Christmas Eve 2013

Posted in Answers, Reality by waldopaper on December 26, 2013

I got to write a story.  

why-cheap-art-manifesto.-001I fear my heart’s in danger

From the Queen of all Argyll  –Silly Wizard

This is it.  Existential crisis: some people have them, some do not.  Stories never end, they just stop.  The crisis happens when the story starts thinking about stopping itself voluntarily.  Stories are not supposed to do that.  So you manage somehow to nurse the poor thing along to a happy ending at the bottom of the page.  Suppose they lived happily ever after… the end.  Until somebody starts it up again.

Boys, if you had just been there, the swan… the marvel.  It is about seven degrees outside or maybe its thing gets unstuck in time like Eddie Slovik shod at some rise.  Christmas morning did not happen that way, lads, and had you just been there you would bow and ask her pardon.  Her warfare is accomplished.  Her iniquity is pardoned.  Just like that, splat chicken fat and veteran volunteers go over the breastworks with bayonets.

Thunder and thumping artillery distant in time and you can’t stop what’s coming like no country for old men at Gettysburg.  Abraham Lincoln still walks until the dawn stars burn away and we will all be home for Christmas… if only in our dreams.  Aye, there’s the rub.  Hubbub drubs Tube E or not 2 B and even our phones are smarter than that.  We forgot the giddy children nights when wishes were about to come true.

Star is still there, and some of us really will be home for Christmas.  If one of us makes it, luck won for six.  Do the stars still shine when we can no longer see them, or do they shine when we can see them all?  Every little soul must shine, and there was an old orange tom-cat once who was a Yam kitten for the children.  He got old and now waits by the rainbow bridge where wishes and some days are born.  Miss those babies.

They grow up.  They get old.  Wishes come true.  Somebody thought of that and somebody believed it.  Look what it’s done so far.  Her star has given us all a place to shine… the lovers and the dreamers.  Wise men from afar bring gifts.  Fools bear nothing but slings and arrows, but we all carry something over the rainbow bridge.  Stories do not have to be true to tell the Truth.  Being is like that.  One can never choose not to be.

Mazel tov everybody with an existential crisis.  It was the coldest winter in almost forty years.  Somehow the plot is unwinding, but few can see where it is going right now.  But there sure are characters and costumes and lines to remember like oysters too.  And if growing gaps in the brain take them all away, music will still find a place to play.  That’s the deal, kids.  Nothing is forgotten.  Nobody dies.  Still got one more wish.

If one of us makes it, we all made it home for Christmas.  Gospel Truth; some of us get it.  Some of us got the idea about scriptural authoritarian vicarious transubstantiation voodoo or whatever.  Some of us get everything we want, some of us get nothing.  Some of us get to carry the can and some of us get to pee in it.  Some of us get to the end of our life by doing everything we are supposed to do.  Some of us get what we truly deserve.

I got to write a story. 

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  1. robinonfoot said, on December 27, 2013 at 1:16 pm

    Good Lord, Jeb…..  Your writing has always, and will always, for your stories always do… grip my heart.   I hear truth in your tales, and weep and feel sorrow, but laugh and feel freedom, and giggle at the wiggle of wee children we were and are still.   Yet to be old and know the sorrow and the long journey home, not knowing the way, or even if home exists, we entertain ourselves with listening to stories.   Thank God, or Gods, for the artists, who sing of the Queens of Argyll and the road to beauty and the search for peace and harmony.   Maybe they do not know the way either, but they know there is a way.   And maybe we will walk together or alone, but somewhere there has to be the story, the song, the breath of art we see and recognize as common, and our brother or sister, and will walk the journey with us through the sorrow until the sorrow is part of us and no longer sad.    Thank you for this Christmas story.   It is beautiful, and I shall reread it again and again.   I love you, my brother, my starlight, my friend.    R


    • Brenda black said, on January 9, 2014 at 11:02 pm

      What a soulful and artistic family. I’m so glad I can feel your pulse even if it might be only once a year. Please keep writing and playing my dear old friend. Ironically, I miss those scary old days of uncertainty and the loss of innocence that screwed us up so. Somehow, I think it bought us a weird kind of salvation, I also love you, my starlight, and old friend.

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