This Christmas ornament popped up on one of my social media feeds, courtesy of Macy’s. I laughed, almost out loud, at the ridiculousness of it – it’s supposed to be Harry Styles, and if I were him I’d have a little discussion with a favorite lawyer to see what could be done about the matter. Personal, I prefer Styles in actual photographs, wearing striking outfits that get tongues wagging and critical ridicule flying. Or on stage, where his showmanship and star quality are brash and undeniable. Others prefer him in his underwear or fishnets. And some just want to see him buck naked. All are options here. For those who want him hanging on their Christmas tree, go for it. All gratitude to Mr. Macy.
My seventh-grade Social Studies teacher, Mr. Blinsinger, was largely unremarkable. He was mostly humorless, and I had little to no interest in Social Studies (where was the Anti-Social Studies class my constitution so badly needed?) He wasn’t mean, and he wasn’t a bad teacher, he was just a typical middle-aged man teaching kids who didn’t want to be there. It must be hard to do that day in and day out.
When the day before Christmas vacation rolled around, he was the last person I expected to go easy on us, much less express any sentiment or feeling about the season. When he wheeled in the television and VCR cart, setting it up in the front of the room I fully expected some lesson in history to play; instead, it was as much of ‘A Christmas Story’ as would fit into our class period. Even after it began, I thought it was some joke, that he would dole out a pop quiz after a few minutes of the movie. That didn’t happen, and we watched about half of the story – my first experience with ‘A Christmas Story’. As the bell rang and we got up to leave, he gave a rare smile, and I said thank you as I filed out.
That’s a long introduction to my introduction to ‘A Christmas Story’, which plays a part in this Dazzler of the Day as it marks the movie for which Peter Billingsley is perhaps best known. A couple of years ago they did a sequel, ‘A Christmas Story Christmas’, which stands up surprisingly well as sequels go, echoing the original in all the right ways, and expanding upon its warm messages. Billingsley reprises his role, this time as a grown up Ralphie, and the all-wise-and-all-knowing narrator. It works crazy well, and this Dazzler crowning is as much for the joy he inspired as a young kid, and again as an adult.
“Perhaps you enjoy chasing squirrels, there is great pleasure in the quest of the unattainable. You and I know that wonder is the secret of bliss and that with reason comes the death of the beautiful.” – Okakura Kakuzo, in a letter to Isabella Stewart Gardner
When I wrote the ‘shades of gray’ project back in the summer and fall of 2004, it felt very much of-the-moment, but looking back at those words twenty years later, it is surprising how much remains relevant, and more astoundingly how much was genuinely prescient. While I hope my writing style has improved somewhat, the themes and concerns and critiques have stayed frighteningly similar. I haven’t quite decided if this is good or bad or entirely without judgment one way or another.
Though this has been presented in haphazard piece-meal and broken-up form, it was designed to be read in one sitting, like a series of vignettes that cumulatively create a single all-encompassing tableau. Here, then, is the project as it was designed to be presented – in its entirety for perusal on a dark and dim winter’s day. It comes with its own soundtrack/playlist, which works as background music to the words found within.
As for the retrospective look back, I find it better to examine the words used back then rather than nudge you in any specific direction. It exists on its own now – it has no need for further explanation or exposition.
There is a love for people, for humanity, that I’ve always hidden and pretended wasn’t there. It’s not a case of lack in feeling, but of feeling something so strongly that there is no way to fully convey it without a sense of failure. And I do love people. I wouldn’t watch them like I do if there wasn’t genuine enjoyment there. We are interesting creatures with infinite variations.
Apathy is our greatest enemy. Passivity and acquiescence are too often evil words. We cannot afford not to care. I tried for a while, thinking it would be easier, less painful, but it’s not. A dull, nagging, relentless pain was always there – the hurt of guilt, the sting of suspicion, and the horrid notion that by not doing anything I could actually be doing something harmful. There is little nobility or grace in turning a blind eye. At the very least an attempt should be made.
It is, perhaps, my favorite room in the house. There is a sanctity to it, a quietude and tranquility not found in any other spot. A place of repose and calm. Our bedroom, with its shades of blue, lavender, periwinkle – no television, no stereo, no distraction, no inlets, no outlets to the rest of the world – it is a meditative Mecca of peace, of sweet slumber.
