Oh God, Christmas

Orion's belt is tightening
and the men of earth gasp
at the frightening onset of winter.

The very stars themselves constrict
as we constipate in our anxiety.
Christmas be damned,

There isn't time.

Christmas. A short season of hope, poinsettias and pines. Why not rather oak? Or dried, gathered grasses? But pine have we, and plastic, and relatives in tight places, dried, bound in pews, watched over by the Christmas shepherd of souls. He would gather us into his arms with all the others if we would let him. But wayward sheep am I, leading my little flock astray, away from the one, away from Jerusalem, away from Rome, away from home, away to stay, alone. A religion of smiles, a showing of teeth, a hiding of hearts, unable to think, or breath, or pray. Church is the last place I want to be when I don't want to be anywhere with anyone, and Christmas Eve is worst. My back is deep into spasm on the oaken bench and all I want is a soft chair and a cold Christmas lager. The bells compete with the tumpets, the trumpets compete with the cantor, the cantor competes with the congregants, the congregants compete with the organ, and the organ crushes speech as it thunders from above the seats and drowns the mindless sheeping bleats and bares me to the bones.

"Merry Christmas," yes, but all I want for Christmas is to smash the fine Italian creche and set fire to the poinsettias. I stare longingly at Christ upon the cross, nails through feet and hands, and I feel his pain in chatter's dross that blares like marching bands as we reminisce with those we see all throughout the year. Why? Why today? Why here? Why now? Polka-dot dress, white Ostrich-feather hat-lady snaps me from thought as she leads us in prayer: "Lord, get us the hell out of here..." We miss the gift of Father's post-sabbatical homily as he confesses his middle-age doubts and anxieties because Dana is choking Blaise with his new Christmas tie and little Chase enters into a violent passion all his own, grimacing, squirming, begging to leave the pew, and for what? For his father in the cry-room with Carter? For poop? For his own kindergarten sabbatical? Oh, take me with you young man, I will follow where you lead, from the blessed gathering, here on Christmas Eve. I am dancing on the white-hot stage of heresy while God is stuck inside of me like old shrapnel that's lodged too close to my heart. It cannot be removed...

DATELINE: HARARE- 12/25/08- Maybe I'll just go sit in the slush and wait for hypothermia. I try to picture the church, the beautiful church, all riddled with bullets, her colorful panes laying in shards on the wrecked floor under a gaping hole in the roof where a bomb finally let the light in. The pews are all gone, ripped out for firewood, as is the altar, the heavy wooden doors, and the cross of Christ himself. In their place- a void, a tragic, unnecessary void, sprinkled with the scattered coughs of those crying out to the God of Zimbabwe as cholera ravages the faithful, awaiting a savior. Oily black clouds of burning lectern blow throw the sanctuary like shadows at dusk. It could happen. It did happen. It will happen

That Look

It was cold and gray as an old witch's tit in the wake of an ice storm, and I was on my way to City Hall for death certificates. Off to my right the Hudson churned southward in angry, muddy slabs, jostling and pushing their way to the sea as a squad of imperial crows waited in ambush just ahead. From their position in the upper branches of a small oak they squawked and threatened with unusual vigor even for their kind. Normally skittish by nature, they held their tree like a lynch mob as I cautiously approached on the footpath. There, little more than an arms length from my face, a very large Red Tail hawk glared down at me with a ferocity and hatred that can only come from fresh kill and hot blood. Powerful talons pinning a pigeon to the branch on which he hulked, the hawk had torn open the dove's belly and was feasting on its innards. Harassed mercilessly by the crows just over his head, he now had to contend with a human intruder from below. He was not happy with my face. There we stood, frozen, facing each other for a long moment in a surreal snapshot of Troy life, when the predator suddenly flew off across the river with his slaughtered prey. The tormenting crows dove at him the entire way before finally turning back on the far shore, satisfied to have driven him off into Green Island.

