“The only way the American Christmas could be simplified would be to change the date from December 25 to February 29. That way it would come every four years. I’ve advocated this for a long time but nobody pays attention to me.”
- E.B. White
I’m feeling rather flattened now that the Nutcracker run is over. This was our twentieth year performing it, and still I’ve not seen it. They tell me there’s a lot of jumping about and prancing going on above us, pretty costumes, sugarplum fairies, mice, etc. I’m none the wiser, although from where I sit, I get a pretty good view of little girls in frilly dresses and sparkly shoes leaning over the pit rail during intermission to see where all that racket’s coming from.
Last night a frilly pair of two-year-old twin girls stared in utter bewilderment at all the people dressed in black who were holding strange-looking objects and making funny noises, which caused me to wonder what on earth the orchestra pit might appear to be to them. It’s a rare thing, at my age, to look at a thing and have absolutely no context in which to put it.
Of late I’ve been struggling with context on a different level, trying to decide what to do with a story I’ve been fiddling around with for several years (yes, years). Recently the muse gave me a hard shove; apparently it’s now the season to be writing, as if there weren’t enough to do with decking halls, summoning the sugar plum fairies, and oh yes, there’s still Messiah to go. I’d better get on it.