November 5, 2018

Thing You’re Cobbling Together

That feeling when you come home from an unusually tough Monday, but realise that tomorrow is a holiday, Deepavali, a day you feel guilty for not knowing enough about after living in Malaysia and Singapore for over a decade. Not even a wikipedia scan, but you know it has something to do with light and joy- and really how many holidays can one person keep track of. Maybe Shruti will give you the basics in the comments of this Facebook poem thing you’re cobbling together.

Your biggest choice at the onset of the evening was wine or egg nog. You start with some Pinot with dinner, knowing that the egg nog will be best later in the night when you’re eating dessert, which on this celebratory night, might be donuts or ice cream, and if the egg nog has kicked in by that point it will be both. This is the fattest you have ever been, but since you spent most of your life bone rail thin, you pretend that your second chin and protruding gut are signs of being a distinguished gentleman, rather than a chubby slob.

You’re gonna go for a walk/jog tomorrow morning, just to get back out there and listen to a few podcasts. Enough is enough and you need to get back to productive mode. Middle age creeps up on you like a sloven shadow. You’ve forgotten if you’re attractive or not, or if you still even care. You must care, because you spend 26 dollars on fancy hair pomade and you now own a beard trimmer.

But no shame or guilt or insecure narcissism tonight. It’s Deepavali Eve and your choices are limited but favourable. Maybe play a game of John Madden Football, or listen to Ben Harper and see if you can’t squeeze out that poem about teaching poetry you have been carrying around for two weeks.

Earlier in the night you listened to Abba and Megan Trainor whilst making cookie dough with your nine year old daughter. You hope that when she is older, she might sometimes say things like, “I remember listening to Abba and Megan Trainor while making cookie dough with my dad.” You remember making a kite with your dad, and spending so many hours in the darkroom, watching the world reveal its self through developer and fixers and stop baths.

You might pick up the guitar and curate those few chords and marvel at how they might become a song, if you only had more time and focus and talent and whatever else people who write songs need.

This was not meant to be a self-bashing exercise.

There is wine, egg nog, donuts, ice cream freedom, and an endless night without a wake up call. Now where did you put that poem?

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