Wining the ghosts of yester-year

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Villonaud for this Yule
Ezra Pound

Towards the Noel that morte saison
(Christ make the shepherds’ homage dear!)
Then when the grey wolves everychone
Drink of the winds their chill small-beer
And lap o’ the snows food’s gueredon
Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer
(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)
Wining the ghosts of yester-year.

Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon?
(What of the magians’ scented gear?)
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun
And slay the memories that me cheer
(Such as I drink to mine fashion)
Wining the ghosts of yester-year.

Where are the joys my heart had won?
(Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)
Where are the lips mine lay upon,
Aye! where are the glances feat and clear
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere
(Who knows whose was that paragon?)
Wining the ghosts of yester-year.

Prince: ask me not what I have done
Nor what God hath that can me cheer
But ye ask first where the winds are gone
Wining the ghosts of yester-year.

¡Felix navidad!

pinata
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Thanks to the best-gift-ever of a piñata and a strange hankering for Mexican food, I will have a pseudo Mexican Christmas.

I hope everyone’s holidays are grand. And let’s sincerely hope that 2016 is a better – a much better – year than 2015.

creatures are stirring…

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Christmas plans abruptly canceled, but some lovely, beautiful friends jumped to my rescue to invite me to share Christmas with them. Wonderful and touching – I probably will stay home anyway because I like spending holidays alone. But I don’t like being jerked around or having the rug pulled out from under me last minute. It’s all for the best.

I can hang out in bed drinking tea and watching movies (documentary Blackfish right now – always super disturbed by documentaries involving humans acting cruelly and stupidly toward animals. I am totally sickened by this). It reminds me though how gorgeous the Pacific Northwest is. I write about cruelty to whales – just as I hear the snap of a mousetrap going off in my bathroom. Brilliant. I’m a killer. Sure, of vermin. But a killer all the same. Where, oh, where is my gallant, mice-clean-up househusband now?

The weather is the strangest, least wintry, least Christmassy I have ever experienced since moving to Sweden/Norway. I don’t mind – it’s warm, very windy, rainy. It just feels unusual for this time of year.

“Sixteen calendars with nothing in the frame…” – I need a calendar!

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Sixteen calendars with nothing in the frame
You said you’d pencil me in, but you don’t know my name.

Robyn HitchcockSixteen Years

In the old days, my former (boy)friend used to give me a new calendar every year as a Christmas gift. It started off when he made calendars for me – really the best, most personal gift I had or will ever receive(d). Later he sent other calendars, and then we stopped communicating.

I realized that he was the only one looking out for my calendar needs. Last year I lived (somehow) without a paper calendar for the first time in more than a decade. It was tough.

Now I am on the hunt for just the right calendar. At this point, though, any calendar would do. One helpful thing would be a calendar that includes the bloody week numbers on it. Sweden loves to refer to doing activities during week X, and I never know what week number it is.