"Look for me by moonlight,/ Watch for me by moonlight,/ I'll come to thee by moonlight..."
I'm reading out loud Alfred Noyes' famous creepy ghostly love poem, The Highwayman. Who isn't this time of year? Seriously? You're not?
C'mon, we just had a blood moon. And there is no holiday I like preparing for better than Halloween. I live to arrange gourds. To roast pumpkins in embers. To make weird chicken wire sepulcher sculptures. To read aloud Lenore. How do the undead laugh? Poe Poe Poe.
Last year at this time I was on the radio talking about Day of The Dead, El Dia de los Muertos with it's representations of Death as the ultimate lover, riotously colorful rose-decorated skulls, candies that mock death with their extreme sweetness, and crass figurines which I love of dancing skeletal dentists.
Thanksgiving's a big turkey. Christmas is piles of guilt under a dying tree that I would rather was living in a northern forest, and egg nog which sounds better in Spanish: rompope. Easter is a pastel egg. I look terrible in pastels. All washed out.
If I'm going for the commercial holidays like a good American pagan, I like to mix it up with a holiday with teeth. Wax lips. A flippant nose-thumbing at the inevitable. I have a card of a skeleton in a leisure suit saying, "Feliz dia." It makes me laugh so much.
Feliz dia, carpe diem, carpe noctum, tempus fugit, however you want to pitch it, bitches, this is the only life you've got; the time is now to break out the Hershey's Special Darks. What are you waiting for?