wasted

Today officially felt like a wasted day. Not in that I didn't do some *very* worthwhile things, but I certainly didn't do enough of them. It just kind of trickled past. I hate those days.

Like trying to drink out of a seive when you're not all that thirsty for what you're drinking. It's really too bad.

But it's my fault. I should have gotten my chores done; now I'll have to get up early and do them all before I go help Ben at church. Blech.

But good times are on the horizon. Other than Sierra working at the exact time of day that I am available and in town, the only complaint I have about tomorrow is that it's already here. I like listening to mellow services and going to Acoustic and not having to deal with the real world for a short while. I mean, not deal with it in the nitty gritty sense. Deal with it very much in the spiritual/political/abstract sense.

No chores, no deadlines, no hassle. Just thinking and soup and tastefully obscure or classy music filtering into your head from who-knows-where at a downtown coffee shop.

WWWWWWWWWhat a school year it's BEEN so far. It makes me giddy in a very calmed way to realize what I've done and what I've experienced since summer. I can honestly look back on the summer Evan, with his job and car and college friends and being the best at things and say that he had nothing compared to what I have now.

Such is life, eh? The more you get of it the better it is, I guess. If you think about it, that is. You can't just live for 150 years and expect to have an awesome life. You'd have to examine everything, constantly. I think that's one reason I overanalyze things and get depressed a bit by them; because I see everything's importance skewed, and it makes it hard to be on the same level as the rest of the world. As other people.

Hah! (or perhaps Ho!?) I wrote a letter to Santa today. It's clever and slightly caustic, in my own special little way.

Christmas songs are *wonderful*. They really are. The serious, beautiful ones about the night and stars and cold, endless, snow-love. Not like "Jingle Bells". Silent Night and such; the one with the bells....

wow. Just...purity. Musical purity.

Makes you think, though? About which "style" of music is the "best", in a good/bad sense. Like, good/evil. I think Christmas songs are probably very high. Honoring someone who gave their life for your salvation is...well, besides romantic it's *very* in tune with our driving, biological forces. Or, at least, the major one: survival. But...lifted beyond organs and reproduction and genetics and tooth and nail. Beauty and art and good-ness and the very soul of our culture is pricked out upon the flesh of humanity; perfect pearls of blood; pearls of beauty. Unsmeared and shining in the starlight.

Oh, this season affects me so. I think I am growing deeper, the deeper I sink in the snow, the more I doze as the snow comes to rest over my body; the more I lose focus on the plastic of the keyboard, the cold of my wet shoes, the chill of the glass door. I see them for what they herald, and not what they feel like, but how they feel as I lose them to the world.

You can feel your own body, almost, wrapped in snow and isolation and the cool. You can feel it as if you were the only thing left; the only pulsing, warm, breathing thing in a world of crunchy foam.

It's a very special thing.