centre of the universe - the dreaming

Labels: Christmas, His Nibs, More Chins Than A Chinese Phone Book, Pictures

"King Harod," says the first, "is not interested in a Messiah."
"He is afraid he'll be dethroned by the King of the Jews," says the second. "Murder," says the third, slowly shaking his head.
The first Magus rises to his feet. "Every firstborn son in Jerusalem," he begins nervously, "is to be killed."
The second Magus ...says, "His men are even now, searching for..."
"innocents," states the third.

"Who ARE you freaks?" Joseph blurts as the blood drains from Mary's face.
"When the Rabbis have circumcised Him," begins the first Magus after a brief incredulous glare,
"and named Him," continues the second, who has hidden the hookah in the folds of his robe, "we shall present Him with..."
"Gifts," says the third, who is now outside the barn.
Mary leans against the wall. "This is just freaking PEACHY," she gasps. "What the hell are we going to do?"
"We have to find a Rabbi," Joseph says absently.
"Bugger the Rabbi!" Mary shrieks. "How long do you think it will take Herod to find the damned sign at the damned Inn?"
"My family lives here, Mare. I'll find a Rabbi tonight." Joseph pockets a few coins and closes the door behind him.
"Well, fuck," Mary says as she sinks down into the straw to nurse her baby.

"Okay," Joseph pants as he bursts in the door. "Rabbi will do the brit milah the day after tomorrow!"
Mary is nervous. "Two days!? What are we going to do until then? That stupid sign will have every one of Herod's men here by dawn!"
Joseph runs his hand through his hair. "We could ask to stay with my cousins!" Mary's nervous glance turns to a glare. "You have cousins in Jerusalem and I gave birth in a fricken' BARN?"

Mary has That Look again. "See, it's like this: my cousins are my mother's cousin's aunt's kids, so it's not - look. You said 'stop now or I'll stab you with a stick'. I did what you said. They live all the way over on the other side of the city." Mary sighs. "Whatevs. What if Herod finds us before then?"
Joseph grins.... "Derek and Gerald are posted outside. If they see anyone, they're going to hide us in the fields."

"How will the Magi find us?" Mary asks later, when the baby is sleeping.
"Who?" Joseph asks, as he eyes up a couple of beams for a cradle.
"The MAGI, Joey. The Zoroastrians?"
"Huh?"
"The guys in fancy dresses."
"OH! Those weird dudes! I dunno. They'll probably follow that big flashing star that hangs around wherever the kid is."
"The...big...flashing...star..." Mary's face turns ashen white.

"DUDES!" Derek cries from just outside the barn. "Have you seen that creepy flashing STAR lately? I bet it's scaring the crap out of all the other shepherds!"
"Bad time, Derek," Joseph shouts, staring as Mary sinks heavily into the straw beside the manger.
"It's SO BRIGHT!"
"Not now, Derek," Joseph grits his teeth.
"We're gonna be able to see Herod's flunkies for MILES!" Mary and Joseph exchange a surprised glance.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, King Herod beats a servant. "You will do as I command!" he screams, his face purple. "I don't care WHAT'S happening in the sky! I want you to get out there..." he pauses as the servant expires. Quite rude of the filthy knave, Herod thinks, as he hollers for another servant. The one good thing about being king is of course an endless pool of servants to beat and firstborn sons to murder.

A little-known fact about the 7th day of Christmas is that it's the day Mary and Joseph spent at the Jerusalem library checking out the latest Tom Clancy novel. Herod's men didn't think to search the library. Mary gave up on Tom Clancy and checked out some "cooking in the desert" books by early evening.

"There we go!" Rabbi announces. "Just a little off the top, ha-ha! Have you chosen a name for the child?"
"Yes," Mary says reverently.
"It's not Derek OR Gerald!" Joesph proclaims proudly.
"Notderekorgerald?" The Rabbi asks.
"JESUS!" Mary shouts. "Just name him Jesus!"
"Has either of you ever heard the name, 'Immanuel'?" asks a familiar deep voice from a darkened corner of the temple.

