Absurdlandia

Is where I am right now. Dichotomy world. We're getting ready for Christmas and we put up our tree and it's crisp and cold and beautiful outside. I love the smell of the cold crisp coldness. Can I get a bottle of perfume of that for Christmas? That's what I want.

And yet I don't feel myself. My mind is tangled up in pills and visualizations of Martian tides of red annilhating cancer cells with chemical eyes. I don't feel. Myself. I. Don't. Feel myself.

What do/did I take?

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all

(Grace Slick)

It's a weird way to go into Christmas. 

To believe in this livin'

Is just a hard way to go

(John Prine)

Hearing sad depressing truth like Prine's words actually comforts me - I don't find it depressing - rather I find it validating to know that each of us has failures of confidence and moments of doubt - why what is all this? It's hard. And wonderful. All.

Christmas. Christ:Mass. The mass of Christ. To us it has always been a time of family and fun and green and red and delicious food and friends and decorations and giving and giving and giving and receiving receiving and receiving and happy laughing warm Joy happy joy Max Annabelle Amy Ray Burnyce Emma Lou Marilyn Val and all the rest. Oyster stew on Christmas Eve. Or Burnyce's homemade macaroni and cheese where you make a roux, then stir in real sharp cheddar cheese. And cubed ham, breadcrumbs and you bake it till it explodes with deliciosity.

The holiday food. Can't fathom eating any of that now, but I look forward to fathoming eating any of that later. Today it's all about sliced bananas, sliced apples, English breakfast tea, apple juice, and one egg. That's kind of depressing for me. But what the hell can I do? Are you getting sick of reading this blog? I am. And yet I ooze it every day. I almost have to, my sister thinks it's my personal journal. I can't stop.

Mostly whatever pills I take don't seem to do anything at all, even though mother didn't give them to me. I wish my mother were here to take care of me right now. She used to fluff up my bed when I was sick, and bring us a tray to bed with magazines, crayons, paper, and always a weird little Maybelline eyeshadow that we could try on. Everything was fresh and clean and sunny and always fluffed up. She was an amazingly excellent nurse. One of the big verbs of my childhood was fluffing up. She fluffed us up. 

I don't think I'm quite as bad as I was on day three of my last cycle of chemotherapy. I'm not ready to brag about it yet. But I think I might be a tiny bit less hellish. Let's hope so.

Listening to Annie Lennox now soaring her voice out over my living room "oh tidings of comfort and joy!" - it's almost enough to convert me Christianity. Beautiful music is so spiritual and as powerful as a weapon - and wielded by a true master it can sway. I love the original ideas. I swoon at Lennox's version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. A song I never liked much till she sang it. 

O tidings of comfort and joy!
Comfort and joy!
O tidings of comfort and joy!
Comfort and joy!

Or the concept of let heaven and nature sing. Yes! Or the Holly and the Ivy - hearing her sing this reminds me of the original merging of the wonder at nature and blood and beating hearts and death and birth and life and green and the wondering mystery of it all causing mythic stories of wonder: 

The holly and the ivy
When they are both full grown
Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown

Oh, the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir

The holly bears a blossom
As white as lily flower
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To be our sweet Savior

Oh, the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir

The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good

Oh, the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir

The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn

Is it absurd that I find comfort and joy in sad words and words of comfort and joy? It is so. To me it's all about grace. A very complex but simple concept. Flannery O'Connor wrote exclusively about it. More on that later.

Peace to man on earth. To you.