Thursday, December 25, 2003
I will not get smarmy this morning, because I will not be a hypocrite, but I will wish you all the finest things that I can for the long year to come. Peace and freedom from tyranny and fear and repression, in all ways. The realization of dreams, or at least the luxury of the dreams themselves. The dignity that comes with pain that may not be avoided, and the strength to bear all the unbearable moments in life. Beauty and the eyes to see it.
And perspective.
And joy, which is a far finer thing than any passing happiness.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,549 words on "The Dry Salvages." Last night, I cooked an absurd feast which I shall not recount in detail, though it is tempting to do so. This morning I cooked an equally absurdly feastish breakfast. Spooky and I have had the finest Xmas of any I've enjoyed since the late '80s. Last night, I kept thinking of one very, very awful Xmas Eve in Athens, only a few months after the death of a friend, and I felt an odd, guilty sort of gratitude to be alive. This morning we exchanged gifts. My favorite is a blue- and white-striped stocking cap that hangs all the way to the small of my back. Spooky's is a Dame Darcy t-shirt. Jennifer is away with her family in Alabama and won't be back until tomorrow evening. Sophie is asleep somewhere.
And, you know what? Frell it. I'm not writing today. Spooky and I are going to see The Big Fish and Peter Pan, then I'm coming home and baking a fruitcake (no, a real fruitcake).
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