"It is the name by which we know the Messiah," says the second Magus.
"Messiah!?" The Rabbi shouts, "what **Messiah**!"
"Um," Joseph says, glancing around nervously.
"What, this Jesus baby? That's putting the cart before the horse." The Rabbi laughs with derision.
"Wait," the third Magus whispers, and his voice fills the room.

"Wait!?" the Rabbi sneers, "I've been *waiting* for a thousand years. I'll *wait* for a thousand more if I must. Messiah." He scoffs and offers a quick blessing before he leaves the temple, shaking his head.
"Quickly," the first Magus says quietly, emerging from the shadows, "You must leave this place."
"It is no longer safe for you in this city," says the second.
"Herod," says the third, his voice full of disgust.

"We have brought gifts," the first Magus gently guides Mary by the elbow.
"They will help you on your journey," the second Magus walks at Joseph's side.
"Frankincense," the third Magus whispers as they pass him at the temple door.
"I've heard of gold..." Mary says.
"Very dear commodities," the first Magus answers.
"...In very high demand," says the second.
"Sacred," finishes the third, who closes the temple door.

Mary and Joseph follow the Magi through Jerusalem. "Frankincense is used by holy men; you can use it to pay them, should you need a hiding place in their temples," the first Magus says.
"Myrrh is sacred in Egypt and in Rome. You can trade it for money in either place," says the second.
The third Magus steps forward and removes the veil from his face. He holds out a silk bag that seems very heavy. "Gold," he says.

And so Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus join the Magi's caravan, their gifts wrapped in sackcloth and packed in their saddlebags. The caravan exits Jerusalem and begins the long trek across the desert. As they exit the city, the Magi announce: "Behold! The Lord God made man. Immanuel, who is called Jesus!" Everybody in the caravan bows their heads. In the distance, the screaming of mothers can be heard.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: Christmas, stories, true story

It came to pass that a Sodom of Shepherds were elbowing each other in a tiny barn. Joseph was passing out cigars; Mary was glaring.
"Dude! What're you going to name him?"
"We were thinking maybe Derek," Joseph says, puffing away.
"We are NOT naming Him Derek", Mary spits.
"Derek is a great name!" Joseph replies.
"Yeah, Dude, that's *my* name!"
"We are NOT naming the Messiah Derek," Mary says through gritted teeth.


"How about Gerald?" someone says. A lamb bleats plaintively.
"Right," Mary smooths her skirt. "Thank you all for coming. We have a name chosen. You will learn it in" she appears to check the time, "five days. Go Away." She folds her arms over her chest and watches them self-consciously file out. She sighs heavily. "Thank God that's over," she mutters.
"Shalom," rumbles a deep voice in the dark doorway "We are here"

"Joey, as God is my witness..."
"Whoa, Mare, I totally don't even know these dudes."
"Then who?"
"Zoroastrian Magi, milady," the deep voice replies.
"Who, with the what now?" Joseph stutters.
"Magi, sirrah," a second voice answers. "Followers of Zarathustra. We have come to see the Anointed One."
"Goyim?" Mary asks.
"Hardly," a third voice answers. The shadows begin to move.

"Shalom," Mary says. The rustle of robes betrays the Magi's movements. Shadows unfurl into brilliant satin colours: purples, reds, blues, and layers of cotton in shades of sand and sky.
"His birth was foretold", the first Magus' voice deep as night.
"By Messengers from...", the second's voice is like pebbles dropping into water. "Heaven." The third Magus finishes.
"WHERE are you dudes from?" Joseph asks.

Mary sighs deeply and rolls her eyes. "I hope you don't mind...er...sirs?...but you see, I've only just recently given birth, and..."
"Ah," the first Magus gasps, drawing back slightly.
"You are..." the second continues.
"Unclean," says the third.
"NO," Mary insists. "I'm TIRED. Could you come back tomorrow?" The Magi bow deeply and seem to simply disappear from the barn.

"With all these visitors, SOMEBODY might have offered us a place to stay that doesn't have...poop...on the floor." Mary says, yawning.
"Wait," Joseph says. He cradles his wife, who cradles the Son of God, and spreads his robe on the straw behind her.
"Thank you," Mary says, eyes glistening.
Joseph sighs. "I just wish...the kid LOOKED like me, you know?"
"He'll be a carpenter, just like you," she replies, smiling.
"Yeah," Joseph whispers in her ear as she closes her eyes. "A solid education in nails and wood is a fine way to make a living."
For reasons she would not understand for 33 years, Mary shivers at Joseph's words.

