Christmas Musings

 

Chris Kemple © 2007

 

Christmas, it’s that time of year again. God, but it is a demanding time emotionally, physically and financially not to mention mental torture trying to find the right gifts.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t like to crib about it but we are all basing our friendships, the quality of them, the cost of them, the depth of them, the quantities, of them on some kid born in a straw bed in some obscure place with parents of dubious character, who they themselves didn’t even know for sure who the father was! Then they try to convince us that kings from three adjacent countries gave up their position, left their subjects and went out chasing stars so that they could meet this kid, and they called them the three wise men? Yeh right!

 

So here I am in Henry Street two thousand and seven years later milling through thousands of shoppers running around like maniacs trying to cope with the after effects of that night.

This is a guy who apparently grew up to be a local trouble maker, breaking up temples, friendly with hookers and had a good thing going with the local wine maker and the area fisheries board. He was such a trouble to his mother, she a poor innocent.

He abandoned everything, went around with a gang of about a dozen blokes, mouthing off about a new god who believed in poverty, didn’t like the rich and was very strict about sex with anyone.

 

These guys “persuaded”  everyone to give up their possessions and start looking for “Heaven” Somewhere that was full of riches but if they already had wealth what was the point in giving something up to go off looking for it again?? Wha? Idiots.

 

So here I am willing to give up my “wealth”, Pissed off that I can’t find any inspiration about how to give it away, Heaven for me, would be a place in the warm, sensual Indian Ocean for the darkest weeks of the Irish calendar, usually cold, grey, wet and windy.

But this guy had it in his head that we were to be saved from all comforts if we were to be saved for the wealth he had in his Store. Probably owned a shopping mall in the centre of town selling bread, wine and fish no doubt.

Well, ye know his “father” was a tradesman. Which was a good job with good money. A good job, even when I was growing up never mind two thousand  years ago and the way the Romans dealt with those who crossed them I’m sure he was never out of work. Poor man, works his arse off for a woman who doesn’t know who the father of his child is, claims she never had sex with anyone not even himself. Oh Oh! Neurotic or what.  That and a son who won’t work. A son who sits around drinking wine with his gang and  the local ladies of the night. Telling tall stories whilst at the same time having reflexology and foot massage with the best of oils. Now I know where the expression “well oiled” came from.

 He probably had a good deal going on oil too this eloquent entrepreneur.

I mean the locals said his father was a carpenter but he also said his father had a mansion with many rooms

Sound more like a local mafia to me. Interesting that they moved headquarters to Rome in later times.

More like local boy well connected with the ruling class.

An aspiring “Godfather” who set himself up as the local syndicate boss and irritated the powerful warlords

That plan never works.

 

This smooth tongued philosopher got himself into deep waters and ended up getting sold out by one of his gang who later “hung himself” God but the story line is so familiar.

 

Henry Street has the annual stalls set-up for the Christmas period managed by entrepreneurs of vocal eloquence. It being the only advertising strategy required.

 

“Geth deh last eh deh cheep dekorations love oneeeee toooooo uroooh”

“Toblerones, big bars ony tufifteeeee or treeee for six urooooooooh”

 

Decided to buy myself a Toblerone. My mother used to like Toblerone, I just remembered I used to buy her some at Christmas when I was a kid.

 

“Tanks luv gewant any wrappin paper? Five sheets for toooooooooh  urooooooooh”

“No thanks missus “

“OK God bless ye luv “

"Yeh, Happy Christmas to yeh"

 

"And to you and yours son"

 

“Dekorations……… get the last of the cheeeep dekorationnnnns “

“Fairy lites, onneeee ate uroooooh a box “

“Geh yer krismas wrappin papor”

 

Still haven't bought any gifts for anyone, Christ the list gets longer every year not shorter as you would expect.

I mean it’s all right I like buying presents. It’s nice to be able to give to people you like. Best part is when you fit the gift to the person. I mean it’s nice if they like it, but the best bit is the hunt.

Love walking through Henry Street in and out of the shops, especially Arnotts, turn left at Liffey Street head up to the Halfpenny Bridge. Working my way to Grafton Street via the Temple Bar, New bridges to cross nowadays though.

Just about twilight time is best. Seeing everyone out shopping, the buskers in full warming, familiar song.

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♫ So this is Christmas and what have you done another year over and a new one just begun ♫

 

God but time flies.

 

Song’s stuck in me head now.

 

♫ A merry, merry Christmas and a happy new year……………..♫

 

Stop for a coffee in the little French café, they have lovely croissants

Think about the shopping list. Don’t panic, still time to be creative with it.

Right then: ...  one at a time, let’s start with the easy ones.

 

What happened after that night in the stable? Well if you were born in those circumstances you’d certainly have social and community issues. Not to mention queer imaginings.

Probably felt your father’s rejection. Well at least from the Joseph character who seems to fade out of the story. Your mother would have been in a state of turmoil. No room for a single mother in those days. Born into an environment surrounded by sheep, cows and a braying donkey!

Wheeeyyyyyyhheeyyyy!

Not the ideal start! Still, the way our modern health system is heading I can see a return to traditional ways. I was born in a rundown tenement house which was home to a number of families. One outside toilet for all, which also doubled as a chicken coop for the owner.

 

Within modern day psychotherapy, this guy would have been branded as a schizo-effective personality as would indeed his mother. I mean he claimed he was the Son of God? Delusions of grandeur or what?

