Christmas Spirit, part 1
It's getting to be Christmas-time; as a result, Grandma is home; as a result, my belly is full of delicious gnocchi. I call your attention to the interesting etymology of "gnocchi" (see link), and also that it is a very funkily spelt word: note the initial "gn-", which is always a thrill, paired with the rare "cch" in the middle. I love it. And, consequently, I love my Grandma, and, to a lesser extent, Christmas-time.
That's probably not how it should work. But, thankfully, I'm kidding. But does even my capacity to make such a joke ("joke" may be too generous?) point to tragic character flaws in me?
I'd rather not dwell on them (potential character flaws), because I've spent today wrestling with and suppressing the urge to communicate thoughts along those lines (and other troubling ones) all day so as to better appreciate the Christmas spirit and not spoil it for anybody else.
"Christmas spirit," however, is kind of a sham.
I mean, a dinner of Grandma's gnocchi with all of us gathered around the table was Christmasy; Mom getting slightly more intoxicated than usual and complaining loudly and energetically about the mediocrity of the fondue at her sister's renewal of vows ceremony as Grandma sat silent and...serene?...but also possibly judgmental? I don't know. It was odd. We are a family with a lot of good cheer, but it's good cheer borne out of satire--often self-satire--often gentle, Horacian satire--but irreverent satire nonetheless. We (and to some extent I mean Mom, my sister, and I, moreso than Dad) don't have a high tolerance or capacity for the ideal--we, by nature, attend to imperfection, partly because (this is projection) we are uncomfortable with purity, with saying that something is wholly good. Is that querulousness, word-of-the-day noters? Does that make me judgmental? I've written that and look back on it uncomfortably because I feel like I am praising myself, because to me these traits are (pretty much, with moderation) virtues--to never be satisfied, to always seek improvement, to be irreverent in the face of everything because nothing deserves the complete surrender of one's critical mindfulness. But to other people this is a really terrible thing--maybe they will not see this as bragging, which is good, and instead as confessing, which is fine, because it's closer to informing, which is, ideally, what I'd be doing if my communication wasn't poisoned/empowered by actual emotions and intent.
Where was I? Oh, the point was that while some of this almost certainly comes from Grandma, she is one to hold some things in reverance, and may not approve of our snotty way of criticizing everything. However, we, the nuclear family, laugh a lot. In the destruction of icons (projecting). And since Christmas is largely a holiday of iconography, this isn't particularly a "Christmas Spirit" event; however, it's sanctioned, maybe, by the...what...true spirit of Christmas? Which is joy and family time, however cynical?
As I'm writing this, I realize that today was still two days before Christmas, and that things might well change as I immerse myself further in symbolism. Tomorrow, I will go to church for the first time in a long time. Curry Ford, the old, old patriarch who was so happy that I was taking up philosophy and whom I went back to church for, so as not to disappoint, is now dead. (He lived what can only be described as a good life--not in a moralistic sense especially, mind you, except to the extent that that is synonymous with the eudaemonistic life, which is really what I meant. I don't believe he had any regrets--amor fati. Although I'll never forget when he was invited to say some words during a church service on, I think, Father's Day, or his Nth birthday or wedding anniversary, when he said that his chosen way to die was at the age of 97 at the hands of a jealous lover.)
Long parentheticals are not kind to you, I'm afraid. Where was I? Curry Ford is dead. So I won't get that joy out of church, so instead it will be awkward run-ins with people that think they know me because they watched me during my childhood, and people with suave, plastic, New Canaan-nurtured small talk skills that never fail to trip me up and make me demonstrate to them my awkwardness and out-of-placeness, which in turn makes them feel that, out of generosity, or out of social kindness, more small talk is required, to make me feel comfortable--what a mess.
And, oddly, this has always interfered with church, for me. I mean, during the period of my life when I really wanted to go to church for...it's hard to admit these things now...spiritual reasons; when I really felt touched by singing some hymn in minor in a dark sanctuary--all that was once, and for all I know may still be, compelling, and I might trick myself again into believing in the presence of God....
I don't want to get into this right now. Maybe later. But the point is that even when I had more religious or spiritual leanings, they were solemn/sublime in nature, not social. So the chatty church-goer, who profanes the sacred by leaving the service socially energized, as opposed to contemplative and introspective, didn't make sense to me.
I'm being inconsistent. Do I, or do I not, tolerate, or even embrace, something as sacred? (This came up a lot last year with Michael Prospect and the silent-but-always-listening Toxie).
The synthesis, I think, is that the critical eye, the will to spoil sanctity for the sake of some unacknowledged good, is the last sacred thing. "From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild beast gazeth out of his seriousness- an unconquered wild beast! ... Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth in his mouth. To be sure, he now resteth, but he hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine."
