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Christmas is again spent under a mound of possessions.
I carefully feign sickness the week of Christ's birth for
those precious hours of preparation time. The world is
consuming and I am gathering. In this cold apartment
bedroom I gather a lifetime of possessions. No covers to
pull down along this bare, abrasive mattress. No heat.
The cold chills the bones and the warmth which will soon
follow will be so much warmer. Radio's unplugged and
tapes added to the pile. The temptation of listening to
familiar sounds or the ever important voices of news
anchors and DJs could be too much. Must make sure
these objects are unusable. The last ounces, sips, drops
and bottles of alcohol are consumed a day in advance, for
this temptation would be too much. The consummation
is sacred and ritualistic. The sobering process is deadly.
But, all toxins must be flushed before that one perfect
day. Not even the left over tobacco of a stubbed out
smoke should be within reach. This must be a pure
process.
All possessions are gathered on a blanket so the whole
could be lifted over me at once, a no hassle process.
The day comes and I edge the blanket up, next to my bed. I don't feel the sweat welling beneath the layers upon
layers of clothing I am wearing; the padded uterus I have
created. Slowly I drag this heap of life over me. Curling
into a fetal position the final pinholes of light escape my
sight.
My hibernation, libation, begins . . .
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