Mary's been able to bathe in the trough, and now that her bleeding has stopped, she wants a proper bath. Joseph asks at the Inn. "He, uh, said you could go and bathe there."
"What is it?" Mary asks.
"You'll see," Joseph says. Mary tucks Baby God into her sling and tentatively approaches the Inn. She frowns when she spies a newly-painted sign dangling above the door: הבית של מלך היהודים

After the washing-up, Mary returns to the barn, where she finds Joseph inhaling smoke from a hose attached to a fancy pot. Sitting opposite him, on three low milking stools, are the Magi in their jewelled satin robes. One wears a rolled turban, one wears a veil over his face, and one wears a sort of crown. The fancy pot makes a bubbling sound every time they inhale. Each of the Magi rises to bow at her entrance.

"Greetings, Most Holy Mother," says the one with the deep voice.
"Blessings upon thee," says the second Magus.
"Shalom," says the third. Mary bows her head in return.
"We have been to see the King," the first Magus says sadly.
"There is news," the second shakes his head.
"Terrible news," the third finishes as he coils the hose over the fancy pot.

Labels: Christmas, stories, true story

Just about [dinner time on the 24th], [Mary's] contractions would have started in ernest. "Joey," she might have said, "I have to get off this blody donkey."


They sugar-coat it in the Gospels, but Mary was actually pretty testy. There wasn't any "and it came time for Mary to be delivered"; it was all "get me the eff of this effing donkey before I stab you in the eye with my cloak pin!" and Joseph was all, "But Maaaary...they said they have no vacancies." And Mary was all, "...I swear to God, Joey, if you don't get me down off this beast, YOU can bear His firstborn."

...and so then Mary says, "HHHHNNNNNGGGGNNNNN". And Joseph wrings his hands a bunch. Because no matter what you might have read, women do have pain during childbirth (thanks for THAT one, Eve). And then Mary's all, "I can't do this anymore." And Joseph is all, "Oooh! I remember this from our prenatal class!" And Mary's all, "Screw you, Joe." And Joseph is all, "I wish."

After all the pushing and the gushing, Joseph ties the kid up in strips he tore off his dress. Mary says, "Give. Me. That.", and she yanks Baby God away and leans back in the straw with him. "So, um, that was pretty cool, hey?" Joseph says, glancing at the door. "What?" Mary asks, nearly asleep. "Well, it's just that......I invited some of the guys over..." The bible doesn't tell you about The Look she shot at him then.

"You twat," Mary growled under her breath. "First you drag me halfway across the Delta because YOUR FATHER happens to be of the CLAN OF DAVID and you have to pay TAXES here, when I'm pregnant an in labour, and now...and NOW..." her voice has risen to a screech, "you want me to ENTERTAIN YOUR BUDDIES!!??"

"Wull," Joseph says, glancing at the door. 

"IN A BARN!!??" she shouts.

"Look," Joseph clenches his teeth and growls back. "I agreed to marry you when nothing bigger than a blood clot had travelled through your...well. I agreed to marry you. Then some guy on fire descends out of the sky and tells me you're knocked up with the Messiah, and I'm supposed to be all, 'oooh, Huzzah!', which is FINE, but when I invite a few of the guys over afterward, the least you can do is try to understand."

"FINE." Mary glares at him.

"Fine." Joseph glares back. 

"Dudes?" someone asks from outside the barn. "Is this a bad time? We saw this big, flashing light, and we were all, like, freaked out, man..."

Mary sighs. "Let the idiots in," she says. "Some day, I'm sure the baby will bless them for being idiots."


Later, when the little kid with the drum finally quit playing, Mary just wanted to sleep, what with the childbirthing and the shepherds, and she was all, "Joey, how much longer are they going to stay? I'm exhausted." And Joseph was all, "I think that drummer kid is just about done. One of the shepherds is giving him some lamb chops to shut him up." And this is how Christmas Day *really* ended.

