Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach As I want you to be
As a trend, as a friend
As an old memoria
- Kurt Cobain, Come as You Are
It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to dress up. I knew it'd be my cat Flo's, and possibly my Dad's, last Christmas, but something in me wanted to get dressed up,
Only a few pairs of socks and a black nightie (just in case), made it into my unfastenable duffel bag for my two-week stay, and here I was on week 30—two.
Wearing the same fucking thing:
✅ men's vintage jeans - six sizes too big
✅ thrifted wool Acne sweater – heavily repaired
✅ burgundy fast-fashion toque – stretched out
✅ men's 50-year-old dead duck down coat – shedding feathers
✅ hiking boots - muddy
I was as dumpy and worn out as my clothes.
I can't remember if I was wearing the fake fur coat when I took off from Vancouver nine months prior or if I'd shoved it into my conveniently unfastenable bag while I ran out my door. Probably the latter.
Well whatever, it now hung on a hook-shaped piece of driftwood that my Dad drilled into the wall beside my front door—the summer before all this shit happened.
Pacificnorthwest accountrement
My fuck this, I don't give a shit anymore attitude wasn't fully developed yet at nine months in, but it was strong enough to construct a whatever; I'm going to dress up and find some people to stand around with.
That dusty fake fur was the dressiest thing I had on that island of woe.
I thought about styling the dust catcher up with my little black nightie, long johns and hiking boots—and since grunge never died on Hornby...
Too friggin cold.
Scratched that.
Agh Go.
I wiped off my boots and grabbed the dusty coat on the way out the door. I was headed to Ringside to see if I could find some humans.
Ringside's Hornby's version of downtown and is located at the Island's only four-way stop. It consists of six vibrantly painted hand-built caravans organized in a circle - hence Ringside - a conglomerate of local artisan wares, tie-dyed tourist crap, seasonal tacos, and city-priced coffee. It's also a dependable spot where locals gather for rumours and news. You go to the gravel gas lot to find out where to get an iron clawfoot tub, but if you want to know whose nephew is sleeping with Helene's daughter, you go to Ringside.
The past nine months were difficult for everyone on the Island. The Co-op grocery constantly ran out of food and supplies, people were divided by medical beliefs, and the winter hurricane winds had started early.
As usual, I wasn't sure what I'd encounter beyond my gated yard, but I hoped it was humans.
Walking across the gravel lot, I was greeted by social anxiety. I wasn't the only one who'd made the Christmas Eve pilgrimage. Ringside was packed. Folks dressed up in moth-eaten fur coats from the free store, Halloween top hats, silver Christmas boas from that box up in the rafters and the most outlandishly wacked array of Christmas accoutrements.
Some stood alone,
others in pairs,
but most looked
awkward
and uncomfortable.
It was a gathering of misfits, bound by our haphazard Christmas finery, an unbeknownst faith and resilience only a few will ever know.
We'd pulled ourselves together in whatever way we could and left the isolation of our homes. Drawn together by a tradition that not many of us followed in the hopes of finding another suffering human in search of compassion.
It takes courage to come out from behind a wall of isolating depression—IYKYK
Although I didn't talk to anyone on Christmas Eve, sharing the presence of other raw souls was more than enough.
