A living breathing creature.
I ask Glenn what he wants for Christmas and he tells me he wants his old life back. They do not sell this at Walmart so this then begs the question of what I'm doing at Walmart in the first place. When we measure how much people care about us by what they give to us it really seems as if the clearance isle at Walmart ought to be deserted. But here I am two days before Christmas Eve and I feel as if I'm in a clogged artery. I'm hugging the walls and everything about this place seems damp from the combined breathing and sweating of a million people wearing holiday sweaters and showing how much they care through a Black and Decker wrench set. This is depressing.
My jaw is aching from continually clenching it against my annoyance. My whole body is buzzing with energy but my mind is so tired. It's such hard work, you know, I feel like the connetive tissue of society, holding everyone's muscle to their bones, holding there skin to their muscle, holding everything together. My own body feels like it's falling apart. I'm walking on legs that aren't mine through the true commercialist winter wonderland and somewhere in the distance some dead crooner is singing about chestnuts roasting over an open fire. I need a cigarette.
My english teacher asked me why I smoked and I told her I did it to be proactive. In a volatile world of unknowns I was taking some of the guess work out of living by taking strides in figuring out what was probably going to kill me. My english teacher tsked me and told me what I was really doing was curtailing my life, cutting it short,
"Each cigarette," she said, "is a little suicide."
A little suicide? A mini death? A petite demise? Sounds kinda cute doesn't it? No, cigarettes are not a little suicide. Walmart is. Black and Decker, Chia, Farberwear, Wii, these are mini suicides. The ever tightening noose of consumerism. I still haven't found the "Old Life" isle and I've been looking for half an hour. So far I've been pushed by three ladies weaing holiday sweaters and jabbed in the ribs by one gentleman who didn't speak a word of english and was either shopping or working. I don't know which.
So how much do I care? I care enough to leave without purchasing anything at all. I can't give you what you want and there's no sense in insulting you with something you don't want. I've got nothing for you. No reasons, no answers, no piece of mind, no closure. I'll buy you a set of beer glasses and we can drink and talk philosophy then we'll be getting closer right? I'll give you my old beat up 1970's copy of "The Bridge of San Luis Ray" because it meant the world to me. I still can't give you your old life back but I'm not going to give you a wrench set because that's how much I care. I care enough to toss this stupid holiday.
It's not special. It's not crap or trash, either. It just is. It just is and what happens just happens. And God says,
"No that's not right."
Yeah. Well. Whatever, you can't teach God anything.
In my Father's house there are many mansions,
MFB