I’m having a strange Christmas. I’m fond of this time of year – not because of gifts and wrapping paper, but because it’s an opportunity to spend time with people I like. Also, there are cookies. Unfortunately, my family has this habit of getting into fights on days we shouldn’t get into fights. So I’m at home reading books and hanging out with my cat, which isn’t a bad thing, it just wasn’t really the plan. The plan was turkey with my brother. I want to eat turkey with my brother.
This was a weird book to read in the middle of a Roberts-clan holiday fight. It’s a collection of poems by Margaret Atwood. I picked it up at Russell Books in Victoria, and was pleased to find it though it’s not quite as nice a copy as Matthew’s. All of the poems are quite angry. And I’m trying hard not to be angry today, but I’ve been confronted with lines like:
How long will you demand I love you?
I’m through, I won’t make
any more flowers for you
It’s hard to remain, you know, passively unaffected, especially when the people you love decide to have fights on Christmas. And while I love Margaret Atwood endlessly, she is not making it any easier.
Books read: 26