Falsely (this is born out to me, daily), I’ve held onto some delusional notion that for a few days and perhaps—even weeks—humans in America can dig deeper and find their better natures. And after all their efforts at excavation—actually extend their humanity beyond the end of their noses. It’s probably a case of too many times viewing “It’s a Wonderful Life,” or Hallmark’s endless parade of holiday happy-ever-after schlock.

I know I’m living on another planet. Just days before Thanksgiving—that most American of holidays in terms of myth and nostalgia—I was reminded yet again in a very in-your-face sort of way of how shitty nearly every human I manage to rub elbows with, or come close enough to, and having their noxious aura leak into my own personal space. Did I tell you that I hate most humans (or many of the ones I am forced to endure, daily)?

At work, there is a tree. Someone thought we could all write what we’re thankful for on a blank leaf. Then, hang it on the tree. I don’t hold it against them. They meant well.

For more than a week now, I’ve been trying to think of something I could write that wouldn’t sound snarky, or be considered mean, or end up simply being sad. It occurred to me today that I won’t be adding a leaf to the tree.

Before Mark was killed, I had a dream. In the dream, I was asked to front a band and play guitar. This from the guy who was years out from beginning his year-long journey into simply surviving, picking up a guitar and playing it nearly every day. In the dream, somehow, I faked my way through songs and they sounded really good. I woke from the dream and thought, “I wish I could play like that.”

Yesterday, after the shittiest of shitty Mondays at work, listening to angry, entitled people rail and malign their healthcare (in America, if you have it, you are fucking lucky!), I came home to a cacophony of hammers, yelling, and a generator whirring across the street. My neighbors were having a roof repair done. I’m sorry their roof was leaking—they are perfectly nice people and the best anyone could ask for in terms of living near, but of all days, I simply wanted something other than this home repair racket.

Voxing it up with Voxie.

My boy, Danny.

My musical “wood shed.”

I spent a few minutes playing with Lucy and then, down into the basement I went. I flicked on the power switch on Voxie and picked up Danny off the guitar stand. I ran through “Cinnamon Girl” by Neil Young. I then spent time working on adding a bridge to “Spaceship Blues,” the new song I wrote last week. I played “Rachel, Rachel,” another song I wrote. It dawned on me that my dream was coming true.

I could turn this into a listicle of things people should do for Thanksgiving. I’ll spare you and not waste my time engaging in futility.

Instead, I’ll turn my attention to music and another song that has meaning for two reasons this season: one, Christmas will always be the worst of seasons for me and Mary for obvious reasons if you know us and the abridged version of our story at all. Two, I’m learning this one by Sufjan Stevens as my own “Christmas Song” this year.

People might suck, at least most of the ones I’ve wasted my time attempted to remain tethered too: but playing guitar and getting a little better every day doesn’t.