Tag: winter

Long December

When the Pages are Stuck Together

I was supposed to come back a few days after my last post. Well, I hold up my hands, it’s been more than a few days since May, but before the calendar year is out. Take it or leave it. I’m giving both. So here is something for this dark day. Pure human, untweaked, unsanitised, no washing out the blips because they are MY WORDS. Do folks even do this anymore? I’ve read so much that’s run through AI before it’s posted (it’s catfishing using words instead of pictures). I query those pristine lines when I don’t know for sure, and the text feels off. But more often than not, I know, I feel it in my bones; the lies, the manipulation. And I’ve seen those sanitised, helped-off-the-messy-floor words from folks I know—they run a thought through a processor then post a stream that’s void of human voice. Why? Does it make their thought more eloquent, make them appear smarter (appearances are the substance for some), or does the trickery furnish validity to a voice? The truth is, it kills it. Nullifies the tone and heart; the AI shushes your truth with buttered-up bullshit that lacks humanity. It lacks grit! It doesn’t make these fearful folks seem more put together. It dumbs the real down. Faux intelligence and faux art—these are not enhancements, it’s just disrespectful bullshit. Can you tell I’m not a fan of AI in art or writing?

I’m here, tapping the glass as though I were speaking a stream, and my notes have their own life, a voice unsanitised. I’m far more comfortable with the letters on the board than those stumbling from my lips when my vocal cords shake, voice cracks, or paces in a little silence between executing the words. Sometimes they (I) fail because who is really listening anyway, like those who never really read. They see a quote, hear someone else’s summary and think they know the experience or read the book (no, the synopsis or quote was not the book). I’ve noted the curious look in wavering eye, the way the pupil changes when the stream bursts happen to flesh ears. I’m frequently told I’m poetic or passionate, but I feel the ponder addition of a little ‘crazy’. Sure, all three are true. Anyway, even in the digital print now, it’s still me right here, you can fucking well trust that. I sometimes wonder when they ask. Like the pleasantries of how are you and what’s the weather like, they don’t care; it’s just noise. And I’ve never understood that. When it’s asked, and it matters, I don’t know how or what to give. Which edit should you get? Which version can your palate take before you grab the pitchfork and execute me? They’re all real, just naturally diluted with fresh water because I know how heavy full-strength is. My being has been attacked since dawn, learned defence behaviours I’m intimate with. I’ll carry that without any of the huffing and puffing ghosts of complaints from the so-called help. Learn to listen beyond the mirror. There’s always a filter, some knobs to turn and tweak, and a few buttons to release the script. And no, it’s not inauthentic as those who bay for blood in some self-righteous regime may cry. It’s self-preservation built from experience. Experience of challenging what I know the outcome will be (maybe it won’t this time. Maybe they’ve grown. Maybe it’ll be different than I think), misreading signals, thinking their eyes or title or ‘closeness’ meant safety, but it never did. Never does. Because behind every question there’s expectation, and I’ve sometimes missed when they want their answer, not mine. Anyway, that’s all by-the-by, but I’m haunted in Winter. A bag of fucking ghosts murmur; my body thrums in ways that have the floorboards quaking. I’m unsteady, a little weak, like I’ve forgotten to eat. But I’m routinely feeding others, so I must’ve had a bite. Maybe I just sniffed it and told my brain that was enough. The scent is enough. Like teasing about love, I can pretend I know what it feels like to receive that, but I’m a magnet for liars. I take them in like strays and orphans, make them a bed and make them safe enough to play jump rope with my intestines. They’re twisting, and I need to send them away. Maybe I need an organ transplant; the recovery is perhaps less painful.

Fuck. It’s a ‘Long December’ (Nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah, yeah).

November is December too.

Presence over Presents

Autumn into winter is my favourite time of year. I love how nature sheds her skin; wild things stockpile life essentials to coorie down in quiet dens, and the stasis of bulbs and trees. I’m inspired by the fall, the bands of light, the nip in the air. The quiet inspires.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I detest the hyper-commercialised consumerist calendar. It kills my soul knowing how profoundly distant we’ve become from the roots. It’s devolution, not evolution.

It’s a challenge to blot out that noise, and soak up the beauty beneath the tinsel, plastic, the abundance of waste and inhale the earth’s quiet song. It’s what I’ve always wanted to impart to my children, to appreciate and take stock of the real gifts and not presents that contribute to so many wrongs. Presence over presents. Appreciation of life not stuff. That noise has always fed my depression significantly.

As much as I’ve always been drawn that way, when I had the privilege of having my children, some folks expected that would change. And suddenly, I’d be all in for—Santa, Christmas, consuming and following the masses in the noise, the greed, the expectations, the stress. It’s depressing. It’s started early this year. My family’s den isn’t far enough away from the noise.

Scotland Banned Christmas

From 1640 to 1958, it was illegal to celebrate ‘Yule Vacations’. Christmas (then called Yule or Nollaig (Gaelic))was banned in Scotland for over 300 years. Christmas was regarded as a celebration held by the Catholic Church. After the reformations to Presbyterianism, Christmas was gradually downgraded until its outright ban. When Act 7, ‘dischairging the Yule vacance’ became legislation on 2nd June 1640, it read:

