Those bleak days at year’s end — they are composed of cloying, grinding hours, the crinklefoil, stale berry and fish bits. The year on its deathbed is attended by disinterested loved ones, making idle conversation until stopping mid-sentence. Mid-breath. It takes the all-encompassing, saccharine pageantry of Xmastime to shatter the Western World year after year. In the aftermath, most folks pick up what pieces they can, unaware of what was lost or what has changed. Most have no trouble pressing noses back to grindstones and carrying on with day-to-day pleasantries. Nothing amiss.
There was a ramshackle decade in there, you see. Sometimes I choose to think myself as having consciously dismantled my personhood and all sensibility — form and force, brick by brick, inspecting each piece until growing tired and tossing aside. I was and am still most comfortable on the frayed edges of domestic citizenry. Sofas and sheds. Unfinished basements and used furniture shops. I could stay in these between spaces for eons, sleeping and scribbling notes. Nevertheless I recommit myself to the great and graceful dance of citizenship. The pieces of reality fit to an almost perfect mosaic. Almost. It’s easy to see the bright little cracks when you know what to look for, or what not to. And that enticing golden glow. After the year’s end — after the wrecking pageantry rolls through town, leaving moldy cookies and doll parts in its wake — that beautiful golden glow lights up the sky.