We have had lords leap and “ladies” dancing, but as we slide towards the pagan winter celebration that coopted the birth of a controversial figure, a monolith of promise, a labyrinth of confusing messages for all of mankind.
It makes sense that we now get to the working woman who is keeping everyone fed, the one with chapped hands, the one born not of lord and lady blood but of low class origins. Yet as we approach the number one countdown to a day with complicated meaning, the maids are our last human entry in the “cumulative song” (that’s the form 12 Grand Gifts ).
- The muscle memory of no room at the inn
- The truth must be hidden from plain sight
- There is something to bright shining stars
- Why do we never see them now? Or know they are alien ships not sent from some protector?
- Have we killed wonder?
- Who are we? Do we even know?
These are the thoughts that come to mind 8 days before the day an orphan was born.
Like me. A bastard child.