I am sorry, y’all. I feel like things around here have been a little dull. But the truth is that I have just been happy. You think you’re suffering, think of all the poor Pith readers who have been subjected to happy trips to the park or the cemetery or whatever. Okay, I guess that’s the same as over here.
Allow me a little moment of woo-woo crap. (Fair warning if you’re not interested).
But when I first started running into the Old Man, I kind of liked him because I already recognized that kind of energy. I already knew and was intrigued by secret things and boundary pushing and niceness that could snap back into meanness. I knew what it was like to love words and, hell, to feel like words were your secret thing. And I was not that far removed from my experiments with death.
Yes, there was a lot that blew my mind, but at some level, damn, it felt like coming home. I really got that.
A few weeks ago, I had a vision that we were sitting at a table and he introduced me to his red-headed son, who was large, literally and figuratively. And he was simple, in a way. Solid. Good. Proud. Content. Not energy I’m used to, frankly.
And that’s who I feel I’m getting to know. And I feel like I’m starting to get why we were so loyal to him, back before.
You know my theory–that Santa Claus is just a disguise the Old Man and his red-headed son settled on so that they could come with us into the Christian era?
It does kind of feel like Christmas around here, but different, too.
I feel deeply Lucky.
But it sometimes makes for boring blogging.