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CHRISTMAS BLUES N' RHYTHM

The blues.

Ten years ago today I watched Home Alone on tape, the story of a kid left by his lonesome in their house on Christmas Day. The movie connected to me, then as now, as an equally insignificant dot for some significant reasons: I watched it then on Christmas Day; I am experiencing it now, minus the burglars, on Christmas Day.

I really don't care spending the holidays by myself, even if for the first time. Save for my erring knees, I am strong enough to overcome the cold loneliness of winter; save for my kneading eros, I am versatile enough to withstand the cold aloneness in a romantic spirit as Christmas' - in my space, in my time, my call, my schedule, skin to skin, both mine. LP wanted assurance some weeks back that I can handle the fresh experience; I assured, much as I revelled in her explication that Christmas is in the heart, that the essence is ruined by feasts, or fairings, or favors, or frivolities, or follies. Thus for the record, at this juncture write it down, on December 25th 2003, let me check my watch, 9:39 pm ET, I am home alone but still one integral, full, solid, intact, gorged - if spent - piece of holiday rejoicer because despite my single presence in the quadruple corners of my flat, Christmas is in my heart.

Bluesy, bluesy Christmas.

No I am not melancholic, never mind the omnipresence of the word blues. I just like it, the word, the color. Or maybe it's just the glass brimming with... what the heck is this...Frangelico liqueur, the bottle looking much like some dorky waiter dressed up like some dorky monk from some restaurant called Italian Village of many years ago.

Bluesy. Christmas bluesy. I'll be back, when I'm sober.
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11:56 pm ET

The rhythm.

All it takes is a 2 hour nap to rid the caramel taste of liqueur off my taste buds, represented by those pink mushroom-looking buddies on my tongue if you put my tongue under a microscope, and life is back to wondrous things. Life is a wondrous thing so don't disgust yourself; use that microscope for more scientifically nobler things.

And here's the Christmas rhythm, the way I spent my Christmas practically by my lonesome.

I woke up at 7:30 am ET to get ready for my 9:00 am Mass. I looked out my window first thing, always a Christmas waking-up tradition - a subconscious force of habit to find the earliest signs of Christmas on Christmas Day - only to satisfy my curiosity that this was how they (and I had been a part of that they) celebrate Christmas mornings: the streets were deserted, nobody in sight, no children going door to door to receive Yuletide blessings from anybody carrying the slightest disposition of a godparent. No, not in these places, not in these cultures. Don't knock on their doors at 7:30 am or you'll suffer the same fate as the burglars of Home Alone.

8:45-9:00 am - I stood by the welcoming door of my Church to fulfill my Holiday responsibility as usher: shake people's hands and greet them a Merry Christmas. I did both duties responsibly, above job description, very similar to that day when 2 kids asked for my autograph as they thought I was Jackie Chan (that's a clue, but as all clues it's misleading) because I smiled so winsomely as the Chinese actor's. But there were actually a few parishioners in attendance; the majority must have decided to sing praises last night at 11: pm, while the others were in someplaces warmer and I can relate to the hibernation: the hands I shook were miserably cold as ice, shy and chapped, they're not really handshakes but just awkward collissions of frozen fingers, tip to tip, accompanying the 'Good Morning and Merry Christmas' greetings in lieu of the regular corporate-schooled, socially-trained, full second clasps on normal Sunday Mornings that at times feelingly screamed in socially-trained delight: 'release my hand already, you perv!'.

9:00-10:00 am, the Mass was short, the congregation thin. But eveything was alive and lively. Father F's homily echoed LP (someday I'll whisper in your confessional, sweetie): Christmas is an act and does not come in a date. Help somebody cross the street, it's Christmas. Give joy to an inmate in prison, it's Christmas.

10:10 am - I was hungry and there's no open diner/cafe in sight but that DP Bakery in the corner of my street with their signature french bread that looked anything but french. But I only wanted coffee, never mind the absence of Irish or Colombian taste, I only needed the caffeine, not the aroma. When I got out of the bakery, I decided to go back inside to buy one more cup which I handed to the aging homeless Rasta lying on the sidewalk. "Thank you and Merry Christmas, brother" he said in a gentle, booming voice of gratitude. I smiled. Brother? Was that uttered in the spirit of the season, or did he just think that, with the impeccability of my brown, I, too, was from the Caribbean. If he asked me, 'Are you from the Islands, brother?' I would have answered 'Yes, muhn, Philippine Islands, muhn'.

