Another Christmas Note.

I’m worried about somebody. (Or at least let's say that I'm uncomfortably aware of her situation. Let’s avoid hyperbole.) I imagine that Christmas must be very stressful for her because of past problems and present pressures, and I’m so very fond of her.

But my daughter and her family were all together this year, which is good. Having been brought up in a household of seven they naturally gravitate to togetherness, whereas I was brought up in a household of three relatively disconnected individuals and so I gravitate naturally to aloneness because that confers freedoms which others might envy. I didn’t even meet anybody on my walk today, which is a consummation devoutly to be wished.

And on the subject of hyperbole, I intend to start examining YouTube critically with the aim of identifying those types of uploads which I refuse to watch. They’re legion, and I’ve been meaning to do it for a while. If I do manage to make the effort I might get a post out of it.

Compliments of the season or ‘bah, humbug’ as you prefer.

A Loner's Christmas.

After the morning there comes an evening

And after evening, another day

~ The Streets of Derry, Irish Traditional Song.

 

And after Christmas Eve there came a Christmas Day.

How did it seem? What tune did it play?

Dry and sunny with a cold and cutting north-easterly wind which chilled the fingers and gained access to all parts of my old house (as easterly winds always do.) Three more sojourns to the great outdoors to keep the birds’ feeding table topped up. (A robin hung around but didn’t come over to say hello.) A brief visit from Mel for tea, a mince pie, anecdotes (mostly about the ills of modern times and systems), and a fancy chocolate each from a fancy Nottingham chocolatier. A nearly new moon hanging dutifully at half mast in a clear but darkening sky at twilight. A light lunch and a vegan dinner which included the obligatory Brussels sprouts (Christmas is the only time I ever eat sprouts. I even have them with chips on Boxing Day. Weird, eh?) A little time spent doing spreadsheet work so I could play at being Bob Cratchit. A small glass of scotch whisky before dinner because Christmas is the only time I drink alcohol before midnight. No music or TV yet, and no sightings of the Lady B or any of the Shire’s first family, which is always a disappointment. (But she was hanging around a lot in last night’s dream.)

All pretty regular really. I wonder why we bother.

A Little Utterly Nondescript Something for the Season.

Another Christmas Eve has wandered sluggishly through another weary day and now is almost spent. The magic of the evening hours has succumbed to a mince pie with my mug of tea, and the expectation of tomorrow is nought but an extra glass of scotch before my dinner.

There are children in Australia, you know, who are rising to the great day even as I write, while others in California are still waiting for the magic to sprinkle its dust. I wonder how many of them consider the life they have to come, and are cognisant of the many changes they will have to embrace and maybe endure. Will they tell their own children and grandchildren of that simple, innocent time back in 2025, and will they still recall that innocence vividly when the roar of the cataract seems not so far ahead?

I’m only writing this because I’m beleaguered at every turn and wanted to write something. Does writing matter, I wonder. Does anything – even Christmas?

Hype and Ego.

Following the recent assassination of some high ranking Russian in a car bombing, two videos relating to the matter have appeared on YouTube. One leads with the statement:

Putin’s Not Safe

This is a bit redundant really because I don’t suppose Putin has ever been safe, but at least it’s commendably restrained. The second leads with:

Putin Will Be KILLED Immediately!

So is he dead yet? It does say ‘immediately.’ The creator has a picture of himself looking every bit the model of a boring but well balanced diplomat – 40ish, smartly dressed, smartly groomed, horn rim glasses… This is what makes Google and content creators rich and divides the viewers into the savvy and the tragically gullible. (I did say I wanted the internet obliterated, didn’t I?)

*  *  *

I keep on hearing a line in my head from the carol God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman, the one that runs ‘For Jesus Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day.’ How many examples of the speculative and irrational are contained in those nine words, and yet millions of people sing it heartily (I expect) every year. I don’t sing Christmas carols myself, but earlier this evening I did begin to develop a script for a comedy version of the Nativity play:

‘We bring gold, frankincense, and myrrh for the royal child,’ proclaim the wise men. ‘Myrrh?’ queries Mary. ‘Yes, my lady. Myrrh.’ ‘Myrrrrh,’ counters Mary in mocking tone, ‘sounds like the noise a sheep would make if it had a stomach upset.’

