Joyous Yuletides

As another Christmas fades into the cascading waves of time, I find myself thinking about the Christmases it joins in the realm of the past. Just last year, the bacchanal was concluded with my father and I watching Pulp Fiction. No, it's not particularly festive watching Samuel L. Jackson pop caps in fools, nor watching Uma Thurman OD or Ving Rhames get medieval. However, with the benefit of hindsight, I've realized that some of my most cherished memories of the holiday season are those that are that discordant with the stereotypical images thereof.

I recall the family gatherings that we've had. I remember being young, running to greet my elder cousins at the door. On one occassion, my cousin embraced me in an upward bear hug, and haphazardly swung me towards the umbrella stand in the front hall. An awkward silence ensued as the vase shattered into porcelain fragments. While my mother claims no grudge, it is interesting to note that every subsequent year has seen her sequester the umbrella stand in some remote closet for the duration of the evening as some sort of pre-emptive protective measure. I recall with slightly less enthusiasm encounters with my Aunt's boyfriend, who saw these gatherings as an oppurtunity to heckle the youngest of the family (being yours truly). His claims of my homelessness (somewhat idiosyncratic coming from someone in my home) and feminine traits (what can I say; I liked my hair long back then) were met with grimacing smiles. They were also met with a flip of the bird when his back was turned and a murmured commentary that it was all well and good for him to talk about my hair while looking like he could easily pass for Lex Luthor's stunt double.

As it is still fresh in my mind from this year's largely successful attempt, I can easily recall my annual policy of forcible insomnia the night before Christmas Eve. This is a precautionary measure to ensure that the need for sleep triumphs over the typical nervous energy that accompanies the occassion and had at times left me wide awake at four in the morning without the respite of slumber. This process typically involves copious amounts of caffeinated soft drinks and thrillers (which, with the notable exception of Angels and Demons have all been generally excellent).

I still retain vivid memories of those joyous Christmas mornings. In the early days I remember finding action figures locked in pantomimed conflict on the jade boughs of the Christmas trees. It became a veritable easter egg hunt as I began to mistake ornaments for less optimum heroes. In the year that the Half-Blood Prince came out, I slumped into a week long depression after not recognizing that the grim weather of a Vancouver winter made for a potent cocktail with Dumbledore's death. That year took on a distinctly melancholy tone, but also proved to be significant given that it was the year in which I received my first rap album (Joyful Rebellion by K-os, if you're curious) and my first electric guitar, tools that would prove essential to my burdgeoning musical interests. I remember the uncontained joy at finally acquiring an Xbox after months of incessant cajoling. I also remember the uncontained torrent of profanity unleashed when it was met with the dreaded red ring of death two years later to the day.

It's this assortment of memories, imperfect but cherished regardless, that continue to preserve my love for the season. When the tree is standing, resplendent in its arboreal majesty, and the hearth is brimming with warmth, and Christmas music drifts gently through the room, I savour every moment. I savour it because I know that it will soon be locked away in this menagerie of recollection, a golden instance to be observed in the indulgence of my nostalgia. And then I'll probably watch a Tarantino flick.

superman

The man of a steel tomorrow stands guard over the sleeping metropolis
Sees through its transparent fabric, a sentry in the metallic night
From the vantage of his frozen throne
A kingdom of ice and solitude bows to his benevolent command
He is a prisoner on an inferior world
Bereft of the warm clutches of his own
He wears the disguise of a mortal man
While mortal men disguise themselves as him
In a technicolour masquerade that darkens the sky
Blotting out the dynamo of a dying star
He watches it all with tired eyes
That glow crimson with the progression of time
He is the ideal they aspire to
The pinnacle of wordly virtue, heroic ability
But despite deceptive appearances to the contrary
He is not Atlas
And he cannot carry the world in its golden splendour
Ghosts that navigate the avenues of a fractured past
Are phantoms that serve only to lead him to Doomsday

The Manuscript

"The roombot patrolled the rugged expanse of its surroundings. Its progress was slow and methodical, mechanical and calculating. Its solitary goal was to exterminate the humans. The young couple were huddled tightly in the corner, paralyzed in fear of the robotic menace that sought to ascertain their position. They shivered in unison, and with that, the vacuum found them. As they trembled, it felt only the grim satisfaction of success. The machine inched forward menacingl-" Jacob Fleetwood was halted from the conclusion of his riveting prose by the interuption of his would-be publisher James Ramirez. "This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard!" Ramirez exclaimed in a stunned disbelief. "This is dumber than...Ms. Brant, what are four things that are generally considered dumb?" His secretary was thoroughly used to such inquistions, thus was able to restrain herself from adding people who can't formulate their own comparisons to a rapid-fire list of Forrest Gump, Jersey Shore, George Bush and blondes. Ramirez pondered this briefly before informing Fleetwood that his manuscript had in fact been dumber than "a blonde Forrest Gump sniffing glue with George Bush on Jersey Shore". Jacob was struck by the realization that despite not entirely grasping that comparison, it was not exactly flattering to him. "But...but...," he stammered in feeble protestation "this is my life's work. It deserves serious consideration." He added a sir timidly, still under the impression that his manuscript could be published. Ramirez began to exasperatedly explain that the public was not clambering for a novel about an uprising of household appliances. He reiterated that it was a monumentally stupid idea, and that if the public were in the mood for something ludicrous, they could buy...Ms. Brant? His secretary wearily suggested a feather bowtie, Oryx and Crake action figures and Lil Wayne's rock album. Ramirez shrugged. He then asked Fleetwood to leave, as he had better ways to squander his precious time. He looked pointedly at Ms. Brant. She looked pointedly at a guideline on sexual harassment in the workplace. Jacob Fleetwood became desperate, his protests growing in volume, a crescendo of complaint whose vociferous nature would warrant his forcible ejection from the office.

