It, more and more, is Holiday time, with packages to mail, lights to hang and cheap severed turkey breast at the Price Chopper.
And I watch all this stuff, and I make cynical jokes, bad puns that muddy up holiday sentiments.
I’m not wrong, of course. There is plenty of icky & cynical manipulation at this time of year, plenty of venal commercialism, plenty of harried people even more stressed out and inconsiderate of those around them.
And I know, pretty much, how this whole thing is going to play out, something like me doing lots of work to make a holiday and no one understanding me, and them being a less than enthusiastic audience and such. Heck, that’s one big reason why people say that holidays are for kids, because, gosh darn, isn’t it nice to give something to someone who is actually excited by it?
Holidays when you are past desire are tough. I mean, maybe you could get along with the traditions, but when the traditions are things like hauling rummage sale items to an Episcopal church in one of the seven dioceses in the country that plans to leave the church to stay true to a Bible that they believe marks acting on homosexual desire a sin, so much so that anyone who acts on that love cannot serve the church, well, that ain’t good magic for a queer.
But damn. I’m a femme, dammnit, and I like all that mushy stuff. Dressing up and making pretty and sentimental thoughts and sweeping feelings.
But not here, not now, and most probably not ever.
And that’s why I quietly yell fire, because who would come if, when looking for the spirit, I fell into a vat of spit?