I, too, am struck by the Christmas Blues...months of preparation, and it is all over in one day, moving very fast. I am convinced that all those people who "hate" Christmas, just do not want to go through this fugue that follows the Day...they want to be happy through the winter. Meanwhile, the rest of us hang onto memories of red and green, chocolate and turkey, and love.
I didn't mention family in the above list, because it can be a very traumatic experience for some...being forced to spend time up close and personal, with people we may or may not spend a lot of time with the rest of the year. And too, spending time in one's head with all those who have died. Yes, the family factor can be problematic. And let's not forget those who have no family to spend time with; their lack is held under a microscope this time of year. It's simply worse if they have family, and no one wants to spend time with them...do you see?
And so, some of us, Christmas haters and not, spend time with the lonely ones. Which is a celebration of Christmas as it should be.
And now we wait, for the stars to fall on New Year's Day...all the glitter and excitement which ends in a dead pool at January 2nd. Until the celebration of Spring, Easter. I don't count Valentine's Day, which is the most useless holiday one can imagine. It's a massive competition to see who gets the most roses, dead the day after, and/or the most expensive box of chocolates. And other gifts, which make it seem as if sex is mandatory on that night. It's an orgy of red in the middle of Winter, which leaves the rest of us, who are not in relationships, to look at each other and say, "So what?" Which sounds like sour grapes, but isn't.
When I think of Valentine's Day, I think of the little cut-out valentines that school children exchange, and think that the holiday should stop at that age. And it seems as if it has...my mother used to exchange valentines with my brother and I. For her, it meant love in all it's varieties and forms, not simply romantic love, the commercial experience of Valentine's Day. But there, I am casting my mind back to the dead, part of the Christmas blues experience.
And so now, I walk on my beloved Hollins campus, admiring the gold and slate gray, and green of the winter colors. I walk with the memory of Eddie, my service dog, and I walk with the living dog, Max. And I grit my teeth on New Year's Eve and Day, and Valentine's Day, and hope for Spring.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Boxing Day
Despite my lack of motivation of anything that resembles work, thanks to a cold, I have come here to spend some time with you this morning. Aren't you happy?
Had a friend 'unfriend' me on Facebook on Christmas Eve...with no explanation. Although she is a quirky writer, with the cuteness factor of that equated in, it is a bit too quirky and cute for me. Waiting until she came into town for the holidays? Priceless. In the land of passive-aggresive, it is one upmanship at it's best. What made it oddly painful was that she was a 'real-life' friend, not just one on Facebook. No clue here, but the vagaries of the mind...
So I concentrated on presents, lovingly given by some friends and family. With emphasis on the lovingly. In my spare time, I ate and ate and ate. If I don't buy sweets, I don't eat them, but what happens when they are delivered to one's door? It makes it that much easier to chow down. Not buying sweets is easy. Not eating the little tempting morsels is another...
Time for coffee...
So today is Boxing Day. In the UK, this is the day one gives presents, "boxes", to the people who make your year run more smoothly: the postman, the local grocer, the local shopkeeper, the trashmen, etc. At least I hope that is right, but I am too zoned by this cold to look it up. You look it up for me, won't you?
I wish I could settle into my bed with a fifth of bourbon and some tea and honey, but those days are past...the tea and honey are a much better choice, nowadays. And the swearing off of some fruitcake products should make everything seem better by noon. And no chocolate, either...the thought makes me shudder at this very moment...I need some protein.
Have a good Boxing Day and don't be down that Christmas is over. I am leaving my ceramic tree up until March; I like the colored lights...and have been known to leave a cut tree up until after Valentine's Day---the most useless holiday yet.
Had a friend 'unfriend' me on Facebook on Christmas Eve...with no explanation. Although she is a quirky writer, with the cuteness factor of that equated in, it is a bit too quirky and cute for me. Waiting until she came into town for the holidays? Priceless. In the land of passive-aggresive, it is one upmanship at it's best. What made it oddly painful was that she was a 'real-life' friend, not just one on Facebook. No clue here, but the vagaries of the mind...
So I concentrated on presents, lovingly given by some friends and family. With emphasis on the lovingly. In my spare time, I ate and ate and ate. If I don't buy sweets, I don't eat them, but what happens when they are delivered to one's door? It makes it that much easier to chow down. Not buying sweets is easy. Not eating the little tempting morsels is another...
