December 24, 2014

Dan and David and Jon took me to breakfast and then swept out toward the slopes, taking the rest of my cookies with them. Daniel remarked that my jokes changed as time went on, from funny baby ones to funny adult ones. For that I give thanks.

Sitting cozy in a house of improved coziness. The accented furnace worker phoned around 1 and said that the repair guy was on his way to the house at that very moment, and that I should hurry to met him there. Two hours ten minutes later I called the company, reining in fury, and asked what happened. “We don’t know what happened. He’ll be there within the hour.” Actually, he was there (barely) within that hour, and all got fixed (for less $$ than I expected) just in time for the drive to Marshall. Had to wait to come home to wallow in the clemency. Several problems seem to have been solved, notably the weird distribution of heat through the house, which this morning seems creamy and well mixed. Second was the tremendous sound the blower made– which now I rather miss.
   
The thing to contemplate is my disproportionate rage over the whole matter. I was not really uncomfortable in the places where I needed to work or sleep. At no point did I ever doubt that everything would be well in a timely manner, but I let that conviction submerge under vituperation that, at times, embarrassed even me. It’s a kind of pathology, which I see and can describe even while being apparently helpless in its grasp. My nephews were pointing out differences between my sister and me (which are more remarkable than our similarities) and one they could have added is that she sails over even quite bitter misfortune without complaint and without–visibly–breaking stride. I go to war with the universe.

Left, as I said, in time to get to Marshall for rehearsal. I was hoping that a month of rough throat and phlegm would clear in time for Christmas Eve, but I think now that hope is vain. My opera buddy Dalton with the blazing blue eyes has joined us. Both our accompanists are ill, so we rehearsed last night to the tapes made to sell the music. I’m not sure but that was a good idea, giving us confidence and a better sense of tempo. Kenny shares the common fault of choral directors, which is to over-rehearse right before the concert, insuring that their singers’ voices and their joy are ruined. The other common fault of choral directors is to talk after giving pitches, as if terrified to give their singers one moment alone with the music.
   
Drove home in the dark night contemplating a warm house and a wrathful character.
   
Little downtown Marshall blazes with Christmas trees and candy canes hoisted up on the utility poles.
   
In some ways my Christmas spirit is higher--if less metaphysical-- than it has been in years. I think this is because I have been more sociable. My tree is pretty. I don’t know. . . maybe I’ve just exhausted the fuel of wrath and sadness for a while.
   
What do I most bless at this very moment? My nephews.
   
What did I dream last night? That I went into the basement of some building (this is a fairly common dream for me) to swim in a pool, and found that the pool had altered itself in the night, and I could swim through corridors and rooms and out into the night, and everywhere, even in the dark, the water gleamed deep aqua.
   
If I let my mind go blank, what image enters? The pines visible out my eastern window.