December 25, 2012

The dark for a change is evening rather than morning. Listening to Bach on Spotify. Christmas Eve service went well at the Cathedral, with the normal overflowing house. People in the know were in their seats an hour before the concert began. Though I’d napped a scandalous portion of the day, I was exhausted and had to rouse myself to sing. A faintly soporific golden glow suffused everything. Egg nog at DJ’s afterward, then through moonlight to bed. Rose late in the morning, but I saw by their bowl that I had already been up to feed the cats: sleep-feeding, I guess, as there was no recollection.  Sat in Edna’s and wrote, and talked to the Kelley brothers and their dad. I wore my Santa hat. T is of the opinion that the MT is closing after March. The favored arrow in their quiver is secrecy, so who knows?  Then off to the Parkway, climbing up Beaver Dam, as I almost never do, but should, as it’s the closest entrance. Maybe I don’t take it because I remember it from before houses climbed up beside it, infesting the forest all the way up to the ridge.

It was not quite the perfect day for hiking–a little somber– but good enough, and my stiff body felt its kinks working out. I was not in a very good mood, to put the lightest possible coloring upon it. Met two pugs sniffling and mumbling their way up the trail, their master behind. He said, “They’re just learning to track.” Another gang of four dogs was around me before I knew, which was a shock, as I think of myself as more attentive than that.  I was speaking to them as their master came up all dressed in yellow. The foot traffic dismayed me, so I turned up what I hoped was a kind of side trail, aiming for the top of the mountain. I had climbed less than fifty feet when I was face-to-face with a bear. He had been watching me climb up from the main trail. He was backed into a thicket of tangled vines that must have afforded him some shelter. I’ve already noted that I was not in a good mood, so at the end of deciding what to do, I found I had decided to charge the bear. I’m not a good runner, and certainly not a good runner on a hill that steep, but I made my intentions clear, aiming right toward him, as silent and ambiguous as I could be. He stood up, but the vines were at his back and he didn’t get quite erect. I kept coming. He stood very still, his beady eyes on me. I thought I might yell or something, to relieve the tension, but there actually was no tension. I was calm, curious, prepared for anything, The Zen warrior. Twenty feet away, he jerked violently, exploded through the back of his vine hut, and fled away from me up the side of the mountain. He was a much better runner than I, and soon I was solitary and bearless on the mountain. I was not, at that time, wearing my Santa hat.

Came home and napped. Sleep was the spell the bear put on me. Hope to spend a chunk of the evening transcribing the scribbles I’ve been writing at the café, fighting the terrible music.

First Stage sent a DVD with Overseas. It was faulty and wouldn’t play. I knew as I was putting it in the machine that it was faulty and wouldn’t play; still, one puts it into the machine as though all chances were equal.