Of Christmas Modalities and Transmogrification to Dust
Finding myself quite empty, with nothing to write about, I offered myself to myself as theme and subject matter. It is... in its conception wild and fantastically eccentric.
— Michel de Montaigne, “On the affection of fathers for their children.”
Dense fog this morning; let the Christmas claustrophobia commence.
Whether I'll admit it to myself or not – and I suppose letting it out here constitues at least a semblance of admittance – I still miss the old days of Christmas Eve evenings, the anticipation, the waiting, for the Super Nintendo, etc. etc; Christmas Day itself always being a sort of comedown, but no less pleasant.
But those days are long gone now; it's all just another day but at least I'm not pissed off about it anymore. Age, mileage, wisdom, etc. etc.
As for the gift for myself, I'm going to let myself be ok with being too tired to pretend to attempt to feel comfort in – or to make the effort to feel comfort in – rhythms established both after I left and before I arrived. I never harmonized with it and I'm too fucking old and tired to change who I've become (for better or for worse) so that I might better harmonize with the comfort of others. High time, then, that I find comfort rather than distress in the modality of myself.
In some cases, I will make the effort; it's far too uncomfortable to not, especially for Someone who's been there for me my entire life, one of the few: annual tradition these last few years of dragging my heathen ass to a Christmas Eve service with/for said Someone where I'll watch a preacher who loves the sound of his voice move his mouth in the same fucking patterns over and over again and hope I don't catch on fire during the lighting of the candles but this acceptance of a few hours of profound discomfort is the least I can do for said Someone.
As for those other ports both old and new, they fell apart long ago and/or were never properly assembled. Content now to drift about in my dinghy, assuming, of course, that I don't turn to dust this evening.
Additional thought: tradition and holidays represent roots and grounding while I prefer water. I feel beached.
P.S. The best Christmas movie is BATMAN RETURNS. End of story.
Listening: SAX PAX FOR A SAX, by Moondog; AWASE, by Nik Bartsch's Ronin.
