1.	listening to "listening to otis redding at home during christmas" at home during christmas
	I am playing the Okkervil River record loudly for: The warm and lonely sentimentality that aches its way through the digital circuitry to wobble the speakers and air to cause the eardrums in synchrony to wobble the way my father's wine glass wobbles between his index and his thumb; also to let my father know that he is drunk and has stumbled into unrestful slumber on his father's old easy chair with public television nature documentaries set at the loudest volume. We had Chablis.  And it was good.  I preferred the Gewurztrammer, or whatever white wine with a German name my mother handed me, but it has left me warm and sapped of any desire but to be on the couch in the living room where I sleep, having moved away.  I've got dreams, dreams to remember, the man sings, quoting Otis Redding. But not even home will be with you forever. Their words now bounce around in my throat as I hum softly, hoping my father will rouse himself and leave to keep his dreams fresh in his mind.  The throaty red wine hum of the cello stirs him and I am finally left to curl up like the dog to sleep on the couch.
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