Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down

I’ve had my share of disappointments the past couple of months. Now that we are about to discard another year, I can’t help but think about them. Especially on a windy, moonlit night. There’s just something about standing in moon pools that make me think about things that cannot be broached in broad daylight. The moonbeam sifts through my head like a black light in a club, which intensifies the whiteness of garments and picks up the tiniest spec of lint on a black shirt. Or maybe it’s all that holiday cheer. Sometimes I don’t agree that this is really the season to be jolly.

We all go through crappy times; mine are no worse or unbearable than the next guy’s. They’re just mine that’s why they appear to be more tragic. They vary from really silly things (e.g. not finding the right size of the shirt you’ve been dying to buy) to life changing events (not getting into the program you’ve been preparing for practically your whole adult life). I know, it could be worse. And that has happened to me as well. But the world doesn’t stop and you go on living your life, like in all those lines people toss at us when we feel stuck. Yeah, I get all that, but it doesn’t change the fact that it sucks.

Joseph Campbell said, "Where you stumble, there your treasure lies." Like I said, I get it. Every loss must always be viewed as a potential gain. When hit by a disappointment, I get angry, I throw a tantrum, I get angry some more, I buy myself chocolate (or something cute and shiny), I talk to the dogs (or the white cat who sleeps all day on the wall in the garden), I blow off more steam, and then when I’m lucid enough, I start doing the autopsy. Through the mess and the gore, I usually end up seeing what went wrong. There are times though when I get too close and I can’t make heads or tails of it. When that happens I just cremate the body (write the shit down on paper and burn it) then declare the case closed. You have to move on to the next thing. I think of it this way—it would be harder for the bastards to flatten me if I’m a moving target.

It’s not as easy as it sounds. Especially for me. I have this habit of dragging things out and carrying dead things in my pockets. I love drama. And on dark nights, I entertain the ghosts of the stuff I thought were long buried or burnt. I guess that’s normal. It takes time to grieve. And some things just love to hang out with you even though you don’t want them to. That’s okay, too, as long as they don’t take too much of your space. You can learn from them but don’t let them boss you around.

So before 2006 arrives, I want to pay my respects to the dead so that I can start the new year with a fresh and healthy heart. Get rid of the old that keeps clogging my system and cramping my style, and make space for the new. I should cook up a big and glorious ritual for them. Maybe with a lot of candles, pretty pictures, fresh flowers, and Shakespeare. They always like that sort of thing. I just have to remember to keep my peace and—under no circumstances—not to get blindsided or sweet-talked into letting the bastards take me down.