December 24, 2013

Christmas Eve. Slept on the sofa under the lit tree. It must have lightened my dreams, though I do not remember them. Downloaded an introductory version of Sibelius, the music composition program, and spent last evening setting one of my poems to music. Sibelius is already less infuriating than Finale. Good hours at the studio yesterday. Might go today, though it’s a little creepy when I’m the only one there. What do I want for Christmas? The same thing I have always wanted. God has stopped asking, he’s so weary of the answer. If he yielded, he wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. W (having seen my announcement on Facebook) wants to look at 62. It’s prudent to sell it fast, of course, though I hadn’t intended to, and I can’t stop thinking of my grieved-for cats lying under the dirt, of the plants I’d thought to watch in their changes through the rest of my life. You can start over. You can weed out the horrible grove of black walnut and have other plants, another garden. In time. It has ever been a joy to me when I’ve been able to do unexpected (by me) good in the lives of others, when something I have done or the moment I have arrived turns out to be excellent luck for someone around me. I feel a little that way now. I am propelled into the new house at a rate so far exceeding my actual desire for it that it occurs to me to think that fate seized the chance to allow Stuart to go home to Mississippi after–according to him–95 showings of the house. W has proposed owner financing, and I will agree to that, and the ways it does him good as a man with a new baby and who knows what kind of credit is incalculable. Good for me, too. . . good for me too. . . . sort of. . . though I feel a little separated from my expected joy. I wonder if some intricate operation in the past was to benefit me? You’d think I’d remember that– or maybe those things are concealed from those they benefit, lest we become dependent on the miraculous.