Holiday
Last time I wrote love letters everyday I was parodying National Novel Writing Month. If you can write a fiction in 30 days, you can surely undress yourself in words over a month’s duration with as much impact.
I’m writing daily love letters again. This month, I’m doing it in parody of that one holiday coming up. You know the one. The one we all love to shit on. “It’s a Hallmark holiday! A bullshit excuse to sell chocolates!” So maybe we’ve been unfair to holidays. Would that all occasion cease to humiliate us when we otherwise forget to express tender nothings and fill your mouth with black sugar. I would like to return to the holy appraisal of the real. Sanctify your feelings. Mine have been canonized.
Do you remember learning about saint’s days? The only reason I know about them is that I studied French in an era when their culture was believed to be monolithic—proto-Catholic and traditional in its celebratory customs. I don’t know anyone in France today who still celebrates saint’s days who isn’t also a low key fascist. What’s holy has changed. Change is holy. Canons are potential energy. They require time, and patience, and gunpowder. I am holy because the longer I dwell in the potential energy of loose chains being dragged by my speeding engine, the closer I know we are to exploding. Holidays have to eventually expire because the fuel will run out, but the way we’re running now, we’re running out of days in the year to name after you.
Let’s call it a new year and pretend the calendar will always return, so long as we remember to light the fireworks for every sacred holiday of our naming. Today is yours. And today. And today.
You can buy this rad giant tiger patch designed by pal Mickey Z, here.