Raymond at 16
The picture they finally did get of me, for the Class of '79 yearbook the next year
December 1, 1977
Today's the start of December, and I suppose, with that momentous occasion, the merchants have an even greater impetus with which to market their products. People don't really crack down on their Christmas shopping until they have something constantly reminding them that Christmas is drawing near--mainly the name of the present month coming upon them.
So many people can't wait for that morning of December 25, especially the children, whose eyes bulge with greed as they pillage the family Christmas tree of its ponderous loot. The days of December last as whole weeks for these anxious souls. They meticulously count the days on the calendar, trying to make the time go faster.
But for me, Christmas is the day that pops a great bubble of friendliness, good cheer, that marvelous phenomenon known as the "Christmas Spirit." Whether or not Jesus Christ was actually born on the 25th is immaterial. I only wish life could be this way all year round, instead of being abruptly severed on Christmas Day, leaving us up in the air to fall back into the depression of our ordinary lives.
I dread the coming of the actual Christmas Day. The gifts are no consolation for the great loss I feel every year on that day. It's the worst let-down of the whole year.
December 6, 1977
Recently I have had a fear that I think I'll expostulate on now. For the three times it has come around for me at this school, I have not been able to get my picture taken. This fear probably springs out of some unhealthy emotion I've developed about how I look. I'm even fearful of looking at myself in the mirror. This is a strong case of me being hurt by myself, not others; no one really bothers me about my appearance, vile though I believe it to be. Now I've got to start getting myself to like my looks.
Raymond at 16
The picture they finally did get of me, for the Class of '79 yearbook
the next year
December 8, 1977
With a big snowstorm brewing right now in the west, I should be horrified at its portents of misery and hardship. Quite the contrary, whenever such a forecast is made I begin to truly look forward to the merciless dumping, casting aside all concerns over its effects. When the sky becomes opaque with the whirling milky white, I am teleported to some romantic state of mind in which all I want is more of it. Maybe it's some form of mild hypnosis caused by the monotonous motion of snow particles in the air, or the remnant of some childhood fantasy over the miraculous wonder of frozen precipitation.
December 13, 1977
After all the snowstorms the temperature is presently above freezing and I'd be glad if every damned inch of that horrid stuff were to melt away, leaving the ground the way it was in the first place. No matter how romantic the falling crystals might be, it's no compensation for the long days of misery -- shoveling and walking -- that result. I'll truly be grateful to the "weather god," or whatever, when I'm able to use my bicycle again. I'm dreaming of a green Christmas--just like the ones I've never known. Bing Crosby didn't have to shovel his own snow when he sang that song. He would have changed the words if he wasn't so rich. Another problem caused by this mess is a colossal snarling of the Christmas shopping rush. Have you been out there lately? It's a mad house! No one has to worry about going broke this year because they won't have time to stand in line to spend it all. We were standing in one such line at Sears on Sunday, but no one was moving. It seems that the cashier was in the stockroom fetching some article of merchandise for another customer. It galls me how these people think they can waste the time of others like that. But we did get through, and I was glad to get home.
December 15, 1977
While piecing together the rough draft for my short story, I recognized an interesting phenomenon I shall call "The Multiplicative Progression of Writing." Simply stated, the more you write, the more you want to write--very much like the slogan on the Cracker Jack box.
It was very difficult for me to start my story, but once I had that first concrete page of material there to look at and be proud of the completion of, the load seemed greatly lightened. As I amassed a greater stack of penned sheets the words came faster than I could write them down. I rarely came to a loss for the correct word, while several nice little unexpected aspects came up in the plot as I was writing it down.
Now I've got about 16 pages and only the narrative "hook"left to write. This is the most difficult part of the story, but since I've got all that other material urging its completion, I don't think it will be as hard to write as if I had started off with it.
December 20, 1997
Christmas sure is getting here fast this year--imagine--only 5 days left! Perhaps it's the burgeoning volume of class assignments due this week that cause the time to fly--it certainly flies faster when you're not supposed to be having fun! Or it could be because of how little snow there is on the ground.
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