With a ground this soft, the contours of the earth are bound to change.

How's that sound to be found, crowned with profoundness, to be reknowned in a round town, for a sound you didn't sound? You'd break ground to pull down the crown you've found and look around at the browness of reality, the plain sound of life. Jot down all the common nouns, without a frown or without drowning in sound you didn't sound, in a town you haven't found, with a profoundness you do not regret.

Smile. :)

Listening to: A carousel of nicknames that I've been given over the years, muffled.
Mood: Matthew Tyler Priestley

I need a connection.

Listening to: the Asian singers at the end of "A Christmas Story"
Mood: "Deck the harrs with bows of horry fa rararara - ra ra ra ra!"

Christmas in America? Well, to me, nothing smells more like Christmas than Scotch tape, and as regretful as that is, the fact remains: presents are fun! Of course I enjoy giving them more than receiving them. In fact, I don't really even have a list, nor have I since I was a kid. Here's the first gift I wrapped this year:



Blankets of snow have never covered my yard on Christmas morning, yet the picture of it almost creates a jingle of bells in the background (if life had a soundtrack); there's something so satisfying about the fake nostalgia of it all. Or maybe it isn't so much completely fake as it is fabricated by Hollywood and Coca-Cola®, both using the color red in ways we've never realized. (You did know that, didn't you?) Somehow, through it all, I'm still ok with it. I'll still buy gift cards from Starbucks and television shows on DVD when requested. Heck, I don't even skimp on the wrapping paper. (Truth be told, wrapping is my favorite part.)

Am I the only one who doesn't mind the commercialization? I'm certainly not going to wholly enjoy myself only to go back and hate what "they" have done to Christmas. I know what Christmas is about, but I like what it has become. Why not have both? Capitalism is not evil.

I will always look for the smell of Scotch tape in December, the big red suit of Santa, the fake snow made of cotton for the hearth of a fireplace with the little city with it's little lights and people. I will always turn to TNT and catch the middle of "A Christmas Story" to find out the Ralphie almost did in fact shoot his eye out.

I will always always listen for the jingle of bells, as my heart beats a little faster on Christmas morning: a residual palpitation from childhood.