I'm getting way off topic. I want to talk about Christmas.
Specifically, I want to talk about listening to Christmas music, and the different styles of my parents. My Dad prefers choral pieces, live recordings of concerts, sometimes ones he's sang in. While he listens, he makes unnecessary, disclaiming comments when he hears something that offends his refined tastes--tastes I have never bothered to cultivate; I can't detect any difference in quality. He does not take kindly to our laughing at this music, or at particularly noticeable idiosyncrasies of this music which we (the others--except for silent Grandma) satirize. Mom responds at the end of the CD with Bing Crosby's Christmas hits. Dad is disparaging about Bing's diction: pronouncing t's as d's or not at all. (It's just a dialect difference.) Mom and Grandma come to his defense: "He's not a choral singer, he's a crooner. He sounds so easy-going" {implied: choral singers sound uptight}
To my sister and I, all Christmas music is hackneyed. If you actually listen to the lyrics, sometimes they're disturbing:
Up on the housetop
Click, click, click
Down thru the chimney with
Good Saint Nick
Next comes the stocking
Of little Will
Oh, just see what
A glorious fill
Here is a hammer
And lots of tacks
Also a ball
And a whip that cracks
Me: A whip that cracks? What's that doing there.
Mom: Sounds like some S and M made it into this song.
(laughter)
Mom: Tells us something we didn't know about Mrs. Claus.
(laughter)
(Grandma silently staring off into space, throughout.)
---------------
There is so much more to this line of thought, but I am too tired to write it. Which is disappointing, because there are things that carry over from the beginning to the end, I was discovering as I was planning this in my head.
I'll try again tomorrow. Which is today. Christmas Eve.
I declare this Christmas post #1--I'll name it something along those lines when I copy it from Notepad to the -ive-ournal form.
I'm happy now, though, because in writing this I've forgotten about some of the stuff that's bothered me periodically all day. Now I am more at ease--but I fear that this is true largely because what I had thought was certain, "conclusive," at the end of last night, was shown to be uncertain again. That means that while I was before faced with an internal contradiction, it's softened--the truth values, or level of confidences, in the conflicting beliefs (values?) is now lower, and more tolerable. Unfortunately, this only works because somebody else has internalized the contradiction, and are, I imagine, suffering from it now. The equilibrium, I fear, is perpetual uncertainty; as soon as I come to terms with that, then I will be certain again and the burden will be mine. But I don't want to dwell on this; I want to save Christmas. None of this should make any sense to you, by the way, except probably if...yeah. This is now no longer meant for consumption, but a leak in my inner monologue.
I plug it now.
That's probably not how it should work. But, thankfully, I'm kidding. But does even my capacity to make such a joke ("joke" may be too generous?) point to tragic character flaws in me?
I'd rather not dwell on them (potential character flaws), because I've spent today wrestling with and suppressing the urge to communicate thoughts along those lines (and other troubling ones) all day so as to better appreciate the Christmas spirit and not spoil it for anybody else.
"Christmas spirit," however, is kind of a sham.
I mean, a dinner of Grandma's gnocchi with all of us gathered around the table was Christmasy; Mom getting slightly more intoxicated than usual and complaining loudly and energetically about the mediocrity of the fondue at her sister's renewal of vows ceremony as Grandma sat silent and...serene?...but also possibly judgmental? I don't know. It was odd. We are a family with a lot of good cheer, but it's good cheer borne out of satire--often self-satire--often gentle, Horacian satire--but irreverent satire nonetheless. We (and to some extent I mean Mom, my sister, and I, moreso than Dad) don't have a high tolerance or capacity for the ideal--we, by nature, attend to imperfection, partly because (this is projection) we are uncomfortable with purity, with saying that something is wholly good. Is that querulousness, word-of-the-day noters? Does that make me judgmental? I've written that and look back on it uncomfortably because I feel like I am praising myself, because to me these traits are (pretty much, with moderation) virtues--to never be satisfied, to always seek improvement, to be irreverent in the face of everything because nothing deserves the complete surrender of one's critical mindfulness. But to other people this is a really terrible thing--maybe they will not see this as bragging, which is good, and instead as confessing, which is fine, because it's closer to informing, which is, ideally, what I'd be doing if my communication wasn't poisoned/empowered by actual emotions and intent.
Where was I? Oh, the point was that while some of this almost certainly comes from Grandma, she is one to hold some things in reverance, and may not approve of our snotty way of criticizing everything. However, we, the nuclear family, laugh a lot. In the destruction of icons (projecting). And since Christmas is largely a holiday of iconography, this isn't particularly a "Christmas Spirit" event; however, it's sanctioned, maybe, by the...what...true spirit of Christmas? Which is joy and family time, however cynical?