And then it hit me:

I'd seen that same look just an hour before, at my work, at my very cubicle! Seated at my desk, sipping coffee peacefully in the contentedness of government employment in winter, a younger co-worker had stopped by in a state of extreme agitation. Looming over me as she leaned on the low wall of my cube, I looked up innocently as she detailed the acute anxiety she'd been experiencing in the aftermath of a new migraine medication she was taking: "And so, I'm like standing in line at the post office, waiting to mail a letter, when all of a sudden I just get this monster panic attack! The sweat is just like pouring off of me, ya know, and I feel like everyone's just looking at me, angry because I'm like not shuffling forward fast enough or something. It was soooo random! So I go home and tell Tim, and you know what he says? You know what he says? 'Ah, you just need a good nipple-tweaking.' A nipple-tweaking! Can you believe it???"

You must understand, Tim is large. He's burly, a man's man. He drinks mid-level European imports for his beer. He renovates things. My God, he snowplows. What danger could he possibly be in! I, on the other hand, am just a bureaucrat approaching fifty, with a choice to make, a horrible, terrible choice to make. I wanted to back up slowly, as I thought to do later that morning, thinking all the while, "Just let me keep my face...," but I can't. The casters on my ergonomic chair bump up against a miniature file cabinet behind me, and there is no escape. I can feel my insides turning all soft and vulnerable, like moist Christmas date balls. Nature gets the better of me though, and I laugh. Out loud.

And then the look. That fearsome, ancient visage of furrowed brow over designer frames, a look that can only come from the deep bowels of tired young motherhood and misunderstood hormones. The exact, same look the great feathered hunter would later stab me with. The huntress stared down at me for a long moment, unspeaking, and then flew off to her own lonely place on the far side of our pod cluster. As for me, I breathed a large sigh of relief before heading for the urinal, thinking how brave Tim must be, extraordinarily grateful that I didn't say what immediately came to mind at the moment of impact: "Yeah, that IS crass. I would never have suggested such a thing as nipple-tweaking. Most times a woman just needs a little whack on the ass..."

Ski Vengeance

I think the mountain doesn't like to be skied.

She looms ominous in the distance, filling the dark horizon, lights glowing in the clouds this fateful night. Condos and timeshares nestle into the crevices at her bottom as long trails carve up her midsection. Electric lanterns and boomed snow-makers lurk condescendingly over her God-given snows as wretched clouds of pizza-scent drift along her untamed currents, drowning balsam and fir. She takes her vengeance the only way she can, breaking heads and legs, freezing fingers and toes, holding back her snow.

No, the mountain does not like to be skied,
and that is why I will remain in the lodge.

Of Mice and Men

We listen to the industrious scratching of mouse feet all through November.

We fret, threaten, and plan.

We purchase mouse traps in December and begin to kill the little bastards
with relish, throughout the holidays and beyond. It never ends.

By February we've grown tired of the killing-
bulging eyes, bloody limbs, the sounds of desperate struggle from the pantry's bowels.

The furry gray ones have begun to look so cute, and pathetic under the cruel snappers.

March brings rapprochement, an unspoken agreement to stop the killing...

until December.

Thanksgiving

I'm at the Five Rivers Environmental Center the day after Thanksgiving. I tend to be less thankful at Thanksgiving than at most other times. Maybe it's because there's always so much- so much food, so much drink, so much company, so much noise, so much work, preparations, clean-up, and leftovers. There's just so much of everything. I believe I'm more thankful on most other Thursdays of the year, actually. I'm not complaining, it just is what it is. But to be seated here at a picnic table, under an open-air pavilion overlooking a small pond skimmed with fresh ice, with the morning sun at my back illuminating the waiting page, in 40 degree weather, with a gentle breeze from the west rustling the dry cat tails and milkweed pods- why, who could be more thankful than I am right now? Jen's at home but she's okay with me here. She knows I get crazy. I dreamt last night that I was rubbing turkey grease on her breasts. I woke up at 3:00 am hoping it was real. She said, "I'm sick to my stomach and just threw up." Yeah, I went back to sleep. The only Wild Turkey Trail I'll be exploring is the one here at Five Rivers...

"I come here to find myself. It is so easy to get lost in the world." John Burroughs
(from a sign hung in the pavilion)