Hazelfaern Again

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In a perfect world, I unpeel for you
shedding layer upon layer of superfluity:
sheltering fancies, better bartered glories
leggy adverbs, second hand news

The core of me, we are certain, is static
a me that won’t meander, panic
flee to the familiar, or the panderer’s ruse

Yet there’s smoke on my hands
and a husk in my voice
and a void which is fluxsome yet present
unnameably as a dancer’s shadowed shoes

You’re always patient on the peripherary
as though you could become, by sheer concentration
the glass in my hand, the space to the left
into which my unspoken words slip through

The mistake I believe
lies in the notion
that there is anything else
between this next breath and you

So, as Andy’s made it abundantly clear, it really is time to bump Herr Goering down the page for something else. Er-hum. Ok, long past time. The thing is, I’ve spent the last month and a half trying to grapple with a couple of big interconnected issues I want to turn into a mosterously interesting mother of a post. Only… I’ve let those ideas get way too big and interesting and now I’m not sure how I’m going to fit them onto a page. I’ve gone a wee bit concept-obsessive, I think — the writer’s version of vertigo: you just can’t look away from the leap you just can’t make.

Which is why I’ve been getting sly nudges from stage left. Today’s: "Why not just put up something pretty? Like a flower or a vase. A kitten.  A butterfly. Just no Nazi’s." Right.

It’s a rare moment that finds me in the mood for butterflies, but when I found myself looking around for a distraction earlier today, something completely different, I pulled up Making Fiends which I’d far and away prefer to post as a new entry than kittens, flowers, or flutterbys. Sheesh.

Having said that, Making Fiends so feeds ice cream to my inner child due to the presence of Charlotte. I have an inner Charlotte, albeit one that knows how to apply a bright eyed optimisim with just the slightest touch of sadism — a relentless friendliness that never ceases to confound an unsuspecting Vendetta.

Go watch at least a couple of quick episodes of Making Fiends. When you’re done go see Amy Winfrey’s other project, Muffin Films. If nothing else, check out Muffin Film # 11: Bluebirds in Spring. It’s cartoon existentialism on crack. Yay. Jen likes.

A chill in the air, a landscape bejeweled by twinkling beads of light and everywhere the crisp rustling of wrapping paper. December is my favorite month.

Of course, it doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm one bit that December just happens to be the month my birthday falls in.

Years past, my boyfriend Charles has made a lovely ritual (nearly fetish) out of my birthday by purchasing lots of small presents, wrapping them and placing them under the Christmas tree. Throughout the day and evening, there’s another little gift to open (a box of dark chocolates, a pack of Nat Sherman’s luxury cigarettes in Mint, a bottle of champagne or two). We usually have an early dinner (by ritual, always something exotic-ish, Greek, Thai, Indian…), take in a movie of my choice and then, at the very end of the night, he builds a fire and we have a little champagne with conversation.

This year the growing pains my plant has been going through have been giving my work schedule growing pains, too. I worked 12 hour days straight through my birthday (I know, I can hear you grumbling as I type this, Andy) so we had a very small celebration.

Charles surprised me with a chocolate truffle cake from our favorite local bakery, Ganache, a box of Lindt’s Truffes Fondant Intense in Dark Chocolate and pink princess tiaras (because we’d joked they were the only thing missing from my birthday last year). I love that he remembers these little details
.

Still, I’ve found myself thinking that what I treasure most from my birthdays past is not so much the gifts or the attention but the decadence in taking an entire day just for myself and my better half. There is an indisputable measure of wealth in deliberately acquiring a leisurely pace, especially when that slowed pace coincides with a treasured someone else’s.

We’ve talked a little about our plans for Christmas, this year. He’d like to spend a day with relatives in Alabama and I’ve promised to show up to see the family on the coast of NC. The season of gifts, of course, bring legions of obligations. Still, I think I’m going to insist that this year we take at least a few hours for just the two of us, in our own home, apart and aside from our other plans. I’ll be pleased if all we share is a small fire, a few cups of eggnog, a sprig of mistletoe, and the most significant gift of all, a leisurely conversation.