The Reliability of Myth

It's that special time of year, where once again a vocal minority of a technical majority of the Western world will be overjoyed to remind us that we the ignorant masses are mistakenly celebrating the wrong mythical person on December 25th.  Woe betide they who, in their impiety and commercialism, speak the name of Santa during this most sacred of seasons, for the only thing more loathsome are those who would are to de-Christ the celebration entirely by saying "Happy Hollidays" when they are obviously honor-bound to refer to it as The Christ's Mass (apparently, their lord is perfectly fine with contractions).

Let us forget for a moment that the historicity of this little festival is about as trustworthy as Fox News coverage of Occupy Wall Street and about as interesting as NPR coverage of whatever ornithological society minutes they happen to be reading on a Wednesday; put aside the idea that, according to the Jewish calendar Jesus would have been born during sukkot in the 7th month of the Hebrew calendar, which would have been middle of September in that year, or that a competent scientist would interpret the seasonal and astronomical clues as more like April.  Let's just talk about why children wait for Santa every year instead of Jesus: dependability.

Generations of people have been waiting for Jesus to come without avail since the first time he said he'd be right back; Santa, for all of his faults, at least puts in an appearance other than a millennial tease.  He brings presents, he kisses mommy, and even when we discover that he is just a personification of our parents attempting to maintain a little bit of childhood wonder for us even as we grow into adolescence, we happily take up that mantle and participate in the ruse for our younger siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, and eventually our own children and grandchildren because the effort always brings results: Santa comes every year, and if you do your part even remotely well by being less than simply rotten, he brings you a present.  His disappointment in you is always temporary, and even if you fuck up royally you're only jeopardizing a single season's grace rather than an eternity.  All in all, it's an entirely less heavy trip than Jesus for a child...so why is it any wonder that this is their clear preference for investing their belief every December 25th?

Maybe if you left milk and cookies out for Jesus he's stop by more often, but until then, lay off of the kids.

The Sentiment of Machines vol. 2

Congratulations on remaining within your regional carrying capacity. Records indicate that a temporal occurrence marking the termination of annual food production efforts has recently transpired. It may be your custom to express gratitude to various supernatural entities and indigenous competitors for your assured communal survival, or to reiterate grievances regarding the decimation of your culture and heritage by an agriculturally inept and technologically advanced immigrant population.  Be advised that the persecution of various meleagridinae, avoidance of normative obligations, and conspicuous over-consumption of otherwise scarce resources, while counterproductive, may be required to participate in ritual gatherings.

DNFTT

The original post was polemic,
insufferable, and academic,
but feeding the troll
when they're on a roll
is of trolldom itself endemic.

An Augur's Concern

This notion of simplicity,
itself is a complexity;
'tis difficult reconcile
in wit or wile, candor or guile,
precisely what it means to me.

This cognitive discrepancy;
the things that meant so much to me.
the resolution yet elludes,
yet recitation still intrudes
in disbelief and apathy.

This error of complicity
begat within sincerity
was undertaken with intent
of love well earned and time well spent,
and therein was felicity.

This record of intimacy
cannot divine what is to be;
it captures what the eyes have seen
and recollects what might have been:
this notion of simplicity.

Untitled

Idle thought is how it all begins,
blessing of days and the season's sins;
thoughts are like insects transfixed by pins.
The truth is reduced to words on skins
painted and stretched upon wooden frames;
intent betrayed by what purpose claims.
Everyone points, but still no one blames.
What ends in ashes begins in flames.

Summer thoughts borne by a knave in spring
never can tell what the fall will bring;
a knight in winter will always sing
of the virtue of a summer fling.
Seasons pass and we can not pretend,
or hope that the summer can extend
past the days the season will intend;
Summer thoughts die with the season's end.

What began with a flame, now but dust;
seasons must turn and the world is just
as it ought to be and as it must.
Seasons for life, birth, death, and for lust.
Summer thoughts echo in winter's night,
the ghost of a knave become a knight;
a lifetime of memories delight.
Spring is a vigil kept by that light.

For Oceanus, who is a Circle

The keel may pass o'er murky grave, 

and none the wiser none the worse

the mainsail snap and cease to wave, 

for naught a blessing nor a curse; 

The yard may break and strand us all

a hundred leagues from nearest shore;

The mists may hide the port of call

and we may miss our chance to moor.

Endeavors come, endeavors go,

and not all ships survive the sea,

But sink or sail you surely know

you are where you are meant to be.

 

In the Hands of the Anemoi

Blowing East and then blowing West, with rage and then a soft caress;.

mocking, absent, in jibe or jest, deceive then callously confess.

Adrift without, and with distressed, consigned we only acquiesce

to drown or thirst in this, our test; the winds blow not to curse or bless.