Labels: Christmas, religion, true story

There are times when, according to some folks, Yours Truly is fairly laid back about many things. In most things, I usually try to not let things stress me out. I've heard a rumour that many people feel stress and panic and fear and anger and misery and all sorts of things at this time of year. I guess that makes sense. There is a certain push to celebrate one of the biggest gift-giving/family seasons of all year, and if you're not celebrating, you're a big poop. That's what they say, you see.

After I turned about 16 (and therefore was a horrible gorgon for the following 5 -7 years), I wasn't much in favour of Christmas, and it was one of the things that stressed me out rather a lot. With the exception of getting to spend time with my young cousins and my uncles and aunts, there wasn't much I liked about it. I wasn't religious...I didn't believe in God, in fact.  I didn't much like not going to school, we were always away from my friends, and my parents usually were only together for a day, and it seemed like they regretted even that time together. And then there's other baggage.

We often travelled at Christmas. When I was 17, we went on the family vacation on which National Lampoon based one of its more famous movies about traveling with your family.

These were no innocent days of tender falling snow and lights merrily twinkling away among hoar-frost dappled trees. At our Christmases, Santa only came to the house after all the liquor was gone. But that was *normal*, you see. That's the way it had always been. It didn't seem bad or wrong until the year when I was 17.

But there was always something decidedly lovely about Christmas, even when I was a gorgon and my mother and I couldn't be in the same room without screaming at each other. And, as these things go, I knew it instinctively when I was Very Young, and then promptly forgot about it until the second and subsequent Christmases after Mum died. There is the sense of being together; we were *always* together on Christmas, with the exception of one year in 32, I spent every Christmas with my family.

I would come home, and the dusty artificial tree that was stored in the rafters above the garage would be decorated and twinkling. Gifts were always placed underneath, and I knew there would be closets filled with other gifts that would not come out until the last person in the house had gone to bed. I get to be romantic about it now because there is distance between being a gorgon and being a mother myself; between now and then. Distance between me and Mum.  There is an insurmountable, vast distance between Mum and I, and it is a distance that is largest at this time of year.

Once, when I was 11, I came home after school absolutely livid. I'd got into a fight at school and beaten the tar out of a kid who laughed at my best friend Sarah and I when we were talking about Santa. The kid had ridiculed us for 'still believing in Santa'. "What are you, BABIES?" he'd cried. And then he burst into tears because I punched him in the throat.

I needed my mother to validate, if not what I'd done, then WHY I'd done it. "He's wrong, isn't he, Mum?" I said, sobbing. "There IS SO TOO a real Santa. Isn't there?"

My mother, who was tiny, gathered me up on to her lap (which was pretty near the same size as my own lap), and she said, "Do you believe in the wind?"

"What?" I snurgled.

"Do you believe in the wind?" she asked again.

"I'm talking about SANTA!" I wailed.

"I know. We'll get there."

"Of COURSE I believe in the wind."

"Why?" She asked.

"That's a stupid question," I answered. Lippy even then, you see.

"Well, can you SEE the wind?" She asked.

"Well, no...but you can see what it does to trees and stuff."

She nodded. "And can you TOUCH the wind?"

"No, but you can feel it," I said.

"Well, she said, Santa's the same way."

I didn't follow. "I don't follow," I said.

"Do you believe in love?" She asked me.

"Of course I do!"

"Can you SEE love?"

"Well," I pondered, "No, but you can see the effect it has on people."

"Can you TOUCH love?" She asked. Even then, sometimes I had to be led to conclusions.

"No, but you can feel it," I said.

"Well, Santa is made from the expressions of love that we give to one another. Santa is real as long as you believe in love."

Which is very tender and sweet and utterly blasphemous if you're relgious, but from that day to this, there has never been any question in my mind at all about whether or not Santa exists. God is a different story, but I've always understood the way *SANTA* works. Mysteriously, there were *always* gifts under our tree, gifts for every person there on Christmas morning, even people who were unexpected guests, from Santa. Strangely, Santa's handwriting used to be an awful lot like my mother's, but that seems to have changed somewhat in the last six years.

I have never felt so alone as I did the time I realised, after Mum died, that there would be no gifts from Santa in my stocking that year. Not an orange, not a lump of coal...nothing. I knew there were gifts from Santa for everyone else, but that my Santa gifts were much more ephemeral. More important. Longer lasting. Requiring no batteries. Much, MUCH more difficult to hold.

