It is snowing outside, brisk and dustily, for real. I hope it sticks through tonight: I want whiteness under the moon for the solstice. Fingers crossed, too, for the lunar eclipse.
Last night we decorated the tree by firelight, as is traditional. My brother stuck a sparkler in among the logs; it fizzed like the fourth of July. I can't quite figure out how I wound up with this many ornaments, considering Christmas isn't even a holiday I observe outside of my family's two or three chosen traditions. The heavy golden pressed-glass star of David always goes on the tree first.
My brother's best friend, who is really family, is home from Afghanistan. He crashed into the house like Alkibiades at the end of the Symposium a little after two in the morning on Saturday; everyone's schedule went to hell after that (even mine), but he was worth it. He's served two tours of duty. He was blown up quite impressively, more than once. Just in the last few months, he was finally awarded one of his Purple Hearts. We don't believe they can send him back anymore. I hope not. I don't want to keep sending poetry to war zones.
I would like not to have been late for lunch with Athena Andreadis at the Classic Café in Arlington, but it was lovely conversation all the same. I use her name as a shameless segue to the second issue of Stone Telling, in which I have no work, but a great many terrific people do.
The King's Speech (2010) actually was as good as I'd hoped. There will be a post about it. Just not this instant, because there are these papers I've promised to bang my head against.
It has not yet stopped snowing. Keep on.
Last night we decorated the tree by firelight, as is traditional. My brother stuck a sparkler in among the logs; it fizzed like the fourth of July. I can't quite figure out how I wound up with this many ornaments, considering Christmas isn't even a holiday I observe outside of my family's two or three chosen traditions. The heavy golden pressed-glass star of David always goes on the tree first.
My brother's best friend, who is really family, is home from Afghanistan. He crashed into the house like Alkibiades at the end of the Symposium a little after two in the morning on Saturday; everyone's schedule went to hell after that (even mine), but he was worth it. He's served two tours of duty. He was blown up quite impressively, more than once. Just in the last few months, he was finally awarded one of his Purple Hearts. We don't believe they can send him back anymore. I hope not. I don't want to keep sending poetry to war zones.
I would like not to have been late for lunch with Athena Andreadis at the Classic Café in Arlington, but it was lovely conversation all the same. I use her name as a shameless segue to the second issue of Stone Telling, in which I have no work, but a great many terrific people do.
The King's Speech (2010) actually was as good as I'd hoped. There will be a post about it. Just not this instant, because there are these papers I've promised to bang my head against.
It has not yet stopped snowing. Keep on.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}