The Seventh day: seven swans swimming on a not-quite-frozen
pond, seven gifts from a Ghost that come wrapped in skin and tied up with a
mindful bow. A new year and Christmas is
almost out of mind now. Today, probably
the lights come down—in between quarters—boxed up, the boughs tossed, the last
of the turkey consumed. The trouble with
living in a culture that sells Christmas starting after Hallowe’en is one can’t
celebrate it after today. At least not
without looks. Christmas is a one-day
orgasm that really only lasts as long as the wrapping paper in the fire place; a
quick burst of light, sound, heat, and then cold, black and grey ashes. Nothing to savor, nothing to hold, except
gift receipts and sweaters that appear out of date.
During breakfast today I was reading an excerpt from a play in The New York Times Magazine (I know, I was a day behind and read Saturday's edition yesterday) entitled Rust . The play, written by a professor at Grand Valley State University, here in Michigan, is a nonfiction drama about the closing of a GM plant in Wyoming, MI. The play itself sounds interesting and I enjoyed the excerpt, but what caught my eye was something a character said. The character is "Academic" and plays a historian and guide to the playwright, also a character. He is explaining the rise of the automobile factories and the effect of the car on American culture. He says, "Women became independent, they go from producers of food and clothing to consumers of food and clothing." This was meant as an earnest, praiseworthy point. I would counter with "How far we've fallen." To say that a woman (or a man) is independent because she has m...

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