Time for coffee...
So today is Boxing Day. In the UK, this is the day one gives presents, "boxes", to the people who make your year run more smoothly: the postman, the local grocer, the local shopkeeper, the trashmen, etc. At least I hope that is right, but I am too zoned by this cold to look it up. You look it up for me, won't you?
I wish I could settle into my bed with a fifth of bourbon and some tea and honey, but those days are past...the tea and honey are a much better choice, nowadays. And the swearing off of some fruitcake products should make everything seem better by noon. And no chocolate, either...the thought makes me shudder at this very moment...I need some protein.
Have a good Boxing Day and don't be down that Christmas is over. I am leaving my ceramic tree up until March; I like the colored lights...and have been known to leave a cut tree up until after Valentine's Day---the most useless holiday yet.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
More Fruitcake
Apparently, I cannot buy sweets without eating them. This will necessitate another visit to the country corner store to replenish my supply of Christmas candy...'tis the Season to gain enough weight so that I could pass for Mrs. Claus. And I have already opened one Christmas gift that has my favorite chocolates in it...admit it. You would do it too.
Bah Humbug.
It is hard not to write soft, marshmallow-sweet pieces of work until Christmas, and then turn into the curmudgeon that I really am. But I am paying more attention to the turning of the year this year, which to me has always seemed so arbitrary. I mean, you are celebrating another day out of the middle of nowhere. It's a bit like St. Valentine's day, the only secular holdover from the Saints' calendar. Where did that come from? As far as I can tell, it's another celebration of the color red in the middle of what most people think of as a dull and grey time of year.
Furthermore, it has the added benefit of adding stress to a romantic relationship. Will he get "the" gift? Will she remember the oil and feathers?
That it is actually a blue, grey, golden fields, with the brightest, clearest skies time of year seems to escape some. No worries. Summer will again be here before you know it. And with global warming marching on rapidly, it just seems like we just got over the last summer as it is, and are still in late summer. This from a part of the country where the Arctic wind used to blow in January and February, and ice storms abounded. Do you remember how a good ice storm used to decorate the trees with fire from the sun reflecting off of the ice?
And since I like it cooler, rather than warmer, I am not celebrating the disappearance of really cold winters. Bah humbug.
And tomorrow is the end of the world, so I really should finish off what Christmas candy I do have left this morning...eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow is promised to no one...
Bah Humbug.
It is hard not to write soft, marshmallow-sweet pieces of work until Christmas, and then turn into the curmudgeon that I really am. But I am paying more attention to the turning of the year this year, which to me has always seemed so arbitrary. I mean, you are celebrating another day out of the middle of nowhere. It's a bit like St. Valentine's day, the only secular holdover from the Saints' calendar. Where did that come from? As far as I can tell, it's another celebration of the color red in the middle of what most people think of as a dull and grey time of year.
Furthermore, it has the added benefit of adding stress to a romantic relationship. Will he get "the" gift? Will she remember the oil and feathers?
That it is actually a blue, grey, golden fields, with the brightest, clearest skies time of year seems to escape some. No worries. Summer will again be here before you know it. And with global warming marching on rapidly, it just seems like we just got over the last summer as it is, and are still in late summer. This from a part of the country where the Arctic wind used to blow in January and February, and ice storms abounded. Do you remember how a good ice storm used to decorate the trees with fire from the sun reflecting off of the ice?
And since I like it cooler, rather than warmer, I am not celebrating the disappearance of really cold winters. Bah humbug.
And tomorrow is the end of the world, so I really should finish off what Christmas candy I do have left this morning...eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow is promised to no one...
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Small Town
like I grew up in. I could ride my bike down the middle of Main Street, which was named Main Street, and be safe. My first view of a gun, was a pistol kept by my Grandpa. He had acquired it during WW II, and had his Gerand issued to him from the same war. The only time I ever saw either of them, was the time he killed a rattlesnake down by the pond where my 7 year old brother and I were fishing.
I think Samuel L. Jackson has the Newtown tragedy right, when he said that he was raised in the South, with guns, and had never seen anyone shot. He said it is not about guns, but about the shooters not knowing or being taught, the value of human life. Although in general, I am against guns, I have to agree with him on this subject. My Papa taught us about guns, and how it felt to kill someone. He taught us it was never excusable to kill, except in war, and that it was a nasty business in war, too. Even pointing a gun had consequences, and we were never allowed to handle his guns.
