The blank page stares at you like a painful relationship you’ve fucked up once too often, motionless, emotionless, somewhat mystifying, and as always without any actual results, confession, or reparation. In these trying, the most, trying of times, time and his endless chimes bring the worst of the worst ideas into one’s head. Cliche Part 1.
My legs no longer worked to their full function, or it felt like that at least. But my erection would not leave me alone – an injunction of bland metaphysical anti-paralysis, to coin a phrase. Elon Musk is the only son of a bitch who could sort this situation out. Typical. But amidst all the mental madness, I still thought about her, which is probably the most insane thing of all this crack-pottery; it will no doubt go on until I’m gladly in the dirt. “Give it a name, kid.” My legs, my legs.
It was around Christmas time, the season when the Western world pretends they’re all obscenely happy to the point it would make a pervert smirk or a cat burst into hysterics. Shit, I sound like a cheap Houellebecq again. Regardless, this year’s festivities (if you could call them that) brought me news that even cats would perform during a crap feline stand-up gig, for it was this time that I realised, truly, that one can indeed go fuck themselves. During the first part of your life, you only become aware of happiness after you’ve lost it. In the second part, you spend endless hours in your own head meditating on what the hell you did wrong. Another drink it shall be. Ok, enough rambling. Let’s get to the point of this festive tale, lest it may actually have one.
I came across a crossroads, the night was Baltic and black.
Each Christmas day it was a tradition in my family for everyone to get incredibly drunk and commence fighting after 12am, so Boxing Day, in fact. It got worse when the old man died, but after my grandmother departed, things did actually start to improve. The fighting evolved into people weeping and hugging each other, fists and shouting in exchange for tears and abject misery. Cliche part 2. I suppose death and loss have their plus points.
My mother let out her usual, “Son, blah, blah, blah, such-and-such is an imposter!”, my Stepfather gave his trademark look of bemusement followed by silence while the room looked the other way. I turned my attention to the dogs (customary for a soft soul such as I), who on cue gave me stares of ‘needing answers’, thus reminding me of how I’d down a full packet of pills if ever left without either of them (or any abbreviation of such I spout when mildly intoxicated). The cliches never stop. Dinner came and went, as it does on these evenings. After dessert, my aunt proclaimed, like some important political statement, “My boiler is broken”, as if anyone in the room could contemplate such a catastrophe. How many times can history repeat itself? Still, the passing of time and all of its sickening crimes (where have we heard that?) made it a nice excuse for I to take a year out, so to speak. Which is to say, I wanted none of this, this year, and at least I had my excuses to leave promptly. At least the conflict had stopped. The evening passed with hugs, graces, condolences, faux care, etc which sent me home with mild contentment, or a smile at least.
Christmas must be good for something.
It was only then I really began to understand the phrase, “the absurdity of celebration”. Pay your fucking bills, pal. Get your room in order. Do your 50 push-ups a day, stay off the booze, stop chasing women half your age, and all will be grand and dandy. I thought of a poem I’d been writing for years, entitled, ‘The Art of Decline’, and then just now, reworded a section for my overused festive animosity. Cliche part 3.
“The tinseled hearse between her legs, where a poorer man no doubt begs, for Scrooge scraps and a Heaven that doesn’t exist, rejoice in knowing something comes of nothing. Season’s greetings, I suppose.”
Dear reader, I can almost feel your scoffs. I feel the same. The need to imitate pushes you to write, initially. Or something along those lines, the ability to properly copy Houellebecq still surpasses me. Have you ever felt like you’re evolving in real-time? It is like shedding mental skin to the point where you find it difficult to function in polite society, or one’s own company. At this time of year, it may be the final noose around the feet, mind, balls, or neck, depending on your preference.
Eventually, my aunt will cough up the cash to get the heating fixed. And her misery won’t subside. My own is still up for discussion. That may be it, for now.
Merry Christmas everyone.
HENRY JACKSON.
