Nothing Everywhere

I don't not care, but holidays are such bullshit. Janus holds the door open and on a particular day you eat turkey or ham and exchange gifts, or kiss under the mistletoe. I don't have a problem with tradition, but I don't pay it any mind. It doesn't really matter. Pro Forma. Patti Page singing in the background. A few drowned rats in the foreground. Boats leak, in the hold, there will always be drowned rats. Raining on parades is a speciality of mine, I started when I was too young to matter, as I grew older I was increasingly pessimistic. Now, I don't believe anything. I'm comfortable in that. Not believing is a lot like believing, a kind of faith. A Newcastle Brown Ale on draft will do that for you, or cheese grits, or merely surviving. At three in the morning the wind changed direction, I felt the change, got up, stoked the fire. Sneezed a couple of times, something in my nose, wood ash probably. The wind comes. The house shakes, I get up and stoke the fire. Sleet then hail, I can't go back to sleep so I read some light fiction, Sanford's latest Virgil Flowers, "Rough Country", a decent read as the night turns into day. Serious reading, again, for this holiday, will be Edward Dahlberg; first, I think, probably "The Sorrows Of Priapus" then "Can These Bones Live", I cook a pot of grits. I make enough that I have a huge quantity at breakfast, and enough leftover for several meals. Pack it in used tins and the slices, fried in the oil of your choice, last for a week, at least, I always use them before that. These refried rounds are good with anything: salsa, any sauce, reconstituted morels and the butter they were cooked in, and that all time favorite, mixed berries heated with whatever jam. Rapturous. Half an acorn squash, spilling with hot berry juice, is an actual event. D says I make everything up, but I'm not quite fiction. Meatwad sings "Santa Left a Bugger In My Stocking" and I'm glad I left the radio on. I took a nap, then went for a walk. Nora Jones is singing when I get back. I cut a few sticks and decide to rest my arm for another day. Robert Earl gets us through the first Noel. I make a pitcher of Bloody Marys, resist calling anyone, because everyone is doing family stuff. Steely Dan, oh Jesus. You know I'm not to blame. Turn the light on, keep your shirt on. Otis Reading. Love will make you do wrong. A fire burning in your soul. Doctor John. I used to love you, but it's all over now. Nothing sounds right. Tracy Chapman. That vibrato. A single note that reverberates, the wind pushed me this way.