Once I posted far more birthdays than I do now (for instance, today, December 30th, is both Patti Smith's and Michael Nesmith's birthday, Alex Chilton was born on the 28th, they once would each get songs if not stand alone posts though today they only get this parenthesis) but I still check each day for whose birthday it is as you who follow me at Bluesky can attest. I still do the biggies though occasionally not, not for any other reason than my current relationship with the birthday person, dead or alive, on that particular birthday when the post doesn't feel heartfelt but feels like filler to me. I'm still an attention slut, just not as avid and desperate as once (and/or just as, just more visual than verbal now)
I'd read and added to the grid below in the fifth row from the bottom two smart and debatable articles about the failure of what and whoever constitutes America's "literary elites" to confront Obama's betrayals that aid and abet to this day and tomorrow too Trump's monstrosity the night before Gaddis' birthday. I didn't know it was Gaddis' birthday until the next day, I check for birthdays on the same day. I had tried for months for a 2025 novel, new or old, that would if not break my reading slump at least open an extra sluice or two in my dam, and I'm two-thirds through my 4th or 5th reread of Pynchon's *Mason & Dixon* (why a reread necessary for a reading reboot and how long to find the right one annoys me): I actually think go get the book instead of making myself go get the book and reading it against my will, what a world. Next to my battered copy of *Mason & Dixon* when I went to find it my equally battered *The Recognitions,* the Penguin edition with the van der Goes on the cover, almost as good an object as it is a novel, I have to keep not starting it less I fuck up the Pynchon. *The Recognitions* next, reread number fuck me for counting. Hence Sunday past's Gaddis birthday filler post, my apologies. 
Strange days, both more to write about in direct proportion to how it gets more unnecessary to write it: kayfabe broken less fun to write about than kayfabe enabled and active. Everything feels like filler everywhere, everything new is born old, not just here. Paul Westerberg will be 66 tomorrow the 31st, he just gets this sentence. I may or not post George's New Years song on New Years Day. Hear, I've great new music at my Bandcamp, listen there once each album for free
MAKING THE BEST OF THE HOLIDAYS
James Tate
Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, “We’re
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re
still alive.” She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
“Sleep it off, Hugh,” I said, “I can barely under-
stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.” The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. “I hate you,” she said. “You’re the most
disgusting human being on the planet.” “You’re
absolutely right,” I said, “and I’ve always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.”
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. “Who was it?” I
asked. “It was my mother,” she said. “And what
did she say?” I asked. “She said she wasn’t my
mother,” she said.
1/unhappy with the sudden shift of tone in tate's poem here, even though its presentation is no doubt chosen for good reasons by our proprietor, and thinking of the holiday season, and of new beginnings on this last day of 2025, i asked deepseek to take the substrate of tate's "happy as the day is long" and imagine it as something scrooge might say, to the assembled children round the fire at the cratchits', after he has become their beloved uncle ebenezer - presented for your consideration:
ReplyDeleteA Winter’s Tale, by Uncle Ebenezer
Gather close, my dears, and I will tell
Of a cold room that once was my domain.
A long and lonely staircase, like a chain,
Led to a secret cell, a selfish shell.
The world outside brought tidings I’d disdain:
A lost aviator’s shoe, a failed campaign,
Noise from a club where jazzy notes would swell—
All just a din to mock a soul’s own pain.
I’d seek my thrill in ledgers, locked away,
And thought a fish that climbed a tree mere spite.
My heart was frost, a bleak and endless night.
But listen! In that gloom, I learned to see
A different kind of inventory.
I sorted all my fragments, mean and small—
The odds, the ends, the scraps I’d hoarded, all
That shriveled world I’d thought was infinite.
I saw its bounds, and in that very fall,
That chilling fright, I found the grace of it.
For finite things, arranged with care, can be
A boundless, bright tradition—like a call
To build a feast, to sing in harmony.
The plans I'd hatched were just a selfish whim,
Bleak nonsense on a shoreline cold and grim.
And now? Why, now the walk is not so steep,
The room is not a secret meant to keep,
But just a place where simple treasures lie,
To go forth from to find this happy tie
And gather round in warm and dancing light.
The hallelujah is your laugh so bright.
And that is how a frozen heart can thaw—
Not by a ghostly lesson, full of awe,
But by the sight of what one’s hoard is for,
When measured not in weight, but in the score
Of humble joy. So let the snow descend!
My story’s ended, and my heart can mend.
2/