evangelysta started it:

2 12 2007

talking about calendars, ways of marking, demarcating time; she brought paul & i breakfast this morning and had us on the internet, sifting through proposals to re-orient the calendar for better math, digging into religions & etymologies to name our months and days. her pitch is for making something of advent–making candlelight, making writing, taking time to make (go check out her page if you want her take rather than what i’ve taken from it).

i’m a day late already, if we’re making a little fire and saying something every day to become better grounded in where we are and where we’re going, but i’m always late, and anyway, i’m not sure how much more i can take of looking closely at either thing. as long as i skim the surface like a waterbug (although they’re frozen solid now if they’re still around) i can just take in the good & let the dark slide by untouched, an oil-slick on the surface whose tension i don’t break.

yesterday, i lit no candles, but i edited some 70 pages of prose by non-native english speakers seeking graduate degrees in this foreign tongue, and i’m awed by their bravery. i shared tea and merlot & a hot-water-bottle & study-time & home-made roasted veggie soup (her home) & bread & CSI & cookies shawn had made for me with claire, spent at least 45 minutes strategerizing Comps with paul, told the songbird how beautiful she sounds, & hugged S goodbye on his way back into the (next beam-crashing) housefire; that’s all that i know how to do to keep us warm.

today i’ve shoveled an hour’s worth of snow before breakfast, told a displaced friend i’d check in on him later, half-organized a christmas-present-project for the fam, promised mom i’m coming home, & arranged to drag the editing work up to cicero to meet maddy for lunch & laptop-buddy work-encouragement. there’s a little forward-looking tucked inside of there, but mostly it’s just about the present tense, squeezing mittened hands and hanging on.

i’m more afraid of christmas than looking forward to it, so i’m not entirely sure about the good of counting down–and then what happens, when the day comes and goes, when the new year’s calendar starts a week later, and nothing wrong rights itself, nothing fixes, nothing changes, nobody’s healed by miracle and no-one comes back from the dead?

i spent the last day of november working in a pile of blankets with a borrowed cat purring on me & S making me food & pirating the X-Files off the internet to finish off the evening giggling at with wine and ice cream. taken one by one, these days are warm, are good, are sometimes as close to perfect as i can imagine days being in a world this torn, but pulling the lens back to let more than one or two of them in at a time shows relentless trends of grey i doubt my strength to stand against.

so i’m keeping it small: peppermint coffee with my two-whole-students, pizza-box art, real maple syrup, dancing elves & kitten pictures on the intarwub, the rolled-up sleeves of this borrowed flannel. B says the hookers by his new place are first-class working girls. dr. jasonian democracy says some people live through brain tumors. stevie promises he won’t strap guns to the robot helicopters, but the rest of us are on our own.

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