[pre-emptive footnote: you should probably just skip to the last paragraph of this entry. the last two paragraphs. ]

Sooo. Feeling lots of different things right now. The annual wild holiday torpor has set in. I woke up this morning with an incredible premonition of disaster. thought perhaps it might just be my holiday reluctance. I guess we'll see come Wednesday dawn.

This time of year is at the fuck-all top of my love-hate relationship list. It requires reflecting on the year, and on Christmases past, and on friends and family and your dynamic therein. thereof. therefore. what the fuck ever.

my whole inner monologue has a British accent. too much late-nite Eddie Izzard. I keep muttering, "I can't be buggered. Can't be buggered."

so, yeah. Weird day, emotionally. weird week. Weird winter. Too many desserts, too many starches, too many, um. what are those things. Developments. Too many developments.

I did a tarot spread for Jehoshua. I did a tarot spread for all the boys, months ago, except for JC, because, I don't know, there were things I didn't want to know-- but I finally broke down and did it. and basically . . yeah. He wants to be a hero. Blames the people around him when it doesn't work out. Keeps a steady buffer of petty arguements between himself and reality. wow, who does that sound like. And the tenth card, the 'outcome' card, was the five of rods. Which is, you know-- the illustration on the card is five men with facial hair all snarling and pointing accusatory sticks at each other. and my chest squeezed and I just thought, "baby, no. why do this?"

also, I definitively put away my book on Kabballah. by Reb David Cooper. I read the first few chapters very patiently, with great attentiveness, and then said, "fucking hell. there are no charts in this book," and I put it away. Because I don't want answers; I want tools. is it arrogance? is it fate? who cares! mozel tov!!

so. And I just, I hate this time of year. in the love-hate way. You have to reflect on your year, and talk to your family, and accept gifts from your friends, and. Obviously, you have to go crazy, because I seem to do this same thing every year. and I was doing so well, y'know? and then I started talking to myself in the shower again, driving directionlessly and sleeping too much and forgetting to eat. and I can't go to the grocery store because every time I do I get sad. and it sucks. and I can't even complain about it (uh, yeah, all that stuff I just said, that wasn't complaining. that was waxing) because it's a transitory stage, and it's supposed to be uncomfortable.

and everything that happens seems to have increased significance. like, everything correlates to everything else. Someone says something at work, and then I see that something written on a piece of paper that I find on the floor of my bathroom, and as I stand up, I hit my head on the cabinet door and my vision blurs and I see a dancing banana, and I stumble into the living room, where there's a dancing banana on the television, and it says, "come on down to JC's steak house!" and the whole thing, is-- wow. that ramble was very Chris Kirkpatrick of me, wasn't it. Go, me. but, anyway, increased significance. Intricate patterns. It makes me nervous.

and the radio has fucking sucked this week. If I have to hear that dog-barking Jingle Bells song one more time, I'm going to induce vomiting until I throw up my ear drums.

and I hugged my grandfather and he shrank back from me. and I don't know what to say to my cousins. I don't know what to make of them. what I will make of them tomorrow, when they bring me stuff.

mm. so, yeah. I should mention, by the way, that all of that above stuff, that's all stuff I was going to say about Christmas, before I actually sat down at the computer. Here, at my family's house.

I was gonna sign on here and post simply, "Christmas Eve. I am ill at ease. Alestar." You know: hip, precise, cryptic. Alestarry. Then, three things happened.

I glanced at Devon's online diary index, to check for any updates, and noticed the entry titled "my name might've changed this morning," which I have not yet read, but plan to.

then, I read Lise's journal, and have ceased to wonder whether or not she got the package I sent her. feel a deep sense of relief, and some other thing. don't know. Mostly relief. don't quite understand why. I must worry an awful lot, subconciously, about the packages I send out. and this one got there. Boy, did it. baby, you do not cry in that case.

Then, the third thing, the deciding factor where Christmas and this journal entry are concerned-- I noticed that there were several notepad documents open, the windows minimized, and when I pulled them up, I noticed all of the text was purple. and . . .

they are all, apparently, Buffy: The Vampire Slayer fanfics being written, epistlary style, by my eight year old sister. My eight year old sister. fanfic.

My little baby sister. Epistlary style.

They are as follows:

(a)

Hey,Riley.How are you?I just wanted to ask.Cause if you where feeling bad,your feeling just like me.I mean I'm not in danger.but I just wanted to know how you felt really.I'm good I really feel good.If I am writing slow I'm learning to write in a knew way.But it's takeing a little while.But it also is really hard,hard,hard,hard.Really it is.Riley I've got to tell you something about my mom really Buffy.Well Buffy my mom is sick,and she is not going to be able to slay for a little while.I know that you are worried about her but don't she is going to be fine.I need to tell you that my mom is in the hospital.You know Angel well he bit her she just couldn't watch him go.He had gotten shot right next to the hear.And it was pousinis and the only way to save him was to have the blood of a slayer.She failed in getting the other slayers blood at first Angel wouldn't take it but then Angel actaully sucked her and it took out all the main blood cells out.There is barely any chance for her to live .You should have seen Angels face.Any way deep inside I know that she is going to live I know it from where the heart is I know that she is going to make it deep deep inside I know it she is going to make it I know.Bye.

(b)

Riley I can't believe of what you did to mom I really can't believe.You hurt her so much that all she can do is cry.And all I can do is cry with her.She asked me to tell you these.Don't go just because that little fight.It is just not nesairy.You know what Riley your not leaveing I talked to your commando guy.Your not going but then Istuck around without him knowing.He said that my mom is going not you.My mom doesn't even know and you know Riley that during the night they are going to shot my mom with one of those you've pastout things.And who knows my mom might be gone forever.You know what Riley I thnick that you should come over here.

***

I told Devon a few weeks ago that she needed to step back and try and look at herself with stranger's eyes. make a list of the things she would describe herself as. I think this was sound advice. I always think my advice is sound.

I think, however, that I could benefit from stepping into my life. I mean, yes. This is a sucky time of year, because I'm supposed to celebrate even though what I do tomorrow means crap-nothing in the scheme of the world, of Josh's world, of Lise's world, of qB's, KJ's, Lyndsay's, Bin Laden's, Silver Ravenwolf's world. It means nothing and no one cares, and the day after tomorrow will mean even less.

and, yeah, I'm Alestar. but the history books, or family genealogy books, or whatever, aren't gonna call me that. They're gonna call me Erin Webb and say that I lived in Knoxville, and wrote a little bit and fucked women. and then it will continue on to the next second cousin, once-removed.

and, yes. I'm a showman. These things depress me.

I've forgotten what point I was getting at. Bugger it all. My little sister writes Buffy fic. and so do I.

Any way deep inside I know that we are going to live I know it from where the heart is I know that we are going to make it deep deep inside I know it we are going to make it I know.

Merry Christmas, baby.

Alestar
***
"If I am writing slow I'm learning to write in a knew way.But it also is really hard,hard,hard,hard.Really it is."