I wonder did his mother tell him his origins. Hell, if that didn’t confuse him,

 

“Now son yeh know the man I married is not your real faaador  but Son I woke up one night and this winged character, a visitor from another dimension is in me roooim. De tells me I’m pregnant with deh saviour of humanity”. I was shocked. De frightened de bleedin life ourah me. I wasn’t drunk or anhin.  I mean I never took drop in me life. An noooo, I wasn’t dreamin. Who’d believe me in this town? The winged character never came back to back up ee’s story or to make a respectable woman ourah me.

 

So I knew Joseph had his eye on me and when I knew I was carrying you, well I made my mooev.

 

He’s a good man though and he has a trade, but he’s not your real dad. Your real dad was someone special, but that’s just between you and me Son. Yer from another world. But shur look at you, yer face would send any woman into another world . That’s my son, God I’m so proud of yeh. Keep it to yerself though Son the neighbours would not understand. De’eed onnee crucify yeh if de found out, cos der terrible jealous around here.

 

 And they didn’t have television in those days!

 

 

It’s nice though to stroll down Grafton Street

 

I think the best group to watch are the young teenagers. They have the enthusiasm, energy and happy laughing, romanticised dispositions. HMV full of music seekers. The CD, a gift so full of convenience and so full of potential. Music, ah now what was that singers name I said I would watch out for?

 

That’s another thing about yor man he never married and had children. Easy for him, did he have brothers, sisters?

Did he realise the trauma for poor families at the time we “celebrate” his delivery date.

Did he ever have to come up with the goods to provide for young off-spring or family?

Too busy telling people how not to live.

 

Brown Thomas an elegant exchange venue, part of the ritual of Grafton Street.  Not to be missed at Christmas. It is the truer expression of the Mansion with many rooms. I love it’s taunting, prompting displays it’s inviting charming cosiness.

 

On to shops less diverse and specific to a minimum of products.

 

♫ It was Christmas Eve babe in the drunk tank an old man said to me won’t see another one ♫

 

Shane McGowan intoxicating genius delivering atmosphere, feeding the spending frenzy. Great song though, emotional provocateur causing the desire for belonging.

 

Grafton Street transformed into an avenue of charitable institutions extracting a generosity of sorts from the benevolent Christmas spirit thronging through at a rate of about fifteen thousand souls per hour .

 

Fund raising choristers singing the praise of the Middle Eastern Bohemian whose political martyrdom sparked a cause for opportunists to exploit since that fatal day when he crossed the system.

 

 Nowadays the singers coming from a diversity of cultures wherever his promises were spread.

Our economic boom ...? Attracting in a diversity of ethnicity. All hoping for better Christmases in the future.

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The day is drawing to a close now as the early departure homewards that is the custom on Christmas Eve begins.

Twilight entices atmosphere with the festive lighting shedding coloured light upon the milling throng.

 

Each one trying to make a statement of belonging, of thoughtful giving. Some hoping for the fairy-tale romance to happen in some gifted fashion. Others carrying home the most prized and significant gift for the partner already in place. Anticipated pleasure of the surprise giving and hoped for appreciation. Heart swelling gifts of afection of the source of the most intense of emotional bonds. Some lovers walking at a slower pace than most creating the memories of Christmas past as they strolled in hand-holding affection. People clamouring outside pubs everywhere in jovial bonding.

 

Did  yer man realise the wine miracle is repeated every year since his first trick with it.

 

 

The Irish pub at Christmas

The volume of the fermented brew downed, rising, whether Christmas is happy or not.

 

He, soon forgotten after a few rounds to be replaced by primal sensual searching. Loud enthusiastic voices, full of senseless chatter in warm, smiling delivery. Interrupted with loud interjection of mirth. Guzzling , gulping , arms in greeting, hands shook, hugging  embraces, undercurrent of spirit rising from the, swelling increasing extroversion, no more patience left  to wait for its expression.

 

Everyone complains about Christmas in one form or another, Traffic, crowds, parking, prices, exhaustion, and poverty, too much, not enough. Fact is we do it all year round.

 

But it’s at Christmas that everyone goes through an evaluation of who and what they are, what Christmas means to them. Loneliness all the more profound at Christmas because of the value we put on its festive significance. Belonging becomes an essential measure of success. An empty Christmas is a mark of failure. Almost everyone tries harder , even if it’s only a little bit for the time when two thousand years ago, when this woman who was visited upon, the woman with the trusting unassuming husband, who sheltered  in a manger to give birth to this guy who has influenced billions. The same guy who talks riddles disappears and leaves a legacy of cryptic messages that influences billions of people worldwide at the time we call Christmas.

 

I don’t know, maybe he did know what he was doing.

 

 However he wasn’t the best role model I mean he never took a job, ran around with other guys who abandoned their marriages and careers, wrecked temples, partied with hookers indulged excessive wine consumption, claimed to be able to work miracles, was thrown into prison, was tortured, forced his friends to betray him in an attempt to glorify himself, broke his mother’s heart when she witnessed his crucifixion and death. Only for him to appear a few days later in glowing health. The poor woman must have been demented.

 

“Wha was wrong with you? Were you takin drugs or wat? You promised me you wouldn’t get those body piercings. Wot were you tryin to prove? I’m after been sick wit de worreee!

I asked yeh to work with yer faador. When are yeh goin to get a proper job?

I said we had to get out of DEBT yeh eedjit, yeh never lissen.”

 

Some stories never change.

 

Anyway, shopping done, time to head home, wrap all the presents and meet the lads for a pint. Wonder will yer woman Mary be there?

 

♫Do they know it’s Christmas time a---at aaaaaaallllllllllllll♫