Yule

Rain got into the Camaro last night.

I guess I didn't remember to roll up the windows the last time I drove up to the city, which was never, or every night.  I can't remember.  I can't remember because the woods are thick here, and Clyde keeps saying that something is going to happen, and then it doesn't.  It's distracting to me and Bev, so I turn her radio on, and I pretend she's playing me all the Journey songs he likes.

It just doesn't happen.  So I go to the city at night and wait for Christmas Eve.

Hello, it's Evelyn.  It's winter again, and we are camped out in the woods this year because a stranger told us to do it.  With us came nightmares and wishes and impossible disappointments.  I never thought I'd miss Maine, but I might.

Christmas Eve was supposed to mean some big revelation for me; some understanding of my place in the world based on this cycle that Clyde and I do.  I thought I'd have more figured out, but as usual with the holiday season, what it promises is never what it delivers.

Yesterday, I got into a fight with Adam and I called him a fucking coward for running off in the middle of it, and he said he was sick of me.  I think that's something we all feel as a result of this endless rain.  We usually don't fight like that, but I went running to Grady and left all the woodland creatures looking out of their burrows like the world was ending.

Bonnie was with Matthew, doing God-only-knows.  I think I feel the logs molding, and swelling when the temperature shifts.  I think it might feel sick here, like the impending feeling of danger before a storm.

It's not that I wish everyone got along during Christmas.  It's that I wish it held some wonder for people in the way I find it wonderful.  I want to know if there's someone who gets lost in the places I get lost, but I stopped looking.  Bonnie and Clyde and Adam would all insist I'm never alone, and they'd be right.  I'll turn and they'll be there.  And I'll turn, and they'll be there.  And I'll turn, and they'll be there.  It's not that I'm alone.  It's that at some point, I stopped checking altogether, because I got secure enough in the knowledge.

I tried to dry Bev out, with towels from the boathouse, but those were also wet, and swirled watermarks onto the leather inside.  I wanted to be a poet here.  I wanted a place of my own.  I always think any change of scenery is going to transform me into Jack London, but it never does.  I just get more and more like my brothers every day.  Liars, and minstrels, and devils.

Last night, late, we salvaged the holy ritual of Yule even though there was a lot of blood behind our eyes.  It was almost 3 when we showed up in the big cabin for counselors.  I always walk into that wanting to shake hands, and end up...

I miss a good hand shake, and all it meant once.  It makes me think if it ever comes back, those will be the times of war, and things like posture and eye-contact will be measured with a kind of malice.