for once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.
- Pablo Neruda from the poem, "Keeping Quiet"
All is calm, all is bright like the song. Not really. All is chaos, and not enough tape, didn't I tell you to buy more tape? and incendiary sugar cookies; I set the smoke alarm off last night.
I say bah to Christmas, feh. I'm not bah-humbugging in a Dickensian I hate laughter and cheer and fat geese, but with a Eastern European vulgar hand gesture, meaning, what's all this fuss, all this stuff, this messed up meshugas.
On the 26th of December, much what I'm rushing to wrap will be landfill, or gyring in the Pacific Ocean. I think of the whales. I think the Easter Islanders, how they cut down all their trees to erect those giant stone heads.
Since I burned the cookies, I have nothing to give and let me tell you that's freedom, a profound divine absence. I'm still moving my arms a great deal, but it's to clear the smoke from the room.