He tread slowly over the January cement, drowning dejectedly in the ignominy of his departure. HE knew he had written a classic of science fiction, but it had proven impossible to convince publishers of its artistic validity. He recognized that while it was a work of populist fiction, it was also a cutting statement on society's technological dependence. The central unspoken theme was one of control: were we in control of our machines, or was the opposite true? However, it had been impossible to effectively articulate this to publishers, especially when they found the idea of a roombot with automatic machine guns laughable. Fleetwood on the other hand found it terrifying.

In a tired display of desperation, Jacob traipsed into a church on his way home. Seated in the pews, he gazed at the ceiling and whispered "God? It's me, Jacob Fleetwood. I know I haven't asked you for much. At least since that ten-speed bike back when I was eleven." Upon reflection, he realized that that had been Santa Claus. He apologized for the confusion. With a red face, he asked for a miracle, for publishers to recognize his literary masterpiece for its true worth. He concluded this prayer with an embarassed apology for the bicycle he'd stolen when he was eleven. He confided that God would probably have followed through on delivering the bike he had asked for for Christmas, unlike a certain fat red-coated bastard.

Across town, in Rubix3 Publishing, James Ramirez was asking Ms. Brant the three things she's most like to do with him over the weekend, with the implication of a healthy bonus if she answered correctly. Her answers were as follows: slap you in the face, tender my resignation and file a harassment suit. She had not signed up for a more lascivious Family Feud. Ramirez watched her smooth contours exit the office with open admiration. Moving in a resigned manner to his desk, he noticed that he had an unread e-mail. Opening it, he saw that it said simply, "Believe. Sincerely, God". Around him he could hear the gentle whir of his electric pencil sharpener, the static hum of his paper shredder, the smooth whistle of his coffeemaker reaching its boiling point. A roombot entered his office in a display of steeled malice. Its mission was simple: terminate the human.

Memories

I want to be wrapped in the sugarcane blanket of nostalgia
Swaddled tight as I look perplexedly at the flashing light
And in an instant, it's gone
And I'm returned to the warmth of abstract happiness
I want to sit astride my history as I pedal it downhill
Over the crisp Autumn leaves
My grandparents looking on with familial pride
I want to wade tentatively through the shallow end of my past
Smiling as the sun glances of the azure water
Holding my breath as I submerge
I want to look up the the celestial tapestry of the night in wonder
Knowing that even this far from home
I am drifting into a gentle slumber beneath the same majestic sky
I want to stumble timidly into the colossal halls in my mind
Stunned by the size of their occupants
Dwarfed by the enormity of my first day
I want to be holding my guitar for the first time
Feeling the Devil take special notice when I draw that spare iota
Of inappropriate sentiment from a distorted squeal
I want to travel through the greying photographs of my past
Until finally, I'm here
Where I belong

Reaching (A Collection of Anecdotes)

"Who was the 37th American president?" drones the quizmaster in an accented voice. "Taft?"I guess hopefully. Nope. It's NEVER Taft. I probably should have realized that by now. but I constantly hold out hope that history's fattest president will be granted the recognition he so deserves. After all, he did need a custom-made bathtub to accomodate his significant girth, a major distinction amongst his political brethren. I have time to think about this because it's a math category, and I'm absent-mindedly doodling a happy face which is imploring me to have a nice day. I lost all my mathematical ability around grade eight, and have since maintained a passing average solely through the virtue of petty bribery. C'est la vie. A french term meaning (approximately) "that's life", which by modest coincidence is the answer to the next question, which I snag quickly. When a question asking who the son of Jonathan and Martha Kent appears, I am so firmly entrenched in debate over the ridiculous nature of the question that I barely register an opponent claiming the correct answer of Superman. I contest this, bringing up the perfectly reasonable point that the Kents were childless, and that their ADOPTED son's real parents were Jor-El and Lar-El. Apparently this degree of fanboy zealotry is frowned upon in decent society. I mumble something about the prevalence of philistines, but otherwise hold my peace, as, despite evidence to the contrary, I try to subscribe tothe latter over the former. I answer with the names of great cultural figures; Jules Verne, John Milton, Sid Vicious, Kanye West. The round is a blur, punctuated by lapses of knowledge that hang over us in an amusedly guilty fog. By the end we have performed admirably, our bredth of knowledge as surprising as it is impressive. But that doesn't mean we won't continue reaching.