As I'm writing this, I realize that today was still two days before Christmas, and that things might well change as I immerse myself further in symbolism. Tomorrow, I will go to church for the first time in a long time. Curry Ford, the old, old patriarch who was so happy that I was taking up philosophy and whom I went back to church for, so as not to disappoint, is now dead. (He lived what can only be described as a good life--not in a moralistic sense especially, mind you, except to the extent that that is synonymous with the eudaemonistic life, which is really what I meant. I don't believe he had any regrets--amor fati. Although I'll never forget when he was invited to say some words during a church service on, I think, Father's Day, or his Nth birthday or wedding anniversary, when he said that his chosen way to die was at the age of 97 at the hands of a jealous lover.)
Long parentheticals are not kind to you, I'm afraid. Where was I? Curry Ford is dead. So I won't get that joy out of church, so instead it will be awkward run-ins with people that think they know me because they watched me during my childhood, and people with suave, plastic, New Canaan-nurtured small talk skills that never fail to trip me up and make me demonstrate to them my awkwardness and out-of-placeness, which in turn makes them feel that, out of generosity, or out of social kindness, more small talk is required, to make me feel comfortable--what a mess.
And, oddly, this has always interfered with church, for me. I mean, during the period of my life when I really wanted to go to church for...it's hard to admit these things now...spiritual reasons; when I really felt touched by singing some hymn in minor in a dark sanctuary--all that was once, and for all I know may still be, compelling, and I might trick myself again into believing in the presence of God....
I don't want to get into this right now. Maybe later. But the point is that even when I had more religious or spiritual leanings, they were solemn/sublime in nature, not social. So the chatty church-goer, who profanes the sacred by leaving the service socially energized, as opposed to contemplative and introspective, didn't make sense to me.
I'm being inconsistent. Do I, or do I not, tolerate, or even embrace, something as sacred? (This came up a lot last year with Michael Prospect and the silent-but-always-listening Toxie).
The synthesis, I think, is that the critical eye, the will to spoil sanctity for the sake of some unacknowledged good, is the last sacred thing. "From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild beast gazeth out of his seriousness- an unconquered wild beast! ... Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth in his mouth. To be sure, he now resteth, but he hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine."
I'm getting way off topic. I want to talk about Christmas.
Specifically, I want to talk about listening to Christmas music, and the different styles of my parents. My Dad prefers choral pieces, live recordings of concerts, sometimes ones he's sang in. While he listens, he makes unnecessary, disclaiming comments when he hears something that offends his refined tastes--tastes I have never bothered to cultivate; I can't detect any difference in quality. He does not take kindly to our laughing at this music, or at particularly noticeable idiosyncrasies of this music which we (the others--except for silent Grandma) satirize. Mom responds at the end of the CD with Bing Crosby's Christmas hits. Dad is disparaging about Bing's diction: pronouncing t's as d's or not at all. (It's just a dialect difference.) Mom and Grandma come to his defense: "He's not a choral singer, he's a crooner. He sounds so easy-going" {implied: choral singers sound uptight}
To my sister and I, all Christmas music is hackneyed. If you actually listen to the lyrics, sometimes they're disturbing:
Up on the housetop
Click, click, click
Down thru the chimney with
Good Saint Nick
Next comes the stocking
Of little Will
Oh, just see what
A glorious fill
Here is a hammer
And lots of tacks
Also a ball
And a whip that cracks
Me: A whip that cracks? What's that doing there.
Mom: Sounds like some S and M made it into this song.
(laughter)
Mom: Tells us something we didn't know about Mrs. Claus.
(laughter)
(Grandma silently staring off into space, throughout.)
---------------
There is so much more to this line of thought, but I am too tired to write it. Which is disappointing, because there are things that carry over from the beginning to the end, I was discovering as I was planning this in my head.
I'll try again tomorrow. Which is today. Christmas Eve.
I declare this Christmas post #1--I'll name it something along those lines when I copy it from Notepad to the -ive-ournal form.
I'm happy now, though, because in writing this I've forgotten about some of the stuff that's bothered me periodically all day. Now I am more at ease--but I fear that this is true largely because what I had thought was certain, "conclusive," at the end of last night, was shown to be uncertain again. That means that while I was before faced with an internal contradiction, it's softened--the truth values, or level of confidences, in the conflicting beliefs (values?) is now lower, and more tolerable. Unfortunately, this only works because somebody else has internalized the contradiction, and are, I imagine, suffering from it now. The equilibrium, I fear, is perpetual uncertainty; as soon as I come to terms with that, then I will be certain again and the burden will be mine. But I don't want to dwell on this; I want to save Christmas. None of this should make any sense to you, by the way, except probably if...yeah. This is now no longer meant for consumption, but a leak in my inner monologue.
I plug it now.