Inasmuch as one's attitude toward secular Christmas changes when one has children (you could hate Christmas all you like, but once you've seen how excited your kids get when there's a tree, and lights, and candy canes, and wrapped presents (even if they're just presents you plucked out of the toy box from last year because they've forgotten about them), it's really tough to hate the season when you're part of the joy it brings), I think it's really been in the last six years I've truly understood why Mum's favourite season was this one.

You can't replace people, and you shouldn't try. So there are things I don't do (the stupid Crackers and hats, for one), and there are things I do that Mum never did (church). But, and forgive me for the way in which this is phrased...

Jesus Christ, I miss you, Mum.

Labels: Christmas, Mum

*Terribly* good in fact. I have been SO good, that I believe I ought to receive a grain-burning stove. And a million dollars' worth of renovations to my home. And a current pool. And time - time to traipse up to Hometown North and pick up my dining table, buffet, vanity, and bureau drawers. Time when it isn't a million below so that the wood won't crack. Time to actually *clean* the house rather than hide the mess. (Although, on the character sheet of "cenobyte", mess-hiding is one of the higher-ranking skills in which I have points. I shall post that character sheet some day for you.)

I would like someone to cook for my family, not because I don't like to cook, but because if someone else does it for me, I'll eat the vegetables. I eat salad if it's done by someone else. I love salad!

I would also like some dust repellant. bleah.

Then, if there's enough wishes left to go around, and in that vein of time/home renovations, I would like someone to help me redo my kitchen. And by 'redo', I mean paint. And where can one find tin ceilings these days?

Oh, and the obligatory love and respect for all the peoples of the world, a lot of hand-holding and humming indistinct tunes in the semi-darkness of a bonfire.

On a completely unrelated note, I was at a wedding last night. I couldn't tell you who the couple were, but there were an awful lot of people at the wedding that I knew, which is always nice. It was held in Saskatoon at the Bessborough hotel, where, in the ballroom, they have these enormous water canons that shoot water fifty feet into the air and can be programmed to match the music in the room. There are lights sunk into the floor as well, surrounding the water canons, which make a glorious show during the reception.

A fellow I went to school with was there - he's now a policeman, and we talked about all kinds of things. And when we retired to our respective rooms, we discovered our rooms were adjoining, by a single door in the back of the closet, which locked on each side. I won't mention what sorts of things this door led to, because that would involve my not having woken up.

Labels: Christmas, dreams, Wishes

to the tune of "Greensleeves":

What guy is this who deigns to doze
upon my couch is resting
whom children greet with cheers and shrieks
and cats are plainly ignoring?

This, This is cenobyte's Da,
whom cats ignore; the kids' Papa.
This, this is cenobyte's Da
upon the couch is sleeping.

to the tune of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen"
The cat is in the turkey
my husband's in the rye!
Kids have been viewing kung fu shows
since seven-thirty-five!
The tree's lopsided; the sink's a mess, and the laundry isn't dry!
Oh-oh tie things like ribbon 'round my neck, 'round my neck! Oh-oh tie things like ribbons 'round my neck!

to the tune of "Silent Night"

Eggnog and rum, Cola and rum,
Seven and rum! Juice and rum!
Shots of whiskey; shots of rye.
shots of vodka and glasses of wine.
Sleep in hazy peace;
Sleep in drunken peace.

Merry Christmas everyone. I made some songs for you.

Labels: Christmas, music, rum

Not in *general*, because pretending *in general* is a good thing.

But specifically, let's just stop pretending either that Christmas is a secular event or that Christmas is not a secular event. Let's get all our horses going in the same direction here, before the waggon spills our flour all over the trail.

Either Christmas is a time of sharing, giving, togetherness, and reflection/meditation/prayer regardless of whether you believe in the Great Heebie Jeebie or not, or if you do, how you worship him/her/it/them, OR Christmas is none of the above and shouldn't be celebrated at all.

