The Saint Louis Atheists have started to follow me on Bluesky (which pleases me to no end).
Their quote is: “If you wish to make apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe” ~Carl Sagan
Which pleases me even more.
Of course, I follow back.
Christmas is a fake that has taken root like the holly. It survives tenaciously. It has become a goodies grab fest, and helps keep our commercial society stable. Perhaps reason enough to exist.
The wily Christians conquered the outnumbered Celts, and supplanted their winter festival with the birth of their God. The wily pagans live on in the numerous traditions the Christians stole, so perhaps it is a fair trade. And no doubt those wily pagans chuckle over their cups of mead, noting that this celebration of reverence has become a surfeit of greed.
I have been no fan of Christmas for decades, but its mixed legacy encourages me not to abandon it. My Christian background enhances my enjoyment of the music and traditions. Most commercial intrusions can be muted or turned off. I do have some personal traditions I follow religiously.
I do not even rail against Santa Claus. I heard his sleigh bells one Christmas Eve, when I was four. I saw his sleigh runner tracks in the snow a couple of years later.
I have even been mistaken for Santa Claus a couple of times.
Once, in the line-up in a bank near Christmas, a two-year old pointed at me. Unfortunately, my presence terrified him, and he started to scream and cry. I was wise enough not to go Ho Ho Ho.
Another time – but this happened in early fall – a family approached me as I walked in a park. A boy, who looked to be six or seven, stopped in his tracks, then ran back to his parents. “Santa Claus!” He pointed. Happily he did not cry. They walked past me in silence.
Also, for decades, I lived close to a residence where one of the very first recitations of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas happened. The author of that stirring piece, Clement Moore, who wrote it in 1822, sent a copy to his godfather, the Rev Johnathan O’Dell, of New Brunswick. However, the poem was not published until 1837.
And, most recently, I heeded the whims of Christmas Present, who snicked me up the side of the head in a grocery store. I went looking for milk, as the in-store sound system blared “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”. When I took out my container of 2% partially skimmed milk, and looked at the best by date, it said December 24. Christmas Eve. Still magical after all these years.
I hummed along about Mommy and Santa and then purchased a personal Christmas treat, which I would normally get a week before the day. Italian Panettone Classico, a fruit cake chock-a-block full of raisins, candied orange peel, eggs and sourdough and (they tell me) natural flavour. I have already had a generous slice.
Why wait for Christmas?
To show I am not a total Scrooge, I have written some Christmas tales. Here is a wee segment from The Elephant Talks To God:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I want to see you,” said the elephant, and the words raced from his mouth. “I don’t have to see you, you know that. I’ve believed even before you talked to me. But I want to see you, it would mean so much. I wasn’t around for the Baby, but cows and sheep and things got to see Him. I can’t explain but it would … “
“Go home,” said the cloud.
“You’re not angry with me?” said the elephant.
“No.” The cloud started moving away. “It’s an honest request.” The rain stopped falling. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome,” said the elephant.
“Sing some carols,” the voice was distant. “I like them.”
The elephant turned and started through the woods. He ignored the tasty leaves within easy reach and the tall grass near the brook. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible so he could join the singing he knew was happening later in the evening.
He turned along the trail, snapping a branch here and there in his haste, when he noticed the stillness, the hush which had overtaken the forest. He slowed down and then stopped in his tracks. He turned his head, his small eyes squinting into the brush. There was movement coming toward him, and when the trees parted, he went to his knees with a gasp. Tears rolled from his eyes, and a golden trunk gently wiped them away.
DE
The elephant was contemplating his muse.
He was lying beside the river, trailing one of his big feet in the water.
He watched as the current rippled and sparkled past, and noted the occasional
leaping fish with bemusement.He looked across to the other shore with a sigh,
and then closed his eyes to more fully experience the race of the river against his toes.
After indulging himself in this manner for awhile, he flopped onto his back, so he could
look at the trees.
He traced their outline against the blue sky with his trunk, and followed
the curve of some branches overhanging the river with interest. He even smiled benignly as a family of monkeys clambered up one tree, leapt through the canopy of leaves, and
raced down another.
He suddenly slapped his forehead with his trunk, rolled over with such force that
he jostled a boulder with his flank, and began to emote.
“The monkeys, in the trees,
“Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.”
“Pardon me?” said the boulder.
“I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.
“It was older, and much colder.”
“Oh boy,” said God.
“I am a POET,” said the elephant.
“Oh boy, again,” said God.
“It is a stone, which has grown,
“In a zone, all alone.”
“Would that I were – alone, and away from the voices.”
“I’m expressing myself,” said the elephant.
“That is a statement of truth,” said God, “which does not contain the whole truth.”
