The day before Christmas, I bought myself a bottle of Glenlivet. I did so knowing that there would be a night like this, when the momentum would come to a full stop and there would be nothing to do but breathe through it.
So, I am drinking a glass of scotch and breathing through it.
Earlier today, I told my brother that I can’t write to him that often right now. I wonder if he is able to understand this. He seems desperate for contact with me, or perhaps with anyone, and he is consumed by questions about personae, interaction, fitting in. He wants to understand why it is I can get along in the world and he can’t. Why, indeed.
Behind me, CNN has realized its mistake and is announcing that the twelve miners it had initially reported had survived a mine explosion have, in fact, perished. As distraught family members drive away from the scene, they lean out their car windows and scream “Liars!” at the cameras. “You’re all liars!”
The miner story has eclipsed an earlier report about a major Washington corruption sting which may see as many as twenty congressmen brought up on bribery charges. I have the sense that America is seething under its surface as the whole, rotten enterprise that politics has become comes apart like a cheap dress.
At least I’ve got a bottle of scotch.