Tim Pratt's Journal

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Happy Pooksmas eve! Merry Sexmas! Happy post-Solstice! Or whatever the hell y'all celebrate. I hope it's something, because winter is long and dark and the days are short, and this is the greatest grand old barbaric yawp against the blackness. Though personally, I don't mind the blackness; it makes the bright things brighter, and there's a true beauty in icy paths and clear stars in the deep dark empty sky. Makes me wish I still lived somewhere with a bite in the air, where you can feel every breath cold in your lungs, where snow and ice crunch underfoot. Today in Oakland it's nearly 60 degrees and sunny, perfect weather for sitting in the back courtyard sipping coffee, reading, writing. And while I'm sure I'll do all those things, I do miss the wind howling around the walls and slipping in through the cracks around the windows. I spent a few winters in the mountains of North Carolina where it actually does get cold, and snows a lot, and apart from the difficulty of getting places on icy roads, I always liked winter there. Ah, well. It has been gray and windy and wintry here, lately; today is just an anomaly.

There are presents under the tree. I love gifts, giving and getting. And I love closing of the year, which is coming. A time for personal renewal, I always feel, a time to let the burdens of the past year drain away and turn your face toward what comes next.

Heather and I are sitting in the office, sipping coffee with Bailey's and Kahlua, listening to music, being awake and alive and in love, and I hope you're all coping with the inevitable holiday stresses and emotional messes, and finding your happiness and joy; or enjoying a contrarily curmudgeonly humbugish long weekend, if that's your wont, because I respect that. And if it's not the holidays right now for you, or the new year for you, or even winter for you, I wish you well in your own cold dark time, as it comes.

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