I doubt there would be any takers.

*  *  *

Best of all, though, is Dunderhead Donald’s plan to build a fleet of warships named after him. It will be called ‘The Golden Fleet’ apparently. Sounds like something an ancient Chinese emperor would dream up, doesn’t it? You really do have to laugh at that man, don’t you? Still, once Trump has gone, one way or another, I expect a lot of sailors will be usefully employed with some very big paint brushes.

An Outcry and Some Asides.

I did quite a lot of spreadsheet work today, which I always find stressful because my brain is no longer attuned to figures and formulas. I saved it as I went along as I always do, and when I’d finished I set about backing it up onto a memory stick. When I dragged and dropped it into the requisite folder, the file disappeared. Much searching led me to the inescapable conclusion that either the computer or the program had deleted all my work.

I felt I’d hit rock bottom because this sort of thing has become an almost daily occurrence over the past year or more. And so I did a simple job elsewhere and then did all the spreadsheet work again. It appears to have worked normally the second time.

Given all the malfunctions going on around me, I can attest to the fact that living in a disintegrating matrix is an enervating experience. I sometimes look forward to taking the last train out.

*  *  *

Later on I worked out that if I’m still alive on 10^th June 2026 I will have exceeded my mother’s lifespan by one day. For some reason I don’t seem to have a problem with figures if they’re related to dates.

*  *  *

I’ve decided that I would like to see the internet destroyed and for us to return to a simpler and slower way of living and communicating. It seems to me that the mad rush into an ever more technologised world is not only causing heightened stress levels, but also enabling the tech giants to become the new architects of social behaviour. And that means that the rich are getting richer and there are more people in relative poverty, which seems a bit of a backward step to me.

*  *  *

Finally, the dampness and darkness of a typically dour British autumn has led me to consider the vague notion of moving to Florida. There are several reasons why it isn’t a practicable prospect, the main one being that it’s in America.

A Rare Visitation.

I was cleaning up my living room this afternoon when I noticed a car parked at the bottom of my garden with its hazard lights flashing. I regarded it inquisitively for several seconds and then saw a small figure making its way up my garden path.

That’s unusual. You must understand that I’m a loner who rarely makes friends and never joins clubs, cults, social gatherings, church congregations, or any other situations to which the great, the good, and the not-so-good congregate. If ever I form an organised religion it will be limited to me, and will be known as the Non-Congregational Church.

So it was odd to see someone walking up my path…

It turned out to be young Bear, and the car evidently belonged to young Bear’s mother who was in the process of taking him home from school (the day being wet, you understand; they usually walk home.) You might remember young Bear from a post I made a few weeks ago. He’s the boy I mistook for a girl, largely, I assume, having been misled by his long blond Lancelot locks, the like of which are not generally favoured by young boys these days.

But that unfortunate error led me to ask his mother whether she would mind my buying Bear a chocolate selection box for Christmas. ‘Oh, he’d love that,’ said his mother as she touched my arm in approbation. (She touched it about five times actually. I’m not sure that any woman has touched my arm so many times in as many seconds in my life before, but I didn’t tremble or turn blue or do anything else which might have been considered disrespectful.)

So there you have it: I was treated to a brief visit from a young boy called Bear today. He gave me a Christmas card and a fancy tin box containing shortbread biscuits, and I gave him my meagre offering contained in an even fancier Christmassy bag. And it occurred to me that maybe young Bear might become a rare creature I can call ‘friend’ for as long as I have left.

Reverting to Trivia.

I was going to make a well thought out and carefully presented post about a matter of some gravitas tonight. I changed my mind because I’ve finally accepted that what the commentators say about the INFJ type is mostly true. However insightful and logically reasoned my opinion might be, a lot of people will read my argument through an emotional filter, come up with the wrong answer, and then cast me either as a villain or a fool. And that irritates me, so I’ll make a trivial post instead.

