This past yuletide has been, by far, my favorite in recent memory. I wrote in a letter to my friend Kath that unlike last year, this Christmas Eve did not find me sitting on the hearth crying into my hands over my various inadequacies. Instead, Wolfman and I started a new Christmas Eve tradition of watching Krampus while wrapping the last of the gifts and getting the house ready for Santa's visit. Our holiday was not the most perfect, certainly not the most picturesque (actually, I have no photos of Solstice or Christmas at all), and just like everybody else's December, ours went by too fast. But, our boy was so excited, so delighted all month long, that it was easy to relax and delight right along with him. Somehow, completely uncharacteristically, I was able to shut my brain off and just be, just live. On Christmas night, after all the presents were opened and all the food was tasted, after our boy was snug in bed at my grandmother's house, I sat on our front porch with Wolfman in the dark. We smoked cigarettes and looked out at our neighbor's crazy strings of lights draping down from the trees across the street, like some alien vines. This, I told him, was what I want more of in 2017--not the cigarettes, necessarily, but moments of pause. Yuletide is a lot of fucking fun if you just stop thinking about it so much.
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