The SO and I both have Covid19 so it’s not going to be much of a Christmas. We’ve already told my sons and granddaughter not to come over. I put on some Christmas music and it sounded pretty lame and I ended up with Tupac.

If there’s angels singing up in the air somewhere I can’t hear them. I haven’t seen a single chubby elf. These things would cheer me up if they actually existed.

I stare into the brutal night and all I want to do is to get into my car and drive, even with all the ice and snow, but I don’t do it, because that, like a lot of my ideas, is stupid.

I search for the mystical side of the evening, to feel the ancient Christmas spell take me over and fill me with peace. I search for it but I don’t find it. There is no peace. My soul is inflamed. At this point I would be glad to see even a ghost, but there’s none of those either, just me and the cat and the furnace.

We had great plans, parties for both Solstice and Christmas with a smoked turkey and lots of good whiskey, but then the Covid hit. This evening feels amazingly desolate now. My son and granddaughter came by and waved from a distance. That is amazingly desolate.

Covid will become the World Disease, endemic. Eventually everyone will catch it and it will change us. We will evolve differently because of the disease.

It is so cold. I go outside until my face freezes, not enough time to smoke a cigarette or get into some mystical trip about how beautiful the night is. It isn’t beautiful; it’s deadly. There are people dying right now out in the ice and cold.

Me and mine are snug and warm in the house with the furnace that I bought. The cat and the SO are snug in their beds while I, like a grinch chart the turnings of this dark night.

[Editorial comment: This post turned out to be something of a spell. I wrote it on Christmas Eve. On Christmas morning I woke up feeling much stronger and the best thing about it is that the “covid nose” is gone and my toast actually tastes like toast.]