Observations pt1

I have insights into the world on occasion, and generally accept them as delightful. They are, in most cases, analogies between men and nature, myself and nature, or nature and God.

As I was walking away from the large building in which I work, the wind gusted and tried to blow me off my pace. It was a strong wind and as strong words often cause us to take notice, I did. As I took notice, a correlation between men's words and the wind struck me, and it was then that I stopped to truly take notice. This is what I was shown:

The wind is much like man's words insomuch as they can be warm and mild, and thus provide comfort to those they come in contact with; they can be hot and humid, resulting in a similar response; they can be cold and bitter, causing the recipient to tense and lose their comfort; they can be weak or strong, in this measure they cause a geometric response; but only in their fury can they cause irreparable harm.

The Great Scotch Tape Incident.

I could not have been older than ten, it was when we still lived on the north side of town, when I saw for the first time with my own eyes. I was half beaten with sleep, but the light that broke through the opened door to my room seemed to rouse me some. In the doorway, peering in on me, was a rather large man, larger than my father so it could not have been him. He was donned in red, a rare type of velvet, and trimmed in white- he was married to the suit so much he even had a white beard. He turned and left in such a way that even I had wondered if he was there to begin with, but the smell was unmistakable, and indescribable. This was the first time I met Saint Nicolas.

Now, since I have been old enough to travel without parent accompaniment beyond the pre-set limitations, we, Santa and I, have met on almost a yearly basis. We alternate locations, as some families do on the holiday, and share stories, though mine never seem to surprise him. It was precisely at one of these gatherings that he revealed to me the reason that he refuses to wrap gifts anymore: The Great Scotch Tape Incident of 1948.

Let me first explain that Santa looks exactly the same all year round, and it is precisely as he is described in several books and images- though the Coca-Cola label embellishes his weight a bit, it most closely resembles him. He is nearly always in good cheer, and manages to find humor in the reminiscences of some pretty difficult times.

Scotch tape was still relatively new in 1948 and the world was still shaking off the anger of war; never was Christmas of more importance. The workers at North Pole were under immense pressure to make this the Christmas of Christmases (as it is every year), and Santa was extremely apprehensive, but still in good cheer. The toys and presents of various size and weight and shape were being assembled and built at an astonishing rate, especially considering they do not start until Thanksgiving. On December 17, every year prior, the workers began to wrap the toys with shiny paper of all sorts and top them off with elegant ribbons. Scotch tape had become the adhesive of choice the year after it debuted in 1944.

Blitzen and Donder were in the stables playing some sort of reindeer game (I believe it has since been outlawed), when a certain elf, which shall remain nameless, managed to startle Donder. He took off in the blink of an eye, bolted across the stables, through the gate, down a curling passage, and without any thought at all galloped into the workshop. His antlers threaded the hole of a gigantic roll of Scotch tape, and whisked it away. The sticky end stuck to one of the elves and began to drag him along. Chaos quickly befell the room that only moments before had been echoing with songs of the season. The elf frantically searched for something to grab hold of and managed to lay his hand on a table leg. Well, amazingly enough, the force exerted on the roll of tape caused it to begin to unwind, as Donder still hadn't stopped. The tape took hold of several elves, wrapping them up, and also a great many presents that were wrapped and waiting to be wrapped.

Finally, as if the damage could be greater, Santa walked through the door and yelled, "Whoah! Who-0ohh!" in that deep and booming voice of his. Donder immediately responded by running around Santa gleefully a couple of times. He too became caught up in the tape and tumbled, rather ungracefully, to the ground.

The gifts were difficult to recover and a special effort had to be made to remake a number of ruined toys. Removing the tape from the already wrapped presents tore the paper, and the ribbons and bows were tossed out. The presents were unwrapped and, due to a shortage of time, had to remain so for Christmas day. It was after Santa had successfully delivered the presents to all the good boys and girls of the world that he swore off scotch tape and wrapping paper.

I have tried several times to convince him that this was an overreaction, but he always assures me that it is for the best. It saves time, which, with the ever-increasing population of the world, is in the best interest of Christmas. He says he will always remember it as the Christmas of Christmases, but not for the reason that he had intended.

It is with this anecdote that I wish you all the grace and hope of the season. May your hearts be content, and full of good cheer; and may you believe in the goodness of men, and practice the same. Merry Christmas!!

my thought cathedral

It is prescribed, in this nondescript state, to wait thirty minutes if you don't like the weather. I awoke this morning in a chill, as the temperature went from a seasonal balmy forty degrees to a more biting four degrees (18 below with wind) overnight.

I am a shadow (voluntary) of Ann Frank, though not Jewish (except by faith), in the attic of this house where two walls vault to a point; a cathedral of thought and sleep and uncertainty. I do not fear for my life, that is, not with respect to any sort of physical death. Certainly the comforts of modern society do not elude me, except for heat (it is 57 degrees here), in this finished space. The television is focused on the news programs I find so intriguing on Sunday morning: the greek; the one who replaced a beloved chubby fellow; and a rather large dwarf.

I struggle to maintain feeling in my fingers, which contract and relax in hopes of circulating more blood. I have layered my clothes, a sweater over a sleeved shirt over another shirt and two layers of pants. Also I sit, when so inclined, under two blankets. My face bothers not to expound upon the pain, but remains blank, almost in shock at the current circumstances. The warm coffee I sip helps to alleviate some of the chills, but seems to do more to keep my guts warm than my skin. It is often said that you will not see me without a cup of coffee in hand, it is my partner in crime and captivity.

