Book of Nothing
12-6-15
 

Today is the feast day of some saint I cannot remember
I could google it, or summon it in some way, but I choose to savor the mystery instead of playing e-detective.

I slept well until about 2, where I was struck with heavy congestion. Thick lingering incense and presumably cat hair took thier predawn toll and I felt like I was drowning in my own nasal cavaities,but somehow around 3, I ended up drifting off again. I came to a place I saw before. Pages turning, the sifting crackle of aged spines moving,  slim paper foxed yet unbroken,old volumes reborn in my iris. The book is without a title. Its so aged that the gold leafing has become faded and lost its name-disappearing , having passed through too many generations of careless hands. Perhaps it was a fabulous book. Or maybe an aged advent calander, like the ones you see on old Austrian farms. As I open it, a small spiny fir branch revels itself, like a cherished momento-or spur of the moment bookmark.
What is it that we summon within ourselves this time of year, I wonder? It supercedes flourescent ritual and sales and camp. It's evocative and everytime sends me on a rambling quest for words even St Nicholas cant bring. Looks like I have to go it alone.
I did a bit of sweeping up this morning. On my off days, its become my unspoken ritual. I love my new home, and still find myself falling into some semblence of a routine here my mothers words pitting my my head "wherever we go, there we are". Yet I still dream of far off places.

The creative mind seldom settles in.This time of year always makes me crave everything Germanic. Thick forests, white cottages, puffy smoke and cocoa cupping hands. Old traditions unscathed by the over the top ironies of the Americas.  It has been my longstanding dream to one day go to one of these countries for  the holiday with only enough to fill one small suitcase or sack, and partake of that region's Christmastide rituals. It would be wonderful. Thick stews and crusty breads. Icy forests rich with snowflakes worthy of Frou Bertha the German hearth goddess. The crack of a bullwhip signaling the arrival of a generous saint, or the onslaught of Black Peter.  Men in wooden goat masks cavorting, steering village children on the straight and narrow, gingersnaps and kindling-home and hearth-with narry a singing tree, hallmark card or rankin bass special in sight. Thick fur blankets to warm oneself. No presents, but pleanty of preasence. Yet if one could strain his ear on Christmaseve, they would hear the clashing swords of toy soliders and regal rats, fighting a midnight battle. Santa wouldn't bat an eye. A wanderlusters old world yultide. A man can dream.

My home has but one tree. Small and humble and still unlit. The cord wont reach that far and we havent put into the energy or effort to find it a suitable home. Regardless, I still feel the holiday spirit. My entry into any holiday is always somewhat premature.-usually two weeks shy of said festival. It may be just as well, since thats when all my holiday plans fall into place. Weekend mountian hikes with new faces, overpriced yet still decent cocoa, and the crowning glory, the Nutcracker, which I will see on the 18th.

The story hijacks my brain every year, and I find myself unsettled if I watch it too early in the season or play the music or watch the sublime animated special from my childhood that serves as a yuletide timepeice of a more pure frame of mind.

 

At least to me. A mystic time of year, no matter where I lay.
Every day an open page of the advent calander. Every sheet a page from the Book of Nothing. A book that  apparently can only be opening at Yuletide.