Bah, Humbug

This was written in December of 2016, in the middle of an epic bout of depression. As you might imagine, I couldn’t quite get my jolly on that December. . .

My mood
simply has no respect
for the date
December 7^th
the calendar announces
helpfully
cheerfully
but I am not cheerful
holiday spirit
is not what has been
filling my soul

I did not realize
until I moved to this neighborhood
that competitive
Christmas decorating
is a thing
it starts the day after Thanksgiving
before the turkey and stuffing sandwiches
have been made
I feel badly for neighbors
who are Jewish
Muslim
atheists
or minimalists
there is no escaping
Christmas here

In the past
I have enjoyed
the technicolor displays
ranging from lovely
to holy
to more is more
to profane
I am still mulling
which category
the inflatable T-rex
rocking a Santa hat
wrapped gift clutched in claws
falls into. . .
or what exactly it has to do
with the birth of Christ. . .
as such philosophical musings
are beyond me right now

I have tried to fill
Spotify playlists
with sprightly holiday tunes
but they get on my nerves
quickly
and I return to Etta James
Amy Winehouse
Buddy James
because nothing suits me
like the blues
every time I think
raw edges of my depression
have started to mend
they get itchy
I scratch
they bleed

No It’s A Wonderful Life
or Polar Express for me
this weekend
but there’s always
How The Grinch Stole Christmas
The Thin Man
William Powell
Myra Loy
may have enough snark
Hell, if all else fails
there is always Die Hard. . .

Happy Holidays Everyone