The room, as I said before, is finished, but the walls do not contain the itchy insulation that accompanies rooms labeled as such, but they are covered in that retro wood paneling that reminds me of my childhood home, except that room had a wood stove to keep you warm on such cold days. The ceiling is low, but the room is deep. I have plenty of space to maintain adequate accomadations for myself. I am not reliant upon the fancier things found in homes these days.

I am alone in my space, and people rarely make it up here- I find analogies of life in almost anything I write. All perception of truth is the detection of an analogy. -Thoreau.
My face is unshaven, and sparse, with sunken cheeks from a recent lack of bountious food. It is unassuming, perhaps reassuring, though it maintains a quality often associated stone. My eyes, placed above a slightly spanish nose, are blue or green depending on the day and fit my face well. The cleft in my chin is, as most other features, modest and I often find it a point for my index finger to massage- either that or the angular scar above my right eye, though it is used more for plotting and calculations.

Perhaps another blanket, or layer of clothes, or food will help keep me warm. But alas, I should probably only wait a time (thirty minutes!) for the weather to change and then I should be fine.

Relative to "me"

I have been writing, or trying to write, a short story, but I have met the task with a mild disdain which is mostly directed at the subject, or, rather, the angle at which I approach.

I have two others in hope (dire need) of edit, as well as a novel (nearly ten chapters completed). All of which sit as neglected siblings: I am proud, but almost refuse to acknowledge their existence. Neither their breath nor appetite compels me to action. Oh, the book itself is quite endearing: vivid imagery and well thought out characters- such as you'd like to meet, but invariably would simply ignore in public.

I am quite the candidate for medication relating to A.D.D., but I find such prescriptions to be as intrusive as the questions required to make such a diagnosis. It is also an excuse I find terribly hard to give up, being that it is so convenient and understandable in these times.

I was born (it's true) with all the necessities to be successful in this world, and at the present time. I'm sure it is no coincidence, at least, that is, as sure as one can be about these things. But I have plagued myself with the question, "why?" I am a child in this fashion. Asking such a question about the very foundations of the way we live will inevitable cause one to quake. I have done my fair share of quaking; dusty air and crumbs of stone.

I was, at one time, a rather delightful and outgoing person if I should say so myself, but have become an adorer of seclusion and my own whimsical progressions of thought (they are like music to me). I am not without wit, nor a sense of humor- but why laugh? A sad face, as It says, is good for the heart (n'est pas?).

Two posts in one day! quite unremarkable really, if I were to take into account the notion that no one would read this. Oh it is quite true! Quite true! I am having an expectation that no one would read this, and in that I feel joy- perhaps a vindication.

Perhaps next time I shall share some study. I am quite fond of finding things, and expounding upon them.

RSVP

I keep notecards in a small box that was given residence in my desk. When I lay in bed at night my mind is often cluttered and swirling with random musings about various subjects, so to alleviate the burden of these winds, and thus create a milder atmosphere for sleep, I write them down on note cards in frantic form, that is to say there is no editing to speak of, and then place them in the wooden box which reads: RSVP. It provides ideas upon which I may later expound, except that, after review, I often find them detestable and without merit (an opinion I often hold of myself and most others).

*Oh these days... that men are more poorly written than a television pilot, lacking only in all that is original and are, perhaps, as a result of revolution, required to be less grande and civil.

* They gather together
banners waving with hope
that peace or justice should
fall in line- the other to follow
They do their part:
point out its lacking- its failure
How far from words these two
are positioned, and here I sit,
writing- not unaware of my failure.

* The garden consumed the proportionally
smaller east and south sides of the property,
and was divided unequally by an artificial
stream kept free of any growth by use of
a fountain so ostentatious the peacock turned green.

* A leaf: draws ridgid and dull in its waning days, and then... plucked by the wind (or thought burdensome by the tree)- but rarely does an item appear softer on its way to the ground.

Does it yearn for the ground? pine for the tree? know its grace? or merely fall?

* Five minutes in a day do I feel as myself
And shocked when encumbered by such an
awkward sense of comfort in my own skin.

*Chains and shackles do bind
less tight than fear the mind,
or frost the actions of free men.

*There are two types:
Those who fight the cage, either internally or externally;
and those who find it comforting.

*There is scarcely a feeling more suffocating than this:
to fumble over words as ideas spill onto the ground,
only to be cleaned up by another (much like Emerson
spoke of having to take our opinion from another).

*Minus the trappings that adorn
this worn and weary body,
I am but an ancient trapped
by modern times, and the
culmination of movements
that did arise.

*The proletariat are rarely mentioned,
lest power be the stake. Prophecy neglects
its members, save one sould come to rule
and drive them further down; or sweep them
up in a moment of evil. Kings are kings,
and the proletariat their keep.
A good wage is a blinding light.


*Study of a tree-
Firmly rooted where it stands
reaching up towards the sun
arms open to the rain
providing shade to those in need
and its food- fruit in season
thinking of winter its stores provisions
and loses its leaves accordingly-
a plan for next spring.

*From a seed do weeds sprout and spread
to slowly strangle a lush green meadow.
How low your sights have been set
to seek (or worse, guard!) a glass half full!
Water yearns to be poured without limit, without bias.

* To see how the world can nullify the spirit is a somber experience.
To see the spirit overcome the world for even the briefest of moments
is pure light.

*When you have become your parents, then you have succombed to the world.

There is more, much more even, but I resist the urge to expose myself more, or worse.
It would be sufficient to say that I do plan on posting more, maybe, though, perhaps less of what is already written, and more of what has occurred in the day or days prior (is that what people do?).