In summer it is cool – a light, airy space, and a fan humming in the corner, sending out billows of air molecules over hot skin. In the middle of the night Andy brings a cool glass of water, proffered without thought or request. I didn’t think to ask, but it is always exactly what I want. He places it gently onto the bedside table, beneath a tissue, moving my book and my glasses. I thank him, sitting up and taking a few sips to show my gratitude. The water is cool and refreshing.
In the winter the bedroom takes o a different feeling – one of coziness and warmth – the welcoming folds of blankets, and Andy, groggy and sleepy-eyed – a haven of contentment, his body emanating heat and security. It is a safeness I don’t ever want to leave on cold winter mornings.
We are so careful with our cars, ironing our pants, finding cel phone reception – and so careless with each other. Our lives are taken up, filled in, boxed together, crowded and packed with such mean stuff. Simple human decency is lost; there is no room for it, not with the rush that is modern living. Communication is instantaneous. Information flies by at light speed, with no time to process or comprehend what it all means.
Where are we going and what are we losing?
We need to wake up. We need to slow down. We need to listen. We need to pay attention to what is going on around us, and not just with what directly affects us.
A return to manner and courtesy, nothing more.
No more tardiness, no more talking on cel phones in restaurants, no more blindly going about our business oblivious to the person behind or in front of us.
Entitled ‘Shitter’s Full!’ it’s a straight-forward homage to ‘National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’, a holiday movie that I’ve only recently begun to enjoy. Andy has loved it for years, but like Buffalo chicken wings, it’s a joy I’ve come to later in life. (Turns out I’m a late-bloomer in just about every aspect.)
I almost went with the mock turtleneck and dickie ensemble from the egg nog scene (a little nod with the moose glass closes out the post) but that felt too obscure, and I was already unsure how well this would read for my Christmas card list, but fuck it, it’s my card and I love it. And even Andy seemed amused by it, which is an accomplishment unto itself (and not just because he was the one who clicked this shot).
My very first photo card was sent out in 1995. That means next year will mark the 30th anniversary of when I first started sending out photo cards for Christmas, and it’s going to be a doozy. I already have an idea of what it will be, and it’s going to be big… For now, enjoy this casual Christmas romp, the wardrobe of which I already had in various closets (the only things I had to get were the cigar and a can of beer).
Previous holiday cards (the ones since I went digital):
The two pictures posted here were taken approximately ten and twenty years ago respectively. The featured one is from 2014, and the one below, taken on some New York work trip, is from all the way back in 2004. Yes, this blog was around way back then, but thankfully posts that old have been excised long-ago. Unfortunately for 2014, most of those posts are still here – check the archives for reference (or don’t, please). No one likes looking back at their previous selves.
This is merely a clickbait post for the upcoming finale of the ‘Shades of Gray’ project, also from 2004 and celebrating its 20th anniversary this year. In many ways it feels like another lifetime, but in some of the writing I see that hardy anything has changed. Humanity wavers, people change, but the real changes are subtle and largely undetectable until the perspective of decades builds.
‘Shades of Gray‘ was one of those works where I got totally emotionally naked behind the guise of other people’s stories, and I’d forgotten about the freedom and joy in that. Maybe it will spark a sequel of sorts, even though I abhor a sequel…
Lest anyone forget, it’s still technically fall, so while the holiday season is in full effect, the true season remains autumn. To that end, there is still avenging to be done, and with Mercury in retrograde providing the necessary mayhem to throw a tantrum and go giddily unnoticed, now may be the time to release some truth bombs that are too heavy to carry.
This Fade-To-Black Fall has been like turning the lights off our Coquette Summer with the flip of a switch. It was night and day, white and black, or at least pink and green. I am realizing that it will ultimately prove helpful to acknowledge and experience sadness, regret, anger, and vengeance. All are valid experiences, and all serve a certain purpose. In the past, I’ve held a lot of that in, to my own detriment, and in the end it all came out in various convoluted and mistaken efforts.
The stress of the holidays can trigger all of that ickiness, stirring up the muck and murky depths of past transgressions and grievances, and deciding to face some of it now is tricky and risky business, perhaps quite foolish business. But the hurt of what haunts us doesn’t retreat for some arbitrary human holiday. Cue the dramatic music, and the unrest of the unmerry gentleman.
