Praying to the Winter Gods

This week always seems to be the absolute perfect depth of winter. Not a good time for a birthday—trust me. I was born in a snowstorm and I think that about covers it. Bloody hell, I’m turning 44; by the time anyone reads this I will have turned 44. Happy birthday to Lincoln and me.

Isn’t it weird when important newsworthy things fly around you and yet you have little to say? There was that 28 inches of snow the heavens plunked down on us New Englanders this weekend. We’ve had no school for four days and counting, which could be the basis for a very long soliloquy on what it’s like to be a parent and a child left alone for days on end. Or I could write about how the fates throw us surprises and laugh their butts off (with the Winter Gods, beside a carefully stacked pyramid of empty Jägermeister bottles). I could also just be simple and talk about the snow all of a sudden here, piled up to our heads, everywhere we look.  But no, not interested.

The Grammy’s just aired. Popular people were there. I no longer have a TV and so live shows tend to be off limits for me. I could write about how insane that is in this modern age. How I’ve missed the Olympics, the Tour de France (even if defrocked the past few years) and the Golden Globes, not to mention Downton Abbey Season 3. And now the Grammy’s, which I don’t adore but I always find at least one new act to admire. Last year it was The Civil Wars. This year, with no TV, no new talent for me to view and become a fan of. I could vent about how backwards and un-money-making for all involved this appears.

I watched a couple of films I thought I’d share. I read a few books I started to write about and the reviews petered out, one by one. I don’t want to waste people’s time with reviews of so-so films and books. You know the times when you rip through a book and you make it to the end although it’s way past bedtime and you know you’ll regret it in the morning. Then you realize that judgment can no longer be suspended and it’s come flooding in with Let Down. You realize that you’ve just read something that will not satisfy, that cannot give what you hoped for. You can’t help but think about those ten extra hours of sleep you could have used the past couple of nights.

I’ve got a pile beside my bed hoping to be cracked open. I’m set to see Lincoln finally this Thursday. We’ll see how that goes. But drat I hate feeling uninspired. I hate opening a book and feeling that dread trickle down my spine that I won’t make it past the tenth page. I hate to do that to a writer.  I also don’t enjoy watching my anticipation evaporate.

Isn’t it great when you open the front cover and from page 1 you feel the pull and you’re drawn in and it’s GO! Ah, to look forward to a satisfying read with banquets of sentences and thoughts like delicacies. That film where you forget everything for those 2 hours.

   My Idea of a Delicious Banquet

Tonight I’m praying to the Winter Gods. You are stern by nature, I know. But I beseech you to send a bundle my way; Send me something wonderful, something substantial, something immeasurable or tranquil, dancing, merry, or vibrant. If anyone has been inspired recently, please send me a link. I have no doubt that very soon there’ll be a gift at my door. And Winter Gods—I do not mean snow.

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2 thoughts on “Praying to the Winter Gods

  1. I know what you mean about those books. I have to say – I had a few books in a row that I felt wasted my time, and my money. They were all modern, and they all seemed to start with that same device, which is there to pull the reader in. To me it’s so obvious and I find it almost insulting. I decided to go back and read some classics. I loved ‘Death of the Heart’ by Elizabeth Bowen. It was so real.

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