And now it has come to small children, as if the loss at Columbine wasn't about small children...or as defenseless as a 6 year old.
And now it has come to the billions spent by the NRA, the National Rifle Association, and your neighbor with the assault rifle, and a way of thinking that agrees with almost casually killing someone, anyone that one can pick out as an 'enemy.' Or killing to make a statement, or killing because of an organic disease...all of these are being looked at as causes for the Newtown killings.
But I put it to you that we are a sick society. Where a great many veterans are homeless, or cross addicted, or dually addicted. Where people go hungry, and the tiny amount it takes to feed them is begrudged by one part of society to another. Where many of the elderly are untaken-care-of and the rights of women to own their own bodies is disputed. Which is a fair description of slavery, don't you think?
And sometimes, slaves go mad, actually insane, and kill. So, amid all the confusing debates about what is to be done, and it is a deeply intricate problem is my point, we are going to have to look at who we serve. Or, in this country I think, WHAT we serve.
I am sure that I was not born with an inherent right to a gun, or even money. I was born with an inherent need for survival, (shelter, food, water, air, clothes, and communication with others), liberty, and the 'pursuit of happiness,' or "Live and Let Live."
And so we need to re-think a 400 year old way of living that, up to recent times, included the need for a gun to kill the food to make it to tomorrow. And we need to re-think an ancient way of living, that carries the view that some are more deserving than others: to life, food, shelter and love.
And so I sit, and read again my Jack Gilbert:
A Brief for the Defense
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
From REFUSING HEAVEN (Knopf, 2005)
I think Samuel L. Jackson has the Newtown tragedy right, when he said that he was raised in the South, with guns, and had never seen anyone shot. He said it is not about guns, but about the shooters not knowing or being taught, the value of human life. Although in general, I am against guns, I have to agree with him on this subject. My Papa taught us about guns, and how it felt to kill someone. He taught us it was never excusable to kill, except in war, and that it was a nasty business in war, too. Even pointing a gun had consequences, and we were never allowed to handle his guns.
And now it has come to small children, as if the loss at Columbine wasn't about small children...or as defenseless as a 6 year old.
And now it has come to the billions spent by the NRA, the National Rifle Association, and your neighbor with the assault rifle, and a way of thinking that agrees with almost casually killing someone, anyone that one can pick out as an 'enemy.' Or killing to make a statement, or killing because of an organic disease...all of these are being looked at as causes for the Newtown killings.
But I put it to you that we are a sick society. Where a great many veterans are homeless, or cross addicted, or dually addicted. Where people go hungry, and the tiny amount it takes to feed them is begrudged by one part of society to another. Where many of the elderly are untaken-care-of and the rights of women to own their own bodies is disputed. Which is a fair description of slavery, don't you think?
And sometimes, slaves go mad, actually insane, and kill. So, amid all the confusing debates about what is to be done, and it is a deeply intricate problem is my point, we are going to have to look at who we serve. Or, in this country I think, WHAT we serve.
I am sure that I was not born with an inherent right to a gun, or even money. I was born with an inherent need for survival, (shelter, food, water, air, clothes, and communication with others), liberty, and the 'pursuit of happiness,' or "Live and Let Live."
And so we need to re-think a 400 year old way of living that, up to recent times, included the need for a gun to kill the food to make it to tomorrow. And we need to re-think an ancient way of living, that carries the view that some are more deserving than others: to life, food, shelter and love.
And so I sit, and read again my Jack Gilbert:
A Brief for the Defense
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
From REFUSING HEAVEN (Knopf, 2005)
A Slice of Orange
And so I am back to writing, just for you. I hate missing out on our meetings together in the mornings. I mean, some days, all I have is you...So let's have some coffee. I'll smoke your share of cigarettes, if you use my share of cream. But it has to be real cream.
I am spending as much time of the season as I can at Plantagenet Rose...a lovely little shop in Salem, VA, run by an even lovelier British woman...the Saucy Brit, also known as Portia. I like it there because she has the most refined taste in candles, and home decor; and luxurious fabrics practically drip from the walls. Everywhere you turn is soft, jazzy music, scented wax, and pashmina...a fabric invented by F. Scott Fitzgerald to symbolize what he lost in the Jazz Age.
