Christmas on a Desert Island?

I’m thinking of decamping at the end of the year…around December 20th…maybe 18th.

Going off to–are there desert islands anymore?

I cannot get my groove back.

Christmas 2023 threw me into a tizzy.

I won’t give particulars as to why and how…I have the feeling I’m far from unique in this and you, too, dear reader, may be all too familiar with my state of mind.

I don’t want to blame anybody for coming to us for Christmas. I’m glad everybody came. I mean, we invited them.

But I guess I’m not as young as I think I am…

State of mind is that I’m not able to function. My study has reached the–is it zenith or nadir, I forget which is the top and which the bottom. I’ve been working on putting my study back in order for four days now and it doesn’t get orderlier. I keep finding piles of letters from November, nothing pressing–so many pleas for help: to rescue pandas/bears/elephants/tigers…lost dogs…poor women in India…hungry families in the USA…libraries at Cal…the ocean…the planet… Hands reaching out for everything, everyone, and I haven’t the resources to give what I’d like.

And it’s all because of Christmas. The piles, I mean. Everything had to go on hold in order to find then wrap then mail gifts to children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, old friends, new friends, neighbors… Plus Christmas cards and The Christmas Letter. Days of writing…then checking addresses, signing, stamping a couple of hundred envelopes. Most everyone seems to enjoy our Christmas Letter but it takes its toll…


Today I’ve been throwing away appeals to save tigers/ocean/libraries/dogs/planet and turn to organizing Christmas wrapping paper, Christmas wrapping ribbon (it’s so distinctive, you can’t wrap a July birthday gift in silky red and green plaid), stacking books I was going to give as gifts but the moment has come and gone so now I must reshelve them…

My beautiful Limoges porcelain teacup has tea in it that is so thick with mold the mold spores have swallowed my tea.

A core of a pear is at my elbow. I think it was last Friday’s pear.

Another cup–this from the Charlie Hotel–great place to stay in West Hollywood–but the mold hasn’t begun yet because it’s yesterday’s coffee…so I better plop the pear core into it and take it into the kitchen. Don’t know what I’m going to do with the Limoges. Really can’t face it. Maybe just leave it as testament to what’s happening to me…

I so want to help women in India get established building their lives. Photographs of tigers on the World Wildlife Fund drive me crazy, they are so beautiful. Elephants! Hell, everything is going.

Me, too. I’m at the head of the line. Leading the parade. Marching us all over the cliff. What was that man’s name who did that? He is a kindred spirit.

That’s it. No it’s not. I don’t want to fall off a cliff. I just want my study not to shame me. Bill has been SO AMAZINGLY UNDERSTANDING. But of course I am ashamed.

Too much Christmas–throw in a chunk of Chanukkah while you’re at it.

The Christmas tree is still in the living room. That’s because it’s made of the P word, but it was fashioned in Italy and is beeyooteefull. Three friends have asked which evergreen it is. Bill suggested it might be fun to keep it there all year. It has enchanting tiny lights, quite warm and wonderful. Only problem is I miss the scent of a tree made of the S word (spruce). Cameron said he wouldn’t mind taking it down (just four pieces that fit into its big tall box). I’m of two minds about keeping a Christmas tree all year–those who think our house is already stuffed to the gills (a vocal majority of family) would roll their eyes. Maybe we’d best take it down this weekend, blowing kisses.

So hang in there, old girl. You’ve got the Christmas wrappings sorted and boxed. You’ve cleared a pathway from the door to your desk. Hey, you’ve hung up all the clothes. (My study is where my closet is–I think I’ve mentioned this before–and when I disrobe at the end of the day to fall into my flannel nightgown,  my weary tendency is to drape each piece over a chair–nicely, neatly–until, of course, the stack gets too high and the jumble falls kerflooie on the floor and I lose heart…am disgusted with myself.)

The clothes thing cannot be blamed on Christmas. It is a year-around bedevilment.

OK. Just have to turn all the papers heaped before me into a box for sorting.

Just have to reorganize my stationery basket.

Just have to…just have to…just have to…

No more Christmas for me.

Desert island for me.

Except I know myself. Along about September I’ll say to Bill, “What are we going to do this year for Christmas?”

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