“It is a thrill, to have free will,
“That is until, others say `nil’.”
“To be fair,” God stifled a chuckle. “You seem to have grasped the concept of
rhyme – although your reach sometimes exceeds it.”
“But that’s what heaven’s for,” pointed out the elephant.
“You’ll get,” said God, “no Browning points from me.”
“That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,
“My muse to cast, into the past.”
“You’ve heard about too much of a good thing?” asked the boulder, giving a nudge of its own.
“Yes,” said the elephant.
“Well – this isn’t it.”
“You don’t like the way I make the words dance?”
“I’d rather sit this one out.”
“In the misty morn, he sat forlorn;
“He wouldn’t adorn, the dance floor well-worn.”
“Oh boy,”said God.
“As you can see,” said the elephant. “I provide a lot of bon mot for each and
every occasion.”
“Such a threat is enough to make a boulder crumble,” said the boulder.
“The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,
“And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.”
“Oy veh,” said God. “I’ve become a straight man for a stand-up elephant.”
“I could pack a hall,” said the elephant.
“You could pachyderm,” pointed out God.
“It’s just a guess, I do confess,
“That more is less, in the wilderness.”
“This could go on forever,” said God.
“You’re the expert there,” pointed out the elephant.
“Then I think I’ll repair to the forest,” said the boulder.
“He stood, in the wood,
“Where he could, do most good.”
The boulder rumbled with a voice which filled the jungle.
“Poems are made by fools like thee,
“But only I can make a tree.”
It has been my odd experience to have twice lived across the street from a huge, lighted Cross.
The first appeared to be the height of three men standing on each others shoulders. It was across a wide field and a road, from where I used to house-sit a number of occasions over the years..It was in the yard of a private dwelling, and was (so I was told) a memorial to a relative who had died in a mine disaster.
When the sun went down, it came on. Whether someone in the house turned it on, or light sensors on the edifice gauged the amount of darkness, I do not know. The street was a dead end street, so there was not a lot of traffic. However, if I so chose, I could get the full benefit of it. It shone brightly for hours onto the front of the house. And into the house if one was in one of the front rooms or bedrooms. It had a blue hue, and an unrelenting vibrancy that made one eventually think of neon. I didn’t so much think of spirituality or practicality, but did wonder at the waste.of money and resources for – let’s be honest – so little effect. I also (somewhat uncharitably) assumed that the cross did not shine forth from both sides, and the folk in the house behind it were not affected.
Then, years later, I found myself in another house, across another street, from a giant cross left alight all night. This cross did not shine directly into the house, but slanted more along the street, and not across it. It is affixed by mighty metal stanchions and stays atop a huge Evangelical church. When darkness comes, its emblazoned light can be seen across a whole city and, by my reckoning, into the hills beyond. I am not certain, but I also imagine it can be seen by ships at sea.
But, both crosses bestow upon me the light of the Lord, and I’ll happily take whatever blessings might be granted.
Shine on me.
(image) https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41r6ETelb8L.jpg
[Image of Kafka by Kafka]
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost (or destroyed) diary entries of Franz Kafka. He recorded many of his dreams. So do I.
**************
04 March 1917
I dreamed I was a prophet. The prophet Amshel, which is my Jewish name.
And, I could talk to God.
And I was looking at myself in the mirror.
And I was looking back at me. I mean, Franz was in the mirror, looking back at me – the me of Amshel – who was looking in the mirror. Except, I was as much me looking out, as I was me looking in.
The wall behind the prophet was painted red, while the one behind Franz was of brown wood. They both could raise their fists at each other, and sometimes did. In unison, of course. That was the law.
“Certainly, you may speak to God,” said Franz. “What is there in that? Everyone speaks to God – in sentences, in actions, with their lives. No one is more talked-to in the Universe than God. But what a prophet needs, is to have God speak back.”
And then God spoke, from somewhere behind the mirror, but He did not speak to Amshel. He spoke to Franz.
“You are on the wrong side,” said God.
“Speak to me,” said Amshel.
“Wrong side of what?” asked Franz.
“Of the mirror,” answered God.
“Don’t speak to him,” shouted Amshel. “He is from the world of vipers.” And Amshel raised his fist, but Franz had to hold up his fist in turn.
“I am not the prophet you seek,” said Franz, and pointed his finger at the mirror. “There is your prophet.” And Amshel was also pointing toward the glass.
“Not him – you don’t want him.” He then turned his hand toward himself. “I’m the one you want.”
But Franz was just as vehement, as his thumb arched toward his own chest. “Not me.” For emphasis, he placed his hand over his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And his words echoed those of Amshel, who also had his hand upon his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And the two faces stared at one another, their fingers clutching at the garments they wore.
But God was silent.
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