Mine tend to be modest holidays; when things go well I err on the side of insipidity. Like good poison, I reckon my Christmas ought to be odorless, colorless, tasteless. All my attempts at festivity otherwise end in tragedy, and I would rather not be the rain on someone else’s holiday parade, as I have been so often before. Some folks just aren’t wired for joy.
The trouble I anticipate this season is a matter of metaphysical drift, which is not quite as exciting as Tokyo Drift but probably feels just about the same. While I like to give myself a few days off, ones essentially free of responsibilities, I also like to turn toward those projects and prospects I might wish to entertain in the spring. Traction is hard to regain, however, and the void is accordingly difficult to fill. The good news? The metaphors are surprisingly simple to mix.
Of course I have no lack of work to tackle, but honestly, who cares? I always have a superabundance of work to tackle; it will still be there when I turn toward it. The only pressing bit of business is likely to be the dissemination of letters of recommendation, but I am a ninja when it comes to that particular genre. Most are already written, so I only need the prompts for various programs. Nothing else seems especially imperative.
Do I have life and leisure stuff to tend to? Not really. Much of what ought to be meaningful has fallen by the wayside, and I don’t anticipate anything new that I would choose to cultivate at the moment. I feel disinclined to write right now, though those phases seldom last for very long. What I will write when I begin again remains an open question as well, one for which I have no ready answers. I have innumerable options and no audience, which means I’ll have to double as my own reader. I’m disinclined to do that, too, as I have an appallingly low tolerance for me. I probably need a hobby, but anxious pragmatist that I am, I’m reluctant to commit to one that I can’t pursue just as avidly when my administrative commitments start to accumulate. My capacity for infinite deferral is deserving of mockery, and one of the many reasons that reasonable folk justifiably find me contemptible. Fixing the way I think, of course, is another matter that will keep for the time being. The irony is not lost upon me.
The near term is difficult for me to envision, which is something of an oddity for a man who lives his life in the future perfect. The further term is equally murky. In the absence of realistic expectations–the few things I would wish for are wildly impractical, if not impossible–the only thing to do with my time is fill it and kill it. That, at least, I can manage.
I can identify with the “blah.” I’d suggest some things to do, but I don’t really think you need a solution. I think you just need to wait it out. That’s how I feel anyway. Some people count down to break; I’m counting down to spring. Meh.
Macrame? I do love a good macrame plant holder. Seriously, I wish you a good holiday and a gooder beyond — sometimes, I think, the most frightening and exiting places in one’s writing are the pauses. One never knows what one shall do next.
I can relate. I spent the first part of the day miserable. Then, I went to work in the afternoon and felt “normal.” My husband is pissed at me because I’d rather be at work. :-/
Thanks for the kind words and commiseration. I appreciate fully that this is one of those classic first-world problems, even if my case comes with the guarantee that I’ll be swept up in spring obligations soon enough. I tend to know what to do in the choppy waters but not the calm harbors, and even though I’ve many places I’d like to go, I can already perceive countervailing winds blowing in from every direction. This is not a place I like to be.