Feast of the Impermanence of Flesh
Combining Metaphysical Angst, Existential Despair, and Cupcakes
About Feast of the Impermanence of Flesh
As we near the end times, by which we mean Day 120 of this increasingly dour holiday almanac, we arrive at a kind of metaphysical apex, where two truths vie for dominance. On the one hand, the bounteous glow of Christmas has long faded, and the irrational exuberance that powered Mardi Gras has burned itself out. In our heart of hearts, we know the good times cannot roll on forever. On the other hand, the miraculous surplus of goodwill that animates both holidays—borne of ancient rites, and the simple fact of being together—remains an inexhaustible source of joy. In short, time marches on, and we have only each other to hug between the vomitous storms that will eventually consume everything. This is a day to feel it all, the joy of being alive, the horror of time’s forward march, the absurdity of dying while your fridge still holds half a king cake. Above all, it is a day for gallows humor and freshly whipped frosting. We’re here, briefly, weirdly, messily. Tonight we eat cupcakes. Tomorrow? We’ll see.
Ways to observe
(A) Low effort
Buy or bake a cupcake. Light a candle for no reason. Whisper “carpe frostingi” before eating.
(B) Recommended
Host a Metaphysical Bake-Off. Ask friends to bring desserts themed around death, transience, longing, or gallows humor. Read a favorite quote aloud between courses.
(C) High effort
Stage a full Feast of the Impermanence of Flesh. Guests dress in semi-formal funeralwear. Serve rich foods alongside short meditations on mortality. Hug the people who showed up. End the night with fireworks, or sparklers jammed into cupcakes, saying “We are dust! And we are delicious!”
Inspiration
The Feast of the Impermanence of Flesh is one of several back-of-the-almanac days that are too dark, too gothic, and too weird to belong in a book ostensibly about Christmas. They also share another trait: my editor abhorred them. My case for keeping them rests on the idea that, as we move through the cycle, we should move back through time, asymptotically approaching the first moments when our ancient ancestors thought to honor the passing seasons. In theory, this is a lovely idea. The palimpsest of Christmas shows through in layers—Victorian sentiment, medieval pageantry, pagan revelry, Roman ritual, and something far older still— each holiday a faint but enduring testament to everything that came before. In practice, it feels like a muddled excuse to wear all black and listen to early Cure. So be it. Throughout this journey, certain themes keep resurfacing, as if building toward a prismatic resolution: the unbridled joy of giving freely to those we love and those in need, along with the related melancholy of the post-Christmas blues; the sacred mischief of Roman festival cycles and the traces left behind by our pagan ancestors; and the possibility of imbuing days with arbitrary (and yet real) meaning, if only by hot-gluing a doily to a magnet. The Feast is the emotional and philosophical apotheosis of that slow build, but without the satisfaction of closure. It is both a party and a funeral for our illusions: Saturnalia rewritten by Camus, a wake where the eulogy rhymes, and the departed might just sit up for a final slice. So we sing, we toast, we pipe icing onto cakes shaped like skulls and cherubs, and we revel in the fact that even the briefest joy is still joy. If you’re not vibing with the mood of the day, don’t worry. Tomorrow we walk straight into the temple of the American mall. And if you are loving today, there’s more dark gothic energy around the corner with Lanterne des Morts and Gamla Uppsala.
Adornments
Watch
8 1/2 (1963)
Federico Fellini’s surrealist masterpiece follows Guido Anselmi, a film director crippled by creative paralysis and spiritual exhaustion, as he retreats into memories, fantasies, and dream logic.
The Mirror (1975)
Tarkovsky’s The Mirror is a nonlinear, meditative film that blends memory, history, and dream into a poetic self-portrait. It drifts between time periods and perspectives—childhood scenes, newsreels, domestic moments—all stitched together by an intermittent, noncommittal voiceover.
Wristcutters: A Love Story (2006)
Goran Dukić’s Wristcutters: A Love Story plays like an offbeat road movie set in a dreary afterlife. Its hero (Sharlto Copley) has committed suicide and finds himself in a limbo reserved for the same. Joined by fellow outcasts, he embarks on a surreal quest to find his ex-girlfriend among the dead.
Read
Meditations by Marcus Aurelius
This 2nd-century collection of Stoic reflections by the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius emphasizes the brevity of life and the value of virtue. “Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years.”