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 Nothing to savor, nothing to hold, except gift receipts and sweaters that appear out of date.
A humble blog of tragic proportions