Just kidding. Let's just say pashmina reminds me of the Silk Road, and running through the old Egyptian marketplace in Cairo, buying bright silks on a visit long ago. It's enough to make one swoon, darling, and so I go and smell the scents, and listen to the music and Portia's accent, and run my hands across the velvet pillows and scarves. Heaven.
But what news? It's been a while, an eternity, since I talked to you. I felt like I had lost my mojo for a while there...and so I stopped writing. But here we are.
The new, unicorn meat eating cat, Georgia is doing well and ventured out first when the 'boys' were sleeping. That is slowly changing; she is bolder now, and more inclined to play. She discovered the glass door to the outside yesterday, and took up the well used perch on the back of the couch to look outside. She will be my first indoor only cat, and it is a new experience for both of us.
Minkins, one of the boys, a grey tabby, goes out for exactly five minutes every morning and night. The rest of the time, he is content to share the apartment with me and the dog. I am always surprised at this: not at his affection for the dog, Max. Minkins was orphaned at birth and raised by a dog, but that he is content to stay indoors after spending his life on a 100 acre farm.
And Rat Face, my plump, but oh, so active orange tabby, spends most of the day out, coming in for food and pettings. He is the principal danger to the unicorns in the neighborhood, as he is a very tough hunter.
And Christmas is shaping up nicely. Except for the news from a small town in Connecticut.
I am spending as much time of the season as I can at Plantagenet Rose...a lovely little shop in Salem, VA, run by an even lovelier British woman...the Saucy Brit, also known as Portia. I like it there because she has the most refined taste in candles, and home decor; and luxurious fabrics practically drip from the walls. Everywhere you turn is soft, jazzy music, scented wax, and pashmina...a fabric invented by F. Scott Fitzgerald to symbolize what he lost in the Jazz Age.
Just kidding. Let's just say pashmina reminds me of the Silk Road, and running through the old Egyptian marketplace in Cairo, buying bright silks on a visit long ago. It's enough to make one swoon, darling, and so I go and smell the scents, and listen to the music and Portia's accent, and run my hands across the velvet pillows and scarves. Heaven.
But what news? It's been a while, an eternity, since I talked to you. I felt like I had lost my mojo for a while there...and so I stopped writing. But here we are.
The new, unicorn meat eating cat, Georgia is doing well and ventured out first when the 'boys' were sleeping. That is slowly changing; she is bolder now, and more inclined to play. She discovered the glass door to the outside yesterday, and took up the well used perch on the back of the couch to look outside. She will be my first indoor only cat, and it is a new experience for both of us.
Minkins, one of the boys, a grey tabby, goes out for exactly five minutes every morning and night. The rest of the time, he is content to share the apartment with me and the dog. I am always surprised at this: not at his affection for the dog, Max. Minkins was orphaned at birth and raised by a dog, but that he is content to stay indoors after spending his life on a 100 acre farm.
And Rat Face, my plump, but oh, so active orange tabby, spends most of the day out, coming in for food and pettings. He is the principal danger to the unicorns in the neighborhood, as he is a very tough hunter.
And Christmas is shaping up nicely. Except for the news from a small town in Connecticut.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Got Match?
I have not been intentionally neglecting you. I have reached that deep stage of dissociative fugue that we call "The Holidays". Now, I enjoy a good Saturnalia as much as the next person, but the wear and tear of lack of sunlight is reaching for me.
And this is not a "war on Christmas" blog. I love Christmas. I love, not the commercialism telling people to buy more and more expensive gifts, but the newness and the glitter of it. It costs nothing to look, and seeing the perks of red and green after the leaves are brown is enough to make anyone's day.
It is the Hope of rebirth that is being celebrated here. The Christian church adopted the pagan rituals that were so strong, even their legends of God on earth couldn't shake them. And that's Hope. The Hope of Demeter coming back in the Spring. The Fire lit against the Dark. The Hope of Resurrection. The Hope that the crops will grow again, one day, the eternal turn of the seasons. It is Mithras spilling blood on the ground to enrich the earth for the crops that will be born again. It is my favorite Christmas thingy, a small, stuffed lamb wearing a red scarf and a crown of holly with berries.
