New Year's

The last two months have been obscenely busy.  I have three things that are half written and half a dozen others that I just wrote a one-sentence idea for and left it at that (one of them being an outrageously expensive Hollywood Musical / porno that I’ll absolutely never get around to writing because I can already see that it’s one of those ideas that starts off brilliant and quickly falls apart after execution).  But anyway, with less than two weeks before February’s arrival, I think I’ll talk about New Year’s for a bit.

Going back as far as I can remember, New Year’s depresses me.  I’m not sure why, but every year I slip into a small, almost imperceptible depression that starts the day after Christmas and ends January 2nd.  This is something I’ve never bothered to discuss with anyone and no one – friend or family – has ever caught on to it.  As a kid, Christmas Day is easily the best day of the year.  Your birthday is pretty goddamn cool, but it’s totally lacking in all the magic and mythology that makes Christmas so amazing when you’re a kid.  And when you’re young enough that Christmas Magic is real, time moves at a snail’s pace.  Whole lives are lived between Halloween and Christmas – nations rise and fall in the seven-ish weeks between those two holidays – and the 12 Days Of Christmas are the longest, most agonizingly slow days of the year.  And the most exciting.  The build-up to Christmas is huge, the anticipation unbearable, and Christmas Day itself (assuming you’re fortunate enough to belong to the middle class or better) delivers a pay-off that no casino, no race track, no tax refund could ever even hope to match.  Christmas Day – as a child – is a day of joy and satisfaction unlike any other.

And then there’s December 26th.  Yeah, it just doesn’t hold a candle.  How could it?  And the week after Christmas goes by at the speed of light because it’s your last week of vacation and you have to go back to School when it’s over and you can’t even do anything good on New Year’s anyway.  Your parents are moving around the house like zombies, asking you not to breathe so loudly, and cartoons, Tom Hatten, and Benny Hill have all been nixed for The Rose Parade.

FUCK The Rose Parade.

The Rose Parade is the most over-rated horse shit ever and it airs all goddamn day long.  Oh look!  There goes another slow-as-molasses blob of shit that vaguely resembles the UNICEF logo!  Holy crap!  And it’s made of roses!  Oh, the majesty, how can I take it all in?!  Thank GOD Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards are here to explain it all to me!  Jesus Christ, what a joke.

I guess if you’re into football, you’ve got the bowl games to entertain you.  I’m not, and they didn’t.  But the day after was okay.  Even though I really, really, really didn’t want to go back to school, there was something sort of nice about finally being past the holidays (especially the previous week) and things returning to normal.

And that same pattern continues to this day even though the various reasons and motivations have completely changed.  Sure, Christmas has lost some of its magic, and, yes, I fucking hate shopping for presents, but the holidays (Halloween to Christmas) are still the best time of the year, and my heart still fills with anticipation and excitement.  And the week between Christmas and New Year’s still kinda bums me out.

This year was a bit different though, and I’d intended to write about it, but I was off the clock 20 minutes ago so that shit has to wait.

(Continued…)

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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