Season's Grrreee-tings

[ckaratnytsky at nypl.org]

     "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the Lion sleeps tonight..."
     
     Zzzz...  Zzzz...  Zzzz...
     
     As I type this, in the windowless horror of Gordon Bunshaft's 
     modernist office nightmare, the New York Public Library for the 
     Performing Arts, I am wishing I were an Inuit, or a feminist 
     pedagogue, or a eunuch.  I can't exactly remember anymore.  It gets a 
     little disconcerting, but, to keep me warm,  I take great comfort in 
     knowing that I now seem to understand the Tragedy of the Commons.  Ay, 
     madam, it is common.  Seems, madam!  Nay it is:   I've just tossed an 
     empty bottle of Glen Livet over the bookcase behind me into the main 
     reading room.  I've settled comfortably into my second can of warm 
     Ballantine and I feel ready to shout, "STELLLLLLA......."
     
     I am wearing a Godzilla tee-shirt and a plaid flannel bathrobe from LL 
     Bean, wondering what channel the Munster's Christmas Special is on and 
     where the hell my knitting is.  The flourescents flicker.  I stare at 
     the pictures taped to my filing cabinet of John and Yoko, of Marcello 
     and Anita, of Sam Beckett and Billie Whitelaw.  I am feeling drunken 
     and boorish, but the Kindness, like the Readiness, is all:  I will 
     have a lot of free time from now until 6 January when I come back to 
     work -- maybe I'll finally get through Jonathan Livingston Seagull and 
     The Celestine Prophecies.  I've already committed to reading 
     everything by Deepak Chopra, so I'm not too sure.
     
     Here is a passage from Lewis Carroll, who, unaided, knew about sexuality 
     without genitalia like you wouldn't believe:
     
     "I engage with the Snark every night after dark in a dreamy delirious 
     fight.  I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes and I use it 
     for striking a light. But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, in a 
     moment, of this I am sure, I shall softly and suddenly vanish away and 
     the notion I cannot endure!"
     
     May the Plechazunga bestow his blessings on the whole curmudgeonly lot 
     of you!  A-and I hope young Jackson finds everything he wants under the 
     tree.
     
     Power to the preterite,
     
     Chris
     
     Samuel Beckett, 22 December 1989.
     
     Shantih shantih shantih...
     
     What I tell you three times is true!