I have lived without Hope and color, and the first thing I remember is a red flower. A dark, blood red pulsing against a green stem. It was a long time until I found any color to match it, and I remember it vividly to this day. We know the Norse peoples practiced human sacrifice, and that their sacrifices ate a last meal composed entirely of grains and seeds. They, too, must have seen a red, pulsing flower one day, and planted it against the Winter.
So descry the fiber optic trees and glitter all you want. Lament the Barbie tree houses and iPhones. Dis-embrace the strange wines and foods we get no other time of year, cranberry Sprite and fruitcake, anyone? But do not seek to destroy or deny what is behind the gray thoughts of Winter: Hope, and sunlight and rebirth. And a fire lit as proof against the darkness.
And this is not a "war on Christmas" blog. I love Christmas. I love, not the commercialism telling people to buy more and more expensive gifts, but the newness and the glitter of it. It costs nothing to look, and seeing the perks of red and green after the leaves are brown is enough to make anyone's day.
It is the Hope of rebirth that is being celebrated here. The Christian church adopted the pagan rituals that were so strong, even their legends of God on earth couldn't shake them. And that's Hope. The Hope of Demeter coming back in the Spring. The Fire lit against the Dark. The Hope of Resurrection. The Hope that the crops will grow again, one day, the eternal turn of the seasons. It is Mithras spilling blood on the ground to enrich the earth for the crops that will be born again. It is my favorite Christmas thingy, a small, stuffed lamb wearing a red scarf and a crown of holly with berries.
I have lived without Hope and color, and the first thing I remember is a red flower. A dark, blood red pulsing against a green stem. It was a long time until I found any color to match it, and I remember it vividly to this day. We know the Norse peoples practiced human sacrifice, and that their sacrifices ate a last meal composed entirely of grains and seeds. They, too, must have seen a red, pulsing flower one day, and planted it against the Winter.
So descry the fiber optic trees and glitter all you want. Lament the Barbie tree houses and iPhones. Dis-embrace the strange wines and foods we get no other time of year, cranberry Sprite and fruitcake, anyone? But do not seek to destroy or deny what is behind the gray thoughts of Winter: Hope, and sunlight and rebirth. And a fire lit as proof against the darkness.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Taking Time
for only today. Whilst I am ecstatic at having as many friends as possible, it is with a sense of absurdity that I look at my 'who is on chat' list, on Facebook. Some of the names of who is on chat I cannot connect with any memory. Not that it is a bad thing. From my posts, I am apparently making friends as we speak. And my ego needs all the readers I can get.
Today is a day for some existential musings, some painting of walls, and a new hair style. Which strikes me as a list out of some Douglas Adams book.
I am planning to have a good day, today. Because I have no plans not to. So far it is a day for existential musings, and the silence of some unicorn meat eating cats waiting patiently to see what the day brings for them, as well.
The boys are crouched waiting in that mid-morning stillness way, and walking silently around, making sure that the oven isn't on, and that I haven't left the coffee pot going. Georgia, always on my mind, is grooming carefully on her bed on top of the washing machine in the bathroom. The air is warm and still in there, and suits her. But soon, today in fact, I will have to start working with her to introduce her to the rest of the apartment, so she can enjoy the full benefit of living here.
And if you had planned any musings today, I hope that it is attached with a plan that includes some water, preferably in a hot tub, and whatever beverage floats your boat.
Today is a day for some existential musings, some painting of walls, and a new hair style. Which strikes me as a list out of some Douglas Adams book.
I am planning to have a good day, today. Because I have no plans not to. So far it is a day for existential musings, and the silence of some unicorn meat eating cats waiting patiently to see what the day brings for them, as well.
The boys are crouched waiting in that mid-morning stillness way, and walking silently around, making sure that the oven isn't on, and that I haven't left the coffee pot going. Georgia, always on my mind, is grooming carefully on her bed on top of the washing machine in the bathroom. The air is warm and still in there, and suits her. But soon, today in fact, I will have to start working with her to introduce her to the rest of the apartment, so she can enjoy the full benefit of living here.
And if you had planned any musings today, I hope that it is attached with a plan that includes some water, preferably in a hot tub, and whatever beverage floats your boat.
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