-vision striking him randomly. Or my best friend calling to share ‘important’ gossip about other friends. Or how I saw my aunt’s house for the first time this year (too convoluted to explain). Or—
I’m not sure how this became so personal. It wasn’t my intention. Thanksgiving was sweet but mostly the same. I didn’t mind it too much.
Then capitalism destroyed everything. Destroyed is harsh (though probably true). Replace ‘disrupted’ for ‘destroyed’ in that previous-previous sentence. Readers will be okay with that.
We shop Black Friday. I meet Jimbo Fisher’s real estate agent in a checkout line. This sparks a college football debate. Me vs. other (older) women. They believe SEC is best, but pander to me, saying FSU should’ve joined. They mock the ACC’s academic achievements. I join in. We become the superior ones now.
Lunch at a tourist trap. Margaritaville. No need to explain further. A gorgeous view over the inlet. Ships pass in and out of view. White sandy beaches, symbols of purity. Water glistens. More nature turnup, but like a lit pool party.
The iridescence blinds me. Thoughts don’t scatter but jam. A disenfranchised mob forms behind my eyes. Connective fury courses through the crowd. They charge toward the back of my head through three squeaky revolving doors. Two of them keep snagging. More structural damage is caused.
I openly worry I have photophobia; I don’t reveal a hangover lingers. My stepmom asks where my sunglasses went. She bought them in New York for me. Did I leave them at home? In my car? Yes, yes I did, I hurriedly reply. She doesn’t need to know.
An eventual retreat to my parents’ time-share. They don’t stay with Grandma and Grandpa on these trips. Just me.
I sit alone on the beach, drinking beer. I watch the sunset, taking pictures because I’m a millennial. Rehash the internal debate if sunrises or sunsets are better. I stare straight into the sun. It doesn’t bother me. The sun sets, the day ends.
At night alone, laying, watching TV in the basement living room. I remember a previous thought. Grandma’s couch: my biggest fear and fantasy. As sleep overtakes me, I wonder why I hate the middle ground.
[a] millennial reservations 