Seasonal Movement
Hi friends. Tomorrow's the winter solstice, did you know? Longest, darkest night of the year. It's an auspicious time—a nice little turning point. Over the last months, see, the year was turned toward darkness. Now, it'll be turned toward light. Because I don't want to celebrate consumerism or religion, I try to make everything—my feasts, my libations, my friendly gatherings, my journeys homeward to family, my green tree branches and my white twinkling lights—all about that.
Favorites 12.16.13
Derby pie: This is pie, sort of. A dance between chocolate, pecans, brown sugar, and Kentucky bourbon—dark as night and rich with mysteries of the South.
When your dog plays with other dogs at the park: Sweet liberty! Suddenly your hands and mind are free to wander to other things—like your text message log or how the moon looks like a fingernail clipping dropped on the horizon.
Potlucks: A table full of steaming dishes magnetically draws a party close, gives it purpose, fills the stomachs of imbibers so that they don't get wrecked when/if they take it a few sips too far.
Boy: A movie from the writer/director of Eagle vs. Shark (also a must see!)—a kinda Kiwi Wes Anderson, in my opinion. The movie involves a darkish tale, told sweetly and hilariously. Currently streaming on Netflix people. Get it.
The Death of Santa Claus
Plane tickets have been purchased, and my holiday journey "home" is being planned. As usual, I'll be going backward to the outback I used to know, where the thin air of altitude sparkles with the cold and the wind whips tirelessly at the faraway peaks. Last year, I got several of the kind of perfect days pictured above. This year? Who knows. Nothing is guaranteed … except maybe my annual discourse with nephew Pat on the nature of Santa. He's 9 now. Does he still be believe?! I'm gonna find out, you guys. For now, a poem. A funny, sad poem. About Santa Claus.
The Death of Santa Claus by Charles Harper Webb
He's had the chest pains for weeks, but doctors don't make house calls to the North Pole,
he's let his Blue Cross lapse, blood tests make him faint, hospital gowns always flap
open, waiting rooms upset his stomach, and it's only indigestion anyway, he thinks,
until, feeding the reindeer, he feels as if a monster fist has grabbed his heart and won't
stop squeezing. He can't breathe, and the beautiful white world he loves goes black,
and he drops on his jelly belly in the snow and Mrs. Claus tears out of the toy factory
wailing, and the elves wring their little hands, and Rudolph's nose blinks like a sad ambulance
light, and in a tract house in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, telling my mom that stupid
kids at school say Santa's a big fake, and she sits with me on our purple-flowered couch,
and takes my hand, tears in her throat, the terrible news rising in her eyes.
(From last year—my life skills don't lend themselves to cookie decorating.)
The Way Way Back
Steve Carell. Maya Rudolph. Toni Collette. Coming of age movies. I'm an unabashed enthusiast of every one of these things, so there's not gonna be a whole lot of objectivity here. But man, The Way Way Back—great stuff. This is a movie you'd watch to see a truthful depiction of the awkwardness that is 14 years old, so you can simmer on how very badly grown ups do tend to behave, to watch Steve Carell not play the nice guy for once—but instead a total turd, to remember—maybe—what it was that finally made YOU grow the fuck up.
The Cold Report
A week's worth of the very cold.
Drafty 1900s-era home made warm with firewood, extra layers, and the presence of furry, red-blooded animals.
Clear, bone-chilling nights all wild with stars.
Grey's Anatomy.
Skating indoors, sipping whiskeys on Fremont Street, crawling into bed at 10 p.m.
Bright white morning light filling the bedroom. Small fire to heat the house. Watching from the bathroom window as the dog has a moment with the new snow—snarfing into it, pouncing, peeling out with extreme joy.
Coffee at the kitchen table. Raisin toast with butter.
A long walk to work through white, blustery streets. Colored lights in everyone's windows. The fact of the year's end crackling in the air, and a recollection of something someone said recently—how you don't HAVE to take stock every year if you don't want to. A firm decision to not take stock this year.
