Twas the day after Christmas… yawn.

And I am dog-tired. The expression makes no sense, but there you go. The family couldn’t get here yesterday and we couldn’t get to them (snowed in, of course, by over two feet of chilly winter evil), so we’re having a delayed Christmas dinner with the rellies: my Nana and Poppop, my uncle, his Austrailian girlfriend and her sister (both really cool people, my stamp of approval for them), my padres, the Twins, and I. Nannie (great-grandmother, she lives in a little “apartment” downstairs that takes up a bit over half of the first floor) is at my Uncle’s staying the night, so we have exactly ten people, which is exactly the number of chairs at our awesomely cool dinner table.
The table is actually a huge converted DOOR that used to be the door to an ancient Indian montastary. It’s made of acadia wood, and has these gorgeous carvings along the sides. Very antique, all that junk.
Now, I just HAVE to tell you what I got for Christmas (only the main stuff, I won’t list all the stocking-stuffers or anything.) I asked for, and recieved, a Waveboard- if you don’t already know what it is, look it up- a Christmas outfit from H&M, and the complete boxed DVD set of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which is 16 discs long, and no slouch of a present either. Oh yeah, and my Nainnie gave me a plain red flannel throw blanket. Goodie.
At the moment, I’m avoiding being sociable by sitting in my room on my zebra-striped beanbag trying to reconfigure the settings on my stupid hand-me-dowm laptop. Which I totally love and am grateful for, by the way (trying not to inflict the wrath of the Slow-Down-Your-Piece-Of-Crap-Laptop gods here).
Darkblood is being put on hold for Christmas vacation. I’ve discovered that I do my best writing at school, and subsequentially all three of the books are being written simultaniously as scattered across about a dozen different notebooks. Progress is slower than one would expect, but writing is really hard to do in my circumstances. Most of the time I’m at school or doing school related work, and the rest of the time I tend to be sketching (on the plus side my artwork is hugely improved), reading, playing Gameboy, watching TV, surfing the Net, writing songs or poetry, or hanging out with friends. The time I get to write is pretty tiny with everything else that I have to do.
And now, here’s a piece of a song I’m working on.

Longing And Frustration
What good is a love of music
if it never goes your way
I’ve heard the song of the world inside my head
but it’s a tune that I’ll never play.
What good is a love of rhythm
if I’m a step behind the beat
if the drumsticks always clatter down to the floor
and the dance is too fast for my feet
What good is a love of playing
if your instument can’t be tuned
if the guitar strings just snap to cut the back of my hand
if your flute’s broken and silent, ruined
What good is a love of singing
if nobody knows that you can
if you’re alway put down and never get your big chance
and if you only have one real fan
What good is a love of music
if my arias I sing alone
if the melody falls beyond my grasp
if the tearstains blur the notes
What good are my heart-song’s lyrics
if nobody wants to hear
if nobody cares to know, oh
what good is a love of music like this if
nobody wants
and nobody cares to know.