Face it. The word "Christmas" has lost its meaning. It's become the Great Hallmark™ Consumer Sales Push, regardless of your religion (or disregard thereof), denomination ($100s won't be accepted because of counterfeit bills in circulation), or culture (whatever's in the fridge that USED to be eggnog. Last year). We all pretend like there's this great love of humanity and love for one another that surfaces during the third week of December for some magical reason, but ultimately, we all know the truth. Behind that forced smile is a cuss word waiting to leap out of your mouth.

I know...I KNOW! I have it too.

So I don't get what the big deal is with people getting all irate if their kid's school does or doesn't mention Jesus or the Menorah or Muhammed or freaking Ras smoking gange on a beach. IT DOESN'T MATTER, people. The only "reason for the season" is to boost the economy. You know it; I know it...the Prime Minister knows it. Everyone knows it. Oh sure, you get all teary-eyed when you watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas, but that's just nostalgia. You're in line with everyone else buying that CD or DVD or fancy pair of underpants.

And there's nothing wrong with it, really. Boosting the economy is a good thing, right? Because if we spend more, the government tells us, the economy will roll over and we'll be out of this recession. That's all it takes. Just one person to buy another fridge magnet that says some derogatory thing about men in the kitchen. It really does matter if you shop, Johnny, because even your five dollars counts!

This is so much easier to sell than 'you should vote because it matters', isn't it? Because there's instant gratification. I know how hollow and pointless your life would have been had you not received a package of razors in your stocking. Folks running the country claiming parliamentary democracy is illegal? Doesn't matter. What matters is that the ten-spot you dropped on flavoured coffee for mum-in-law is going to be packaged up and left under the counter along with the flavoured hot chocolate from last year. The rum always seems to go, though...odd.

The kids *need* to have presents under the tree, otherwise they'll feel left out, or marginalised, or it won't be as much fun. And just remember, when you were little, *you* always had presents under the tree, and we couldn't afford much back then, but we always managed to scrape together enough for a new pair of socks, though what we'd have done if Old Mrs. Murphy up the street hadn't been able to knit them from the remnants of Granddad's ratty old blanket, I don't want to think about. You know, our feet all went cold the year she had a stroke and couldn't purl anymore.

So do it for your country! For the good of your family! For your children's well being! Buy that stir stick with reindeer horns! Shell out some dough for the latest edition of Pretend To Be In A Band software! And wrap it all up in brightly coloured wrapping paper that was made from trees harvested in Canada and sold for less than their market value to mills in other countries who underpay their employees and overprice their products. Because that's what Christmas really means, isn't it? You're not up in arms because your kid's school made wee Arthur sing about baby Jesus. You're not upset because it's so hard to find a good Menorah these days. It hasn't anything to do with the marginalisation (nay, vilification) of Ramadan. It's about how you're pissed off because the asshole in the Dodge stole the parking spot you've been waiting for for two minutes outside the store that just sold the very last one of the latest Whores 'R' Us Bratz™ doll that your sister's new husband's daughter's niece said she'd DIE if she didn't get. Guess you'd better stop at the funeral home to pick out a nice coffin.

So let's just stop the lies. It hasn't anything to do with religion. You know it and I know it. We could debate for hours about how the Christians tagged their own brand of lunacy on to solstice celebrations. We could argue about how **ACTUALLY** the fir trees used to decorate our homes are **ACTUALLY** representations of the boughs of cedar the druids used to use to celebrate being blind drunk in the middle of winter and how the actual reason we light the Menorah has nothing to do with the rededication of temples and pressing olives, but how that tradition was STOLEN from some EVEN OLDER group of worshippers who lit each other on fire because it was so Goddamned cold outside for eight straight days. In fact, we could argue about pretty much anything, but let's just make it easier on ourselves.

This is the shopping season. That's it. That's all there is to it. We call it "Christmas" because it's convenient, and because deep down inside, we like to argue about what it all means. It is the culmination of the 11 months of credit card payments we've been making throughout the rest of the year, and it prepares us for the upcoming 11 months of credit card payments we will continue to make. It is the season that reminds us that we give gifts to make other people feel shitty about not having got you anything; the season of one-upmanship.

So here's to dirt in your eye, my friend.

Merry One-Upmanship Season.

Labels: Christmas, consumerism, dirt in your eye, rants