Yule tidings
I do hope everyone's having a merry holiday. Myself I'm finally winding down after an intoxicating thrill-ride of giving, receiving, wassailing, caroling, and Elvis.
In that order.
After we returned to our awesome house from our awesome family shindigs, I spent some high-quality time trawling for what can only be termed "obsessions"--those things I collect, not only because they are awesome, but because they are outrageously expensive, and this keeps my house from becoming Red Patterned Glass Mania A-Go-Go, because my only identifiable personality trait is that of Cheapskate. I resisted buying a few pieces that were alluringly cheapish, but have decided that if I really needed a candlestick holder for only $16 (but that includes shipping!), I'd already have a display cabinet set up. On a related note, how many pieces of a fancy collection does one need before a display cabinet becomes a vital part of one's existence? Perhaps I am too much a clodbuster to have such things as fancy collections. I shouldn't collect anything anyway. Have you SEEN the sheer volume of books I have? Started collecting those about twenty years ago--in earnest, ten years ago. Then got jobs at bookstores and everything was lost. This is why I have never worked in an antique mall, though sometimes I think there are more antique malls in this town than residents, so clearly, if I were to choose a job based on economic viability and community growth, that'd be the direction to go in. But somehow I don't see myself standing behind a counter, listening to a middle-aged lady shrew at me because we don't have THE Looney Tunes glass she's looking for to complete her granddaughter's collection.
Most of my energy these last few days has been devoted to not dying of the common cold, which by now i ought to have medaled in, if it were an Olympic sport. Which it should be. Fortunately, while I was wasting away on the couch, I managed to get a lot of writing in. It's intense, here, with stories and poems and magazines my wildly-successful alter ego is being published in. They're so underground, if they'd get fertilized, they'd be stemmed and fruity. And while I used to wonder why people were so proud to be published in these underground mags, now I kind of get it. There's a lot of talent in these things that I'd never see normally, not in my everyday world where I hear a lot of NPR and talk to exactly three people (two over the phone) on average. There's a sneaky subversive thrill to it. I don't think of myself as subversive though. I'm too in love with sunshine rainbow pony magic for that. I mean. For pity's sake. You're talking to the person whose collection that doesn't include red glassware is housed in a box marked "MB's Unicorns--Fragile!"
And suddenly it makes perfect sense why NO ONE has guessed my pen name's true identity. I reckon he'd go after those unicorns with a vengeance. Probably because he lost an arm-wrestling match to a unicorn in a bar, and he's been haunted by the scene ever since. And now I am haunted by the scene, too. Perhaps this is why there are porcelain unicorns everywhere, and no porcelain hims. Har!