O fim do Natal

É oficial. A partir deste ano não vou desejar bom natal a ninguém, acabaram-se os postais e as prendinhas simbólicas, puta que os pariu.
Agradeço que não me desejem feliz natal e que, se não souberem a razão do meu rompimento com esta geral quadra festiva que não celebro, se abstenham de perguntar porque não é da vossa conta.
Mas posso dizer, na generalidade e caindo no lugar comum, que o natal se tornou tamanha febre de protocolos e consumismo que me dá simplesmente vómitos. Já basta ter de "participar" nesta estupidez a nível profissional, quanto mais a nível pessoal.
O natal é para a família e eu não tenho família. Estou fora. Brinquem vocês.

Um Natal gótico

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through our house
was blasting the "St. Vitus Dance" by Bauhaus;
Torn fishnets were draped on my forearms with care,
And two cans of Aquanet applied to my hair;
My thoughts were of graveyards, and horror and dread,
Black visions of pain and despair in my head;
And Bianca, whose face was as pale as the moon,
Had thrown up her arm for this evening's swoon,
When out by the gravestones there came such a clatter,
I sprang from the coffin to find out the matter.


Away to the window I flew like a ghost,
Expecting to find a dark devilish host.
The moon on the breast of the uncaring snow
Threw ominous shadows on objects below,
When, before my tormented eyes did traverse,
But a gorgeous black Crane & Breed carved-panel hearse,
With a gaunt, shrouded driver, who filled me with fear,
And eight skeletal creatures that might have been deer.
More rapid than vultures his coursers they came,
And his deep Andrew Eldritch voice called them by name;


Now, Murphy! Now, Morgoth! Now, Torment and Woe!
On, Dreadful! On, Lovecraft! Mephisto and Poe!
To the top of the gravestones where fog wisps its breath!
With a weight on my soul I consign you to death!


As dead leaves that before hellish hurricanes fly,
When they flutter like giant bats' wings to the sky,
So up to the crypt-top the coursers they leapt,
While dearest Bianca, like death, still but slept.
And then, to my horror, I heard on the roof
The clicking and scratching of each bone-white hoof.
As I drew in my arm, and was whirling around,
Down the ebony chimney he came without sound.


He was clad all in black, and he looked oh-so-goth,
A billowy ensemble of crushed velvet cloth;
His boots were knee-high, quite buckled and zipped,
And the Spandex and fishnets 'round his legs were ripped.
His eyes glowed with bluish fire, deathly and cold,
A black eye-liner'd face neither youthful nor old.
A broad lipless mouth drawn with torment and hurt,
And his sorrowful face was as white as my shirt.


A smoldering cigarette tight in his grasp,
Its smoke curling eerily 'round his cloak clasp;
His gaunt frame was topped with long ebon hair,
And a sharp scent of brimstone and cloves choked the air.
His arms were outspread in the shape of a cross,
And I quailed when I saw him, feeling sorrow and loss;
He narrowed his eyes with a twist of his head,
And I felt the full weight of his angst and dread.


He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
Left some Dead Can Dance CD's; before I could ask,
A single tear fell across his aquiline nose,
And then, like an angel, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his hearse, to his team he then hissed,
And away they all drifted like early dawn's mist.
But I heard him intone, ere he vanished from sight,
"Gothic Christmas to all, and to all a good fright

Esta é a altura do ano...

... para se mostrar que se tem.
Que se tem família para passar o Natal.
Que se tem dinheiro para as prendas.
Que se tem amigos para passar o ano.
Que se tem "terra" para onde ir.


Enfim, que se tem, que se tem, que se tem. Para mostrar.
Os aniversários passam mais discretamente porque ninguém se lembra deles. Esta época do ano grita-nos todos os dias que é preciso ter alguma coisa. É preciso que toda a gente tenha alguma coisa para mostrar.
Eu não tenho nada para mostrar.

Há uma canção do Jorge Palma, chamada Canção de Lisboa, que tem entre muitos versos fantásticos, uma parte que se adapta como uma luva:

A urgência de agarrar,
alguma coisa para mostrar
que afinal também temos mão na vida
mesmo que seja à custa de a vivermos fingida
Um estatuto para impressionar o mundo
não precisa de ser mais profundo
do que uma aragem que nos atordoa
Ó canção de Lisboa!

(Citado de memória)

Para acabar de vez com o Natal

How the Goth Stole Christmas (Como o Gótico roubou o Natal)

Cumprimentos não natalícios.
ODEIO O NATAL.