5am Chrimbo morning. I sit here with the lit tree awaiting the awakening of the boy. He contains solely whatever magic there is in any of this.
Don't get me wrong, I do like the holidays. Parts of them, anyway. The spirit of giving can be undeniably nice. There is something charming about it, the momentary freedom from quotidian concerns.
I received an online gift, a couple books for download, yesterday. I started reading the essays from F. Scott Fitzgerald. I was compared favorably by the giver of the gift to the content of the gift, so my ego and arrogance were aloft with interest. Though I had to admit that I also did see the comparison. Now, if only I could create that same favorable comparison outside of non-fiction.
Fitzgerald is the writer that I would most like to be able to imitate. Him, or Salter. I should go back and read Tender is the Night again, and then again and again.
This same giver of gifts has bought me something even far nicer, though it won't be here until the end of the month when I begin my tour. He had hoped to have it here by Christmas morning, but alas... the winds of gift were not yet ready.
Okay, I hear the boy stirring upstairs. The magic hour approaches quickly on padded pajama feet.
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