*  *  *

I went into my old coffee shop haunt today for a spot of lunch and a medium Americano. Young Sarah was one of the baristas and she was friendly for once. She isn’t usually. And her co-barista, who I haven’t seen before but is about the same age, was also friendly. I considered engaging them in banter again (because that’s mostly what I do with young baristas), but remembered what happened the last time I tried it. Gen Zs don’t do banter, so I stayed quiet and paid my money without comment.

And then I went into Ryman’s, the stationers, and chose an appointment calendar with which to adorn a section of the office wall next year. There was no assistant in sight in that part of the shop, and no presence of any kind at the till. Eventually I found a lone woman of around forty – definitely not Gen Z – stacking shelves and decided to give vent to my banter habit again. ‘Excuse me,’ I began, ‘would you mind taking the money for this so I don’t have to steal it?’ No return of banter, just a poker face and a slow walk to the till. Maybe she thought I was being sarcastic, which I wasn’t. See what I mean about being misunderstood?

And I didn’t bump into the other Sarah (the Lady B; the notable one) as I’d hoped, so I couldn't ask whether she had a Christmas tree. But then, it was very dull and depressingly wet, which probably explains everything.

(I seem to have developed a taste for trivial posts again. I wonder whether that’s a good or a bad thing.)

The New Power Bases.

I watched a YouTube video last night in which a content creator talked of the changes Google are planning for the platform starting next year. Much of it was for the benefit of other creators, but some related to users as well. It was all couched in terms familiar to those steeped in the mentality of business models, and so even though I understood the words easily enough, most of the meaning went over my head. Since I’m not a YouTube creator, I don’t suppose it matters very much.

What does matter to me is the impression it left me with. I have an increasing sense that the big tech companies are becoming the prime architects of modern civilisation, just as the corporations and banks are taking over the modus operandi of modern living. And it’s all in the name of profit, to make the tiny number of insanely rich people even richer.

I ask myself how much further this can go. Will the presidents and politicians wake up and change the system to benefit the many, or will it take a cataclysm of horrendous proportions? I look at history and understand how the conduct of a life has changed immeasurably, in some ways for the better, but still have to ask myself: ‘for whose real benefit’?

My Latest Good Idea.

I just got the idea for my next novel:

Alien spores drift through the atmosphere, turning the population from rampant acolytes of the God of Consumption Mania, and into enlightened beings in the Buddhist mould (rather like those pot-bellied figurines with Chinese eyes which people call Buddhas but actually aren’t.) Suddenly they become supremely uninterested in the folly of Samsara and turn instead to the process of leaving the wheel of life, death, and rebirth behind. A bit like an inverted Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Imagine what that would do to the economy.

I’m not going to write it, of course, because I’m too old and too lazy. Applications for the copyright are invited.

Coincience and an Unfamiliar Twinge.

I was reading today about the two mass shootings which were prominent in the international news, those at Bondi Beach in Sydney and Brown University in Rhode Island. I felt connected to them, you see, because during the last fifteen years since I started writing this blog a number of women rose to very high rank on my list of important people. One was the priestess who was born and raised in Sydney and lived there for most of the duration of our correspondence, and another was Madeline (aka The Borg) who completed her PhD at Brown. I wondered why fate should connect me with two tragedies, albeit a long way removed.

And then this afternoon something odd happened, which might or might not be connected. So let’s go back some years to when I was still a relatively young man (playing to dear old Dickens here.)

Christmas, the celebration of… The last time I had a Christmas tree in my house was in 1989, and the first Christmas I ever spent alone was in 1990. (The connection should be obvious.) I felt a slight sense of trepidation at the prospect of spending Christmas alone for the first time in my life, but I needn’t have worried. I discovered that I liked it. I think it was the first intimation I had that I was really a loner at heart; that having only myself for company was both freeing and lacking the pressure to contribute and belong. And over the intervening years Christmas gradually faded to a matter of little or no consequence.

But this afternoon, after reading about the shootings and being made aware of the imminent arrival of Christmas by various media, I suddenly felt lonely. And the first thing that occurred to me was the desire to bump into the Lady B and ask: ‘Do you have a Christmas tree in your house?’

I suppose it must indicate that some part of my consciousness still accepts that togetherness has value after all. Can’t think of any other reason why I should suddenly be made prey to such an unfamiliar feeling.