Sacred Sassy Heroine: Holiday Ravings of A Lunatic

Photo Credit: martinak15

Sacred Sassy Heroine: This is the everyday goddess within each woman. It is she who harnesses the unfeigned feminine energy that makes you divine. She embraces all-she-is and struts it like she means it. The 25th of December was the full moon. This cosmic event serves as a reminder to crack out of your proper exoskeleton and reconnect with the howling sister within. She is sacred. She is sassy. She is YOU. And she is a Heroine.

It’s been 3 lengthy days now that I’ve sat staring at my blank computer screen, patiently awaiting the belated arrival of my feisty and fickle muse.

No call, no text, not even a Christmas card casually mentioning that she’d be off on holiday. So I’m left here hanging with what I believe might be the scorned and dreaded writer’s blight, also know as writers block. (Please don’t ask me how the book is coming along.)

The trusty German in me squirms at the thought of just skipping this month’s Heroine article in light of the tragic death of my inspiration. The show must go on.

With a better late than never, bootstraps pulled up, big girl panties on, sigh of “F**k Perfect!” here goes.

Is it the full moon, my tender breasted premenstrual state, or an actual problem in my life? I don’t know, like I really don’t now ANYTHING. At. All. Nada. Nothing. Ever wake up 43 yrs old and realize everything you thought you knew was mere cultural conditioning, centuries of archaic drivel, “new reckless notions” that rebels of every generation already pontificated on, in other words another stale rendering of human rubbish?

Yep, that happened.

What is there to write about then? Each once brilliant sparkle is fallen sequins waiting to be swept off the ballroom floor. So I’ll write about this then. I’ll invite you into the weird lonely wasteland of my once creative mind. No more lead in the pencil, a bin of burned out Christmas lights, dripped with Hanukkah wax, and the company Holiday party hangover complete with dry heaves and #dirtydancingdiva.

Nothing has any meaning other than the meaning I give it. I can’t muster a meaning, that’s all. I know it’ll pass, it always does. Or does it just fade into the background like the chipped banister at your favorite pub, or the thrill of new love? I am as attracted as I am repelled at the implication of you poking around here inside my crazy.

If I blur my vision and hum softly Johnny Mathis show up singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and Jack Frost will nip at my nose, Santa will be real, and that glossy Sears catalog of my childhood will swallow me up whole. I’m not one to get all melancholy during the holidays, nor do I exaggerate my cheer.

This year there is a restless agitated discourse, a chorus of dementia inside of me that gives no damns about better business practices, long term financials, or legislative theater. There is a primal cry for justice, accompanied by torrent of tears cried by a little girl that wants the grown ups to be kind and fair, the hungry to be fed, and the shit that matters to be addressed instead of this other thing we humans keep doing. Whatever that is.

I don’t mean to be such a buzz kill. I do hope you all have some delicious times with family and friends. I hope I will as well. No need to send medication recommendations or the number to your shrink. I’ll be back in the game for 2016 revved and ready to hop back on my soapbox. Hopefully you’ll be all razzle dazzled and ready to pick up what I’m throwing down.

Until then, have a happy new year!