‘The estatis of parliament, presentlie conveind by his majesties speciall authoritie, wnderstanding that the kirke within this kingdome is now purged of all superstitious observatione of dayes, and heirwith also considering that the keiping of the Yule vacance heath not onlie relatione to that superstitione and may serve to keepe the same in memorie, but also that the keeping of the said Yule vacance heath interrupted the course of justice in this kingdome to the hinderance and heavie prejudice of the leiges thairof, thairfor the saidis estatis have dischairged and simply dischairges the foirsaid Yule vacance and all observation thairof in tymecomeing, and rescindis and annullis all acts, statutis and warrandis and ordinances whatsoevir granted at any tyme heirtofoir for keiping of the said Yule vacance, with all custome of observatione thairof, and findis and declaires the samene to be extinct, voyd and of no force nor effect in tymecomeing. And ordeanes the court and sessione of the colledge of justice and senatouris and memberis thairof to conveene and sit for the administratione of justice without ony interruptione by the foirsaid Yule vacance from the first day of November to the last of Februarie thairefter inclusive yeirlie, and ordeanes the said senatouris and remanent memberis of the said colledge of justice to ryise the said last day of February and to conveene and sit doune againe for administratione of justice to the leiges the first day of June yeirlie, and to ryise the last day of Julii nixt thaireftir inclusive. And also ordeanes the whole remanent judges of inferiour courtis within the kingdome to proceed in thair administratione of justice within thair severall jurisdictiones without any respect to the said Yule vacance and without any interruptione or vacatione by the same Yule vacance, notwithstanding of ony bygone custome of observatione of the said Yule vacance, sieing the samene is now dischairged in maner foirsaid.’

Christmas, as it is now, is less than 100 years old in Scotland. And for many celebrants, it has little to do with Christianity and is predominantly a commercial holiday. There are plenty of seasonal churchgoers who line the pews for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day mass for the sake of their salvation or tradition. Ultimately though, much of the meaning has been lost through rabid consumerism and ego — in direct opposition to the old concepts, regardless of its many guises celebrated globally.

Christianity and Christmas aside, the festival that predates and has stood the test of time, despite changing political and religious landscapes and indoctrination that our children are force-fed — Yule, Nollaig, or Winter Solstice are all celebrated with similar traditions. Though many such as myself, try to limit the greed and heavy consumerist pressures from apparently ‘well-meaning’ folks. As much as followers of the Christian version of Christmas may like to consider certain traditions as ‘theirs’, this is far from true — the feasting, the giving, the tree, colour formations, Yule log burning, the honouring and gratitude, the ‘Angel’ (Goddess), the star (pentacle) are far from Christian in origin. Perhaps that notion, too, feeds into greed and relentless taking.

Today is Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. When the night dominates, so we reach and crave comfort and warmth — physical and emotional, and we are grateful for those in our lives who gift that to us and we to them. We share food, stories, ‘gifts’, and gratitude. Whatever you do should be enough without the dictatorship and noise of organised religion or the embedded consumerism.

As a practising pagan (who was Catholic schooled as a child), I celebrate the Magick, the cycle of the earth that sustains and gives us life throughout the seasons. Following the rhythms of the moon, just as the tides do.

It doesn’t need to be a show, on display for nothing other than validation of ‘good’ or ‘love’ suffocated in glitter. It can be quiet, calm, and spiritual, as are the roots of gratitude.

You don’t need to bow to the consumerist devaluation of the season by feeding the jelly-belly man in the red suit with pound-signs sparkling in his eyes, full of ‘cheer’. You don’t have to serve and be judged by a bloodthirsty god whose gift is guilt and the threat of damnation if you’re not ‘good’. You don’t have to feed the beast of judgment and hypocrisy, whether from the judges above or those within your own family.

The banning of Christmas was just another form of control, of course. Another religious and political move to dominate. Oh, how we’ve seen so many of those in this wee country! I don’t support the hypocrisy of Christmas being shoved down anyone’s throat either, it may be less than a century old here, but the indoctrination runs deep. The same could be said of the destruction of Indigenous Languages of Scotland — it’s always about control.

NaNoWriMo — Not this Year

This year, my first attempt at NaNoWriMo didn’t hit the goal. Winter always seems to be a time of heightened drama, in opposition to the slower, warmer, more reflective side I long for at years end. Quieten the noise, slow down the pace.
It doesn’t seem to matter the ingredients placed in the cauldron; there’s no slow and steady blending and simmer, it’s a sporadically exploding bomb — spewing shrapnel into the eyeballs and the roof, and right now it’s barely holding up. With that my focus was and still is in tatters, December may be more about finding all the pieces again and trying to fuse some sanity and peace.
Anyway, my Backyard Asylum novel project only reached 14k – quite a distance from the 50k goal! I beat myself up throughout November with exhaustion and lack of creative time to drive into it. That’s been quite prevalent this entire year more than just the month, but it did feel more saturated. Such is life; she likes her curveballs and depression likes to wrap her fingers around my throat for periods of total torment. She’s a cruel demon indeed. So, it’s been a case of prioritising basic practical needs over desire. Although creativity is certainly a need, when it’s embedded deep, which fuels desire — without the sparks of passion there is little will to trudge through the more mundane, life has to be more than that — the fight continues. I’m rambling now, this slump shall pass!
So, while Backyard Asylum is written in my head, I have to sacrifice some sleep, muster some energy from the ether and hit the keys — though maybe without the daily word-count pressure, which did me no good this first time around.
Regardless, I am happy with what’s down for this WIP novel — its bones are horrific in a promising way. There’s a lot to work through and develop, but I’m confident it will in time progress so I can nail this first draft and go deep into sculpting and editing through the rough edges. The characters have meat, and there’s some strong scenes pinned already. I spiralled off into research more than physical writing a little more than planned, such is the ‘panster’ way.
As much as I tried to avoid the temptation, I have my eye on a few open-calls for short stories. Nothing new and substantial has been written on the front yet, but there are some ideas stewing, so I’ve some snippets of poetry to go back to and work on to develop into a full-blown piece.

In summary, my first NaNoWriMo died in week two. But, the story itself will come into being, I am pleased with what’s been written so far, it’ll just take a little longer to get there. It’ll be a priority for 2021.