Christmas journal:
Christmas Eve. Just the two of us. A whisper of the wish of love and peace to all who are alone.

We were heading into evening when the power went out. We scrambled around lighting candles. I hit the garage for a flashlight from the camping gear. I filled the oil lamps. I shut down the computers and doused the backup power supplies. I got off of Facebook, and Blogger, and the Wikipedia and entered the Victorian era in earnest. We sat in our warm cocoon, in the flickering light to enjoy the heat for as long as it might last. Del got on the phone and I paced as she made the call. The evening light was fading and darkness was upon the face of our end of the deep. I hauled in more wood from the cord, but held off with the match. It would be prudent to wait until the colder hours that might lie ahead. I padded around, marveling that the cats were now in night mode, all up and about and excited. It was a trick not to step on the phantom of a vanishing black tail as it darted underfoot in lengthening shadows. Del joined me, sipping a drink. But after twenty minutes, the power was restored and the 21st century again became an option.

I lit the fire. It was now a luxury again instead of necessity. I poured that first drink. I filled the cd carousel with a selection of cds of Christmas music, from Praetorious to the Rat Pack. In between was Vince Guaraldi. Del joined me and we argued about fire building for a moment. She wants me to stop using the fire logs, they make a mess when you put real lumber on top of them, and they are just the sign of laziness. But it was Christmas Eve, and she waved herself away from arguing. I spoke on another trip to the kitchen about that damned novel. How difficult it is to edit oneself properly; how necessary it is to do! She listened over the summer as I was writing it. I pretended to be Twain and read her chapters in the evenings as I finished them, but she eventually returned her attention to Facebook and was tuning me out. She read some of it online, I know, but only to the part where I myself have now discovered the bog down. As I babbled my way back from the kitchen with my refill, I allowed as how I got to a certain point and then couldn’t easily read more. It’s not a page turner after about the first third. I had to force myself to read what I wrote after that. I asked why she never commented that my book was unreadable. She said that took more moxie than she had. She said that not everyone is cut out to write a book. Anyone that tries should be allowed, that the creative act was important. This proved to be a valuable insight into our marital relationship and her personality. Del has a fine critical facility, but there are places she won’t go. Perhaps she fears doing damage. Does this mean she also does not want her life invaded with too many suggestions?

In my interior, I thought about how much I wanted a critical stranger to read my words and guide me. I am not so high and mighty in this new game of mind that I won’t accept some advice. I thirst for it. To find such a thing would be a miracle. I’ve been scouring the web for good writing. Strike me dead with a thunderbolt, but it doesn’t get much better than this. And there are others, but none as sympatico. For my brand of intellect and confessional. If this sort of gift could be given me, I’d reciprocate to the best of my amateur ability.

The warmth, the music (and the booze) took hold. Our little domestic color point cat delighted in the play of the flames. We kept the fire going, kept up a discourse (ok, monologue) about the music.  Eventually fell asleep before our fire, wrapped in one another’s arms. (Well, not quite like that, but hey, I’m the fact/fiction confession bender. I love my wife.)

On Christmas morning, the pictures are worth a waterslide of words:

 Merry Christmas from Ken, Del, Chanel and Mumbai!