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.