December 27th – a Friday – and a warmer day to boot is oddly serene given the manic nature of the past several days surrounding the traditional Christmas holiday. There is missing an element of both need and urgency.  The tranquillity lends an air of abandonment and secretive absent preparation. It is maybe best described as a lull before the recurring storm on New Year’s Eve. I hear in the distance a child’s voice proclaiming some pursuit or entitlement on this bright chilly day nearing the end of 2024. Perhaps the youngster is yet enthused by a gift from Santa Claus, the annual exuberance and product of months of hope and fear.

The insatiable list of household provisions soon overtakes the swollen atmosphere and makes its noticeable appeal heard. There are things required to conduct the longstanding habits of each day; viz., toothpaste, mouthwash, cashew butter, sunflower seeds and a refreshed hair clipper to replace the one that now only works periodically (having surpassed it’s useful sphere).

The abbreviation of the festival is a small matter by my account.  And having no promotion of New Year’s Eve at hand, it is now but a process of evaporation from our existing air pressure. The suitcases and gym bag must be withdrawn and inspected. We’ve already notified the Property Manager of our upcoming dispersion. The balcony chairs and table are frozen in position. Arrangements with the housekeeper have been outlined. The bluish white snow concludes the hibernation from which we shall vacate.

Now however is a moment to languish as though confessing the dominance of the subdued whitened landscape; a capitulation to Nature’s summary of life, an apostrophe of time, the placid ice upon the river windswept by snow, the stiff branches of barren trees starkly contrasted against the sallow sky. The grandfather clock dutifully chimes. Another sip of chilled espresso. My millefiori is a reminder of the frivolity of it all. But the bronze paperweight (cut by Downey and engraved by St. Dennis) and pewter embosser (from NK in Stockholm, Sweden) have been polished too. No longer is it accumulation.  It is now permission to withstand and take notice. A chance to cast about without purpose or design; merely to inspect, to calculate the achievement of the bang that was T. S. Eliot’s whimper.

Thomas Stearns Eliot OM (26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965) was a poet, essayist and playwright. He was a leading figure in English-language Modernist poetry where he reinvigorated the art through the use of language, writing style, and verse structure. He is also noted for his critical essays, which often re-evaluated long-held cultural beliefs. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, to a prominent Boston Brahmin family, he moved to England in 1914 at the age of 25 and went on to settle, work, and marry there. He became a British subject in 1927 at the age of 39 and renounced his American citizenship.

I am going to keep my head and preserve only the best of what remains. There are clockwork echoes from the past, derogations not to be rekindled. My admissions are equally pervasive as abrupt. And the winter has frozen memories from which they may one day dissolve or sink to the bottom of the river whence on the surface of which I recall a verdant summer’s glance.