Showed the shop on Christmas day AND Boxing day. It will be a Syncretic Agnostic Festive Miracle if I sell the place, but I’m okay with what happens. Everything changes. Failure hasn’t killed me yet.
As part of our Syncretic Agnostic Festive Season, we acquired Chinese Food, watched documentaries and SGA, and bought zero presents, sent zero cards. I did go to a Christmas Eve service which was about the advent and deliverance of joy, love, peace and hope, framed by the story of the Christ child and Mary. (Joseph always gets left out… I’m gonna make a sermon for him some day).
One of the best things about filk is that if you change the lyrics to be less sexist nobody will comment. I say this looking at Uplift, a wonderful song written in 1999, but it contains Mankind. I will sing it as Humans. All will be well.
I’ve already blasted through the second hand book Tammy gave me for Christmas. It’s called The Forty Rules of Love, and I cried BUCKETS while I was reading it, but it is about the love between Rumi and Shams of Tabriz, and it is a very wonderful and sad story. In the end, Rumi is a poet, but everyone around him paid a high price for it.
Poetry doesn’t come from nowhere; for me it is language reaching through my emotions to a page; to the release and abandonment of expressing a feeling in the most charged and delicate way possible. Poetry is like the sprite that forms above a massive thunderstorm. So brief, so beautiful, and invisible unless you are looking RIGHT AT IT when it happens. She who has not seen will say it doesn’t exist. She who has seen will pummel words and rhythms, grasp at floating down, weave spider silk and daydreams, stare at bones, bond with discards, trace the impression of a car tire in tar, build launching pads of paper and foil. Her dissatisfaction is the human eternal, embroidered with a great ‘Ah!”
Lumosity, mando practice, paperwork. That is at least part of my day.
