The Calm Before The Storm

      "And so it begins..." (many possible origins, but here I'm thinking of Kosh from Babylon 5)

      Christmas Eve, as usual, was an exercise in cresting the waves of experience. It began normally enough, than descended into the abominably chest-tightening and spirit-sapping ritual of suffering the fools of shopping and the like. But, once done, once passed through like the 'very big fish' that Jonah survived, I settled down into Chester's for the ritual Christmas Eve pleasantries. This was rather like waiting for the air to come out of a too-inflated balloon; the stress and pressure needed to pass, but once through, I was, er, shall we say, floating through the air like the wee bit of empty plastic that I am. Suffice it to say that the imbibements stormed through, the alcoholic airs sufficiently strong to make even this wee bit of plastic cum laggardly galleon sail. (Best part: thanks to the likes of Kim and George and Michael and Joe, this 'celebrant' spent a mere twenty dollars while no doubt drinking close to seventy, perhaps eighty, dollars worth. That's what I call value. Worst part: getting re-hit upon by a woman I know full well to be neurotic and borderline psychotic; how typical. C'est la vie.) Considering this was done on absolutely no sleep the night before, it's lucky I wasn't falling shit-faced into the ground. It was, to repeat the marinary metaphor, clear sailing. (Yes, I'm jumping metaphors a lot here, but there we go.)

      It's morning now (hangover free!), and it's beautifully quiet. No one is stirring, except for the cat, who has been lavishly fed with both wet and dry food. I am coasting this relative quiet, listening to Bruce Hornsby's Harbor Lights (good drivin' music, as they say) and writing here and injecting myself with caffeine and nicotine. It is, dare I say, the calm, perhaps the joy, before the storm sets itself in motion and everything resolutely descends. But for the moment, I'm just groovin' along, enjoying the silence, or rather the domestic silence that allows me to enjoy my music and write this entry. There's a rough beauty to it all. Yes, it's all downhill from here, but one has to appreciate the better moments, and these now are those. The agony-aunting and so forth pends, but it's not here yet. And I love it. Shit, it begins. The domus is now stirring. But in a way I'm glad I've written all this, before the day wraps itself in an inky cloak. There was a small joy to be had this day, and I've recorded it here. Would only this period were extended.

      Mais, zut alors, the day must fare forward. And I'm reminded of an old dirty joke, told to me by Elsie Thorn, my beloved grade ten English teacher. "What did the hurricane say to the coconut tree?" "Hold on to your nuts, this is going to be more than your average blowjob." Crass for this supposedly sacred day? Perhaps. But no less true. Christmas, eeeagh, begins. But as much of a Noel coward as I am, I set myself into the thick. "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!"