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I am anxious. A Camel is shedding its embers from betwixt my fingers and I still can't. fucking. sit. still. It's almost here. I can almost let go. But patience is needed in these final hours. I've never been very sentimental, especially about particular things to which society deems appropriate for sentimentality. Holidays ain't my bag, baby. While everyone is huddled up with other members of their bloodline, I relish in solitude. In just a few short hours this city will be a ghost town if only for a little while. Black Friday, of course, is a whole other story. But my little corner of Gotham, it goes numb once the buzz of rush hour dies somewhere between nine and ten tonight. It'll be all-quiet on this Eastern front, a sight unseen so far in dear old 2008. This City lives within me, and it's when she slows down her breathing that my internal treble gets kicked up to maximum amplification. There's nothing more eerie than this city when it's deserted. The signs of life missing as people celebrate all the reasons to be thankful. It's when I'll be out, camera in tow, absorbing the void. I've had offers to be everywhere but here. With her and Mingus... enjoying a very Vegan Thanksgiving full of tofu-turkey and organic greens. But I was never really a fan of tofu to begin with. With him, his wife, and my new godson... though all the opportunities to say 'I'll make him an offer he cannot refuse' line have grown stale. With the folks... though the bitter cold of Michigan isn't all that inviting. With friends... the misfits who either live too far away to travel, those who have raging (and unapologetic) apathy, or the ones who are slaves to Corporate America. Cue Pink Floyd's "Money" right here, Friday is just another workday you know. And politely the options have been weighed (though only for appearances sake) before ultimately being declined. I don't want to be around anyone while the City stops gyrating at the speed of light.
Sure, not everything comes to a stand still. And in Times Square it's not nearly as serene as I make it sound to be. But in a city like New York, if you only hear one set of sirens in a twelve-hour period, it's something to be cherished. Really, it's prime time to make a dent in the three-foot-high stack of literature that's currently making it harder and harder to open my closet door. Starting first with Dostoevsky, of course. Or perhaps categorize my CD collection into something other than "Hip-Hop and Not Hip-Hop." It's the chance to watch all of the episodes of Mad Men in sequential order, since I've recently become obsessed with the Show. It's a moment to inhale cigarettes on my balcony and hold the smoke inside my lungs till it burns. Over the next twenty-four hours I will feel freer than I have felt in months, and if that isn't something to be thankful for I don't know what is.
In years prior I followed traditions that were not my own, and itineraries put forth by the band/the girl/the folks/whoever. I'd do my best to keep my cynicism in check, smile at every photo op and laugh at every intimate over share someone with too much liquor on their breath offered to me without thinking. I'd sneak away for cigarette breaks, but even those moments where I could pull myself together would be crashed by crazed Aunts asking the "So are you seeing anyone yet?" or my personal favorite, "When are you and So&So going to get married already?" And like any holiday I've spent completely out of my element, I barely survive to tell the tale. It's easier when we're on the road. I only have to vocally act like this Thursday means a great deal to me. But when you've grown up in one too many time zones (England, Spain, Mexico and yes, even Michigan), the holidays become fuzzy around the edges. No longer is there this vivid picture of a happy family, enjoying a satisfying meal. The faces blur, the poses change, and the backdrops are never the same. The traditions fluctuated according to whatever foreign zip code was adhered to the holiday cards. There was and is no clear picture of how this is supposed to go. Perhaps that's why I prefer the lack of rather than the sum (and act) of all holidays prior. But the beauty of spending the holiday alone is you don't have to answer the questions you don't want to, even if it's your subconscious demanding the answer.
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Why is the measure of love loss?
