I was in Williamsburg recently, and went for a walk down DOG Street into the historically reconstructed part of town and ran into a fife and drum corps marching up the street . It struck me then that I'd spent my entire college life sunk in Frederick Jamesonesque hyperreality without realizing it. Is it any wonder that I became a fantasist?
I'm still sunk dream-deep in the novel's revisions. And I've got an intro to write for a story in a friend's collection. So this will be a short post. Also, I'm working on this year's Christmas story. Every year I make up a story for the family and tell it on Christmas Eve. It's a tradition that goes back -- my God! -- over twenty years. The first one, I remember, was about the ghost of a mouse. And I've been making 'em up and telling 'em ever since.
In retrospect, I probably should have written them down. I'd have the makings of a collection by now.
But, oh well, that's not what matters, is it? Love and family and hot buttered rum by the woodstove. That's what makes the world go round.
Above: A ghost fife-and-drum corps. The makings of a decent Christmas story. I may tell it some day.