& this time next year?

There’s a collection of T.S. Eliot’s poetry to the left of my laptop (& a copy of Teju Cole’s ‘Every Day Is For The Thief‘ … to the right), a selection of cuttings from weekend supplements which offer me the best way to make slow-cooked mutton with cardamom, or how to roast Brussel sprouts (with lardons and shallots), or whether roast potatoes should be cooked in hot or cold oil …

Happy Fucking Christmas.

How festive do I feel? About as festive as I felt in August, October, & February. Perhaps less.

Or November, January, & March.

Plus ça change …

Now here’s the thing – Christmas is what it is. The season to be jolly, to be sure. A period when we are all reminded of how it felt to be a child, full of wonder and anticipation, hoping and dreaming that we will receive what we hoped and dreamt of. But. But. But. There’s more …

And what’s there more?

Work. Application. Life. Imagination. Desire. Cello lessons. Conversation. Sterile thunder. Love. Sex. /ˈhɛkt/. That is, Hecht. Or Brecht. Or zeitgeist. A piano … sonata. A looped drum machine. Kanye West. The memory of … a memory. & something else.

That is, everything.

That is what the end of any year means, a brief summation of what has passed and a brief prayer of what is to come.

The summation is … it’s your story – sum it up.

The prayer? It’s yours.

Dreams of Asmara?

Make it happen.

©

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