Nearly the End of the Holiday Season

Gotta get this monkey offa my back.

Honestly, it can’t come soon enough.  I don’t mean to come across as a scrooge, but it’s been a lot of work and agony exacerbated by poor health.  I’ll spare you the details.  Soon to be New Year’s Eve.  I’ll be staying home while the cops are out targeting the drunks.  “Amateur Night,” is what my grandfather likes to call it.  Maybe I can squirrel away a liter of spirits for the occasion.

it stinks of popcorn in here.  We weren’t cooking popcorn.  I’ll spare you the details.

Did you ever have anything so disturbing happen to both you and a friend or family member that neither of you talk about it for the rest of your lives?  I used to think it was a cliche, but I can verify that it’s quite real.  And I’m not sure precisely what it is, what makes it so miserable that the mere utterance is too inimical to even conceive–too inimical for anyone but a writer I suppose.  I doesn’t even feel real.  I’m not entirely convinced that I didn’t dream it.  No-one else will mention it if I happen to meander about the subject.  I bet you’re thinking that I and a schoolyard buddy both got buggered by the cow-faced school nurse.  Nothing of the sort.  What’s remarkable is just how mundane it was.  Avoid subjects pertaining to the death of loved ones, especially if you have a tendency to forget if you’re actually speaking or merely thinking.

The next serial is being written stream of consciousness.  Science Fiction, following upon the heels of Gregory Samuels, I’m sitting currently at thirty-five chapters.  The end will probably come at sixty chapters.  Did your teachers ever teach you about absolute constructions in grammar school?  I’m reminded of the story of a Viking woman extremely pregnant and living at the New World colony founded by Erik the Red.  Apparently visibly pregnant, when the Skraelings produced themselves from the woods on the warpath, she picked up a fighting axe and threw down with the rest of them, proving her quality in the process.  Some people, apparently, are just good at violence and were always destined to be good at violence.  Others, despite months or even years of training, struggle to squeeze the trigger when the moment of truth arrives.  Apparently, two sorts of people are good at violence–sociopaths and true believers.  The sociopath makes sense enough, but bear in mind that when I say “true believer” I mean someone who, heart and soul, believes in the cause.  Everyone else has to be horse-whipped into fighting, unless the fighting is immediately proximate.  In that respect, the protagonist of an action film who can just mysteriously outfight trained soldiers isn’t entirely unbelievable, just bloody unlikely.

I’m not an heroic person.  I don’t remember anything I’ve done for the sake of someone else that wasn’t family or friend, and I don’t think any of those deeds could be construed as heroic.  I think if I come out in one piece on the other side, it will be because I survived, not because I’ve conquered.

Sometimes I give myself license to meander.  This is just one of those days.  If you can connect the dots, where applicable, I ought to send you a cigar.