Sleepy

"...I discovered the wonderful power of wine. I understand why men become drunkards. For the way it worked on me was--not at all that it blotted out these sorrows--but that it made them seem glorious and noble, like sad music, and I somehow great and reverend for feeling them."

-- Orual, in Till We Have Faces, by C. S. Lewis

--

Halloween came and went a week ago; yet Sleepy Hollow lingers. We do it about every three days, interrupting strings of consecutive Cinderella shows. The immediacy of fear has gone from the children, now that October is gone--the charm of the autumn chills along with it, replaced with the constant drafts and heavy colds of November. The orange leaves and naked branches forbear an icy winter, not the shades and seams of darkness. No one wants to be scared any more.

After the tingling trick-or-treat is the scouring of candies, the devouring of dainties. Darkness to light. Reminders of fear are placebos to the mind which has reached security and serenity.

In a week, incidentally, rehearsals for A Christmas Carol begin. The Wal-Mart yuletide displays have emerged between aisles and radio stations, no longer heeding Thanksgiving as the threshold of the holidays, have begun playing Christmas music. How quickly.

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The left front tire deflated slowly yesterday, air leaking out in the wrinkled creases in the side rubber, the sad wheel collapsed beneath its burden, the face of the bumper and windshield and headlights sinking morosely to one side, like a dental patient's numbed face before a filling. I replaced the tire today. Only one more tire left to fail, exhaling slowly on borrowed time. Even the car feels the season, its tires tiring, expiring.

--

Obama won, too. How enthusiastically the masses accept the news, how spirited and swift comes the arrogance of having been a pebble in a landslide, how joyful the countenances of those whose lives will not be altered in the slightest by the nation's latest rage.

A black friend of mine went to a black party to celebrate our nation's first African-American president-elect. He said he left after a few beers because everyone started crying, weeping over the day they thought impossible. "There were young people, and a lot of old people," he said. "Old people have seen a lot of shit."

(Is it unfair to say that I distrust any person--black, white, purple--who makes that many promises? or that I hesitate to smile with a thousand smiling faces? or that I am suspicious of any sentiments this widely held?)

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Most of the movies I've watched lately have been rated R. I watched V for Vendetta on November 5th to remember, remember.

--

I came out of a long sickness and fell into another. This one is tamer, a tickle, a light cough. Hopefully it joins its father, circling lazily in the past along with October and the election. I sleep on air and under clouds, the blasts from the space-heater cooking my feet, and I enjoy this hearty, free weekend. No work, no shows, for two days. If there is truly no rest for wicked people, then each nap is salvation.