Rituals

I find cracking open a pumpkin and scooping out its guts to be soothing and meditative on the level of peeling pomegranates. It’s not always been this way; when I was little, I’d balk at the concept of gutting my own pumpkin and make mom do it. But now? If I want that pumpkin to have a face, I have to get it done myself, guts and all. The process has become so familiar now that I can’t imagine not doing it, not taking time out once a year to sit down with a giant squash and wrap my fingers around its interior tendrils, dig my nails into its flesh and scrape it clean, or just clean enough to house some tinfoil and votive candles.

I don’t have a lot of rituals in my life, probably because I’m too lazy to keep up with most of them. But this one has stuck. I’m not sure why it’s stuck so fiercely. I start to get antsy if the end of October is near and I’ve not yet put out a jack-o-lantern. In some ways, I think maybe it’s my own way of acknowledging and accepting the inevitable end of the year. Like, “Year, I am going to gut this gourd and light it on fire and set it outside and then it will be okay for you to put Christmas trees up at Walgreens.”

So anyway, I give you CrazyEyes McPalin:

“Compulsory pregnancy, my friends! Neverending war, you betcha! Fear of brown people, by golly! Creepy snickering and suggestive winking!! Heheheheheuhuhuhuhhuh!”

I bought two pumpkins this year, so I’ve got one more to carve. I had originally thought about doing Brett- and Jemaine-o-lanterns, but let’s face it, I am not that supernaturally talented when it comes to pumpkin-carving, so I’ll settle for making quasi-creepy, passive-aggressive political statements.

Pumpkins past:
2007, 2006, 2005, 2004