Isn’t that such a lovely word — ugh. It looks like the last part of a word lopped off, the guttural punctuation of a much longer thought reduced to its barest necessities. Even when that final h would normally go silent or become transformed (as in either through or tough) it manages to catch itself back of the uvula and grunt forward with one final glottal chip of energy all its own.
Through and tough, that pretty much sums up this past week. There were storms and diverted flights, drives through neighboring states and sleeps in guest beds, meals piled upon meals and smothered with desserts. How did it get to be that a season of holiday has become a pageant of obligation and the endurance of duty-bound visitation?
Having missed Festivus this year, and not really looking to rehash the unsavory elements of the past nine days or so I’l just say that I find myself facing down the end of one calendar and thoughts of a new month with an urgency. There is a growing vigor to my thoughts of revision, seedlings of ideas breaking soil, and the promises and hope of new projects, new readings, new adventures.
If this past years was one of transition, this coming year is one of transformation. to be followed no doubt by a little hocus pocus.
Hocus pocus pilatus pas as my Dutch cousins would say when conjuring a rabbit from a hat. From bits of the Latin Mass Hoc est enim corpus meum and Sub Pontio Pilato passus (This is my body and Suffered under Pontius Pilate respectively) — or Hocus Pocus for short, a parody suggesting the act of transubstantiation being performed by mortals on earth.
Which is all we can hope for as writers, to change the substance of our words and images into something else, something that births meaning and fellowship and joy in others. If this holiday season was, for me, lacking in this magic, well, so be it. I have words to breath and stories to spell and — hope! — share.