Dec. 2nd, 2002 11:23 am
The goose is gaining
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muckefuckWith Thanksgiving out of the way, I'm finally ready to surrender to Christmastide.
Last night, I set up my post-modern advent wreath and lit the first candle. Earlier in the evening, I'd spoken to my mom and she'd requested a gift list, so I drew one up. (She said she'd call back, but she never did; that's Mom.) We talked a bit about holiday plans and I repeated "no stress" over and over again until I'm sure I sounded like a CTA announcement. She readily agreed, but I imagine her idea of "no stress" is not quite the same as mine. Oh, well; I'll have all my siblings and their spice around and, together, we may outnumber her.
I try very hard not to get bent out of shape by holiday preparations, but an indication of my lack of success is that I have anxiety dreams about Christmas shopping year round. (Nothing overly dramatic, just the sinking realisation that it's Christmas the next day and I don't have gifts for anyone. I don't wake up in an icy puddle of sweat or anything.) I'm not good at shopping; I don't enjoy it (unless it's food or books). But I love surprising people and making them happy and thence the tension.
This year I've decided I'm going to re-memorise the Provençal lyrics to the Marcho di rei. Last year, I had mastered the first two verses, but they atrophied over the intervening months and now I just have:
Last night, I set up my post-modern advent wreath and lit the first candle. Earlier in the evening, I'd spoken to my mom and she'd requested a gift list, so I drew one up. (She said she'd call back, but she never did; that's Mom.) We talked a bit about holiday plans and I repeated "no stress" over and over again until I'm sure I sounded like a CTA announcement. She readily agreed, but I imagine her idea of "no stress" is not quite the same as mine. Oh, well; I'll have all my siblings and their spice around and, together, we may outnumber her.
I try very hard not to get bent out of shape by holiday preparations, but an indication of my lack of success is that I have anxiety dreams about Christmas shopping year round. (Nothing overly dramatic, just the sinking realisation that it's Christmas the next day and I don't have gifts for anyone. I don't wake up in an icy puddle of sweat or anything.) I'm not good at shopping; I don't enjoy it (unless it's food or books). But I love surprising people and making them happy and thence the tension.
This year I've decided I'm going to re-memorise the Provençal lyrics to the Marcho di rei. Last year, I had mastered the first two verses, but they atrophied over the intervening months and now I just have:
De matin ai rescountra lou trin!looping in my head. As I cleared space for the wreath, I listened to Bizet's arrangement (there are two in the L'Arlesienne suite) several times to relearn the tune. I can't grow tired of it, and I can't sing it without imagining the golden coaches and spendid horses of the Magi as they approach Jerusalem dessu lou gran camin.
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