Twenty-eighteen has, in my time-frame, just begun, so that hasn't occurred. But like preceding years, in January 'the thoughtful one' (or 'penserosa' as I learned from Goethe) makes her presence known, more so than at other times, even if she, meaning me, is not that deep in reflection i.e. only fetching images back from an arm's throw away. However, on rereading (in your window of time), it will, I hope, feel like standing in the middle of a bridge, contemplating the water or greenery that stirs below, pulled ever deeper into the jungle of leaf or swirls of pond.
Hypnosis by Nature. And to induce that I must record these trivialities.
Trivial they will seem, maybe even puzzling, and yet offer, again I hope, amusement at this rather pensive, gloomy time of year. Other people's families or pastimes often provide merriment, though it might if it's yours – family or hilarity – be concealed.
Get on it with woman! Yes, but please remember I'm no Sue Townsend. Or Victoria Wood for that matter. I don't think I know what it is to be witty, not purposely anyhow.
I wanted to begin with 'Last Christmas...' but that always reminds me of George Michael, and as much as I admired the man, that song once it's recalled is a blasted nuisance. And as I didn't give anyone my heart, it's inappropriate. My heart, you might like to know, is a dried up old thing. Oh, it still goes, it's just a bit shrivelled and rarely expands as it might have once done in former days, which isn't to say it's not warm and generous but it stops short of loving (new) people, outside family, to that degree, where you actually want to offer up this mechanism inside you. To present or be presented with a figurative heart seems too much of an obligation rather than a token of love.
But let's not get on to that; how did we get on to it anyway? Oh yes, George Michael, and the perfect link to another George, a castrated, food fixated and hard of hearing George who didn't seem to know what presents were, nor care really. Though he was transfixed by my father's gift to himself – a mini model train set – and successfully caused a few derailments, and then later from his bed watched the locomotive with a sleepy eye, probably dreaming its attached carriages transported bone-shaped biscuits.
An elderly dog's first Christmas with us, three bored adults, then is the most noteworthy episode, while those that followed were mostly sole occupations. My father created more fake news of a political (and photographic) kind with a 'Vote 4 Jez' graffiti tag line and with Jez, the Labour leader, in a baseball cap, singlet and wide-legged shorts carrying a spray can; and then separately Nigel (Farage) and Theresa (May) playing Jack and Rose in that famous 'Titanic' pose and with a rather crude strap line.
My mother travelled between the kitchen and living room reporting breaking news or was, whilst preparing food, engaged with ITVBE's 'Real Housewives' (of any state or county) or TV quizzes, and if not doing that pouring over crossword puzzles.
I, meanwhile, was travelling too but from a seated position - to New York, to Italy, to Russia, to Germany, to Switzerland, to Manchester, England, and at present (the first week of January '18) to 1960s Budapest, as I continue to follow these book crumbs. And when I have a rest, for the revived Christmas addictions haven't yet abated, it's Kriss Kross or clock patience.
What remains unsolved is the two NHS 111 calls which we received late eve Christmas Day: the number they rung right, the emergencies not, and which I believe (research tells me) might be similar to Raymond Carver's Whoever was Using this Bed, so I advise you to read that instead, because I want to end, as I started, with Goethe, who apparently said: Our world is a cracked bell that no longer sounds. Mine does, occasionally.
Picture credit: Emily, 1903, Lajos Gulacsy
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