Christmas is, contrary to its reputed lore, not kind to the sad and lonely. If this is the spirit that’s supposed to lift us and cheer us up, God may not be helping us as much as we want to believe. Sensing this, I’ve always found sorrow running through the holidays – in a song, in a mood, and culminating in the shortest day of the year.
The yard has suddenly turned stark and barren, brown and lifeless. This will be its wardrobe until spring comes again. There may be snow and ice to cover things from time to time, but things slow and still now, and this will largely be how things look. The stagnation tends to spark a creative flurry, though it’s been a while since inspiration has moved me to do that much. My last official project, ‘Once Upon A Watercolor’ was over five years ago. Simply surviving the age of COVID and all that followed seems to have been a project unto itself. And then there’s this blog. Daily posts and photos don’t just happen without work – and a week’s worth of posts here once populated an entire one of my projects – so I’m basically cranking out a project a week – 52 per year – just think about that.
But when I step outside and feel the chill, knowing that winter hasn’t even begun yet, I look to the sky for something to inspire me, and a little hole of blue appears in an otherwise-gray firmament. And I feel it…
The Grinch who stole Christmas was right about a great many things, and he doesn’t get enough credit for that. Atop his snowbound wintry mountain, all he wanted was some peace and quiet during the holiday season without having to hear the off-key yowling of a bunch of Whos. I too find myself craving quiet and silence, though I do my best not to steal Christmas from the rest of the people.
To that end, Andy and I stopped throwing our annual Christmas party several years ago – long before COVID made it ok for the socially anxious among us to embrace the happy solitude and one-on-one gatherings that once seemed so at odds with the bombast and cacophony of Christmas. Why should we cram ourselves into noisy rooms and raucous events in the name of… Jesus? Is that what His birth embodies today?
The simplicity of that celebrated manger scene – just mother and child and whatever cuck role Joseph played in the whole thing – makes for a lovely scene, largely for its very simplicity. A few years ago, right after I stopped drinking and starting realizing what was important to me, I stepped out of the social scenes that so often signify the holiday season, and started setting up dinners and visits with friends who mattered the most to me. Quiet, intimate, and marked by bonhomie and comfort, they were sprinkled throughout the weeks leading up to Christmas and offered the opportunity to connect with people in more meaningful fashion than any party or social gathering could ever afford. My main regret at every party I have ever thrown has been that I didn’t get to really talk to anyone because I felt like I had to talk to everyone. The host’s unfortunate dilemma.
At this point in my life, that’s what really matters, and that’s what this Christmas season is going to be. A holiday stroll with Kira, a holiday weekend in Boston with Chris and Suzie, and dinners with various friends along the way will round out the time I’m happily and cozy ensconced at home with Andy – a joy unto itself more than ever these days. We’ve all been battered a bit by the world this year – may this last month go easy on us, leading into a calmer New Year.
Our Boston condo is the ideal place for a holiday gathering – despite, or perhaps because of, its small space (consider it cozy, not cramped) it feels intimate and warm. Back in my Boston days, I would fill it with people for parties – jamming upwards of forty friends and their hangers-on in the little one-bedroom expanse. They would fill the kitchen and living room, a few finding quieter respite in the bedroom, and some even spilling out onto the fire escape and front steps. It marvels me to think that I once did that – and it feels far away – another lifetime ago. I can think of two attendees who have died since then.
While I look back at those days with fondness, I can’t imagine doing something like that today, simply because I wouldn’t want to. The world has changed, and my life has evolved into something very different. In so many ways, those days were about scrambling to find out who I was, trying on different guises, meeting different people, and ransacking all the possibilities at hand. In a proverbial nutshell, it was about being young and free and having fun while we could. Somewhere inside I knew that there would be time to worry about the important things later.
We have reached later, and I’m not mad about it. There are greater glow-ups to be found within later than I could have ever found in my youth. This year, as of recent years, I’ll be in Boston for a couple of smaller get-togethers, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Today I made creamed turkey on toast like Gram used to do, because who doesn’t love a roux?
What this simple meal lacks in visual appeal and ingredient complexity, it makes up for in comfort and rustic charm – and the happy memories of Gram spending the holidays with us. It was easier saying goodbye to her after Thanksgiving because we knew we’d see her in a few weeks for Christmas.
That was one of my favorite parts of the holidays.
