a question that perplexes and, I'll admit, often vexes me sometimes.

why, given my capacity to be a capable and creative, assertive person blessed or cursed with a particular sensitivity for the particular, do I limit myself?

other than that, things are fine. it's christmas time in the city, some sort of bing crosby/someone else duet version. kind of distracting. not enough of a change in dynamics, or too similar in style or tone, I don't know. not enough contrast. or so I say, anyway, with the benefit of no knowledge of musical theory other than it exists, possibly, who knows about that whole existence thing anyway.

but I think I've had enough carols for tonight. I'm starting to look around for the other shoppers, and I hate the mall.

phooey. I want to go buy someone something, or call someone, and I'm on the edge of getting all weepy remembering mass in whatever grade it was they had us first sing adeste fidelis and how my whole suddenly catholic self saw a future as a nun, no, a saint, a beautiful saint, very sad, but beautiful. that, I think, was the romantic appeal of the whole thing, a whole new lady of shalott deal, or was it shallot, no, that's the onion, right? anyway. that whole yearning for the unavailable and only vaguely, briefly beheld thing. and the suffering, oh yes, the nobility of it, the weight.

of course I'd be gracious and merciful (and beautiful) even in the most extreme provocation. and charmingly erroneous sometimes, just for spice.

but anyway. I got all christmas for a minute. it was nice, actually. but I think it's time I got up and did something useful. I've got company coming in a few days and here I am, going on about nothing.