I headed back home to cook the remaining sweet corns overstaying in my fridge. Corns on Christmas is not corny, mind you, at least they have ears which, aside from my pair, are lacking in the flat. In the course of my corn-boiling I called LP; she just got off her bed and reeling with cold, juggling phones in hand greeting generous overseas greetings in her miserably congested sinus, my poor thing, family is always above everything else whatever physical state she's in, such rich act - and that's why I love her so. Thereafter it's my childhood bud LM in the Philippines, 13 hours ahead, and he was not much joy to talk to when interrupted from a game of mah-jongg, what crass. I called LA out there across the border, 1 hour behind, asleep when I called and her mom had to wake her up and already she was talking her very self, giggling like a comical angel that is her very self, her very name - such disposition, how I adore her.

Nap, nap, nap. I woke up at 4:00 pm, only to remember that today, Christmas Day, the theaters were open and I had the option to see the one movie I was reluctant to see because of his awful past, Sleepy Hollow - how awful can that film be - but then I decided to take my chances because he is the Tim Burton of the Peewee's Big Adventure fame and the Beetlejuice fame and the Edward Scissorhands fame.

And so off I went to see that movie, shown 4:20 pm Christmas Day, Big Fish by Tim Burton, and I'll talk about that one great movie in my next entry, I promise, to fulfill the rhythm of Christmas begun by a remembrance of Christmas blues past.

OF BOOKS AND CHRISTMAS: SOME JINGLE BELL THOUGHTS
ON THE VITALITY OF OUR READINGS AND THE CHARACTER
OF OUR READING LISTS

Reading and vacationing are always a perfect combination. Students can finally pore on books not preceded by text, and avid readers can take occasion to sit by the fireplace and enjoy a modern classic in the soothing company of friendly fire. While the cold front heaps its effrontery to the uncovered, may God bless them, all literary bases are covered in the able hands of an avid reader. Avid reader, I could be that.

But first, let's do a little math. Our department did a Secret Santa Gift-Exchange Party at the office yesterday and three of ten participants received identical items: bookstore giftcards. Three of ten, or 30%, is probably a decent fraction of a department's gift-giving creativity pie even if you scrambled the cards in the tacky company of scented lotions and picture frames, Clay Aiken cds and votive candles. But the percentile is actually a reflection of a bigger picture, never mind the picture frame, and that is this: only 30% of the department's population are avid readers.

Everyone knew the other two to be voracious readers, too, though I did not bother to inquire about their reading lists. But I have eyes as sharp as a hunch and I can tell this: P, Corporate Controller, is unbelievably inspired by inspirationals and he'll hem or haw on Who Moved My Cheese, and find the shortest distance between two points on The Road Less Travelled. T, Corporate Counsel, probably picked his nose and did his thing under the baton of Clarence Darrow For The Defense or Scott Turow's One L (hold on, isn't T from the same Law School?) and some Grisham this or some Grisham that, but I won't be surprised if he indulged in some serious stuffs too, not just the awful, err, lawful, conceptions along the lines of Runaway Jury et.al.

LP is (was?) a voracious reader with an imposing booklist. Her impressive collection is like stairway to heaven made of Jack's beanstalk, reaching all the way from desk to ceiling, but somehow magically draws every beholder to one tiny and thinny little thingie of a book - a pictography of a revolutionary in the lighter moments of a revolution - strong and possibly visually militant enough to snub all the Nobelists and Pulitzerists of this world that also form part of that vertical collection. This Christmas I wish to give LP something that should fight for that little book's published attention though in finding it, I, too, like the featured revolutionary, may struggle.

My precious little angel, young but voracious reader as she is, has an impressive booklist herself, the titles proudly enumerated in her blog, even if I had to admit that, uhmmm, I should be partly credited for that prideful impression. I gave her books on every occasion imaginable and I intend to imagine more occasions if only to present her with more books impressionable.

Which brings me to ask: When you give somebody a gift, should that gift reflect your quality as the giver, or should it be that of the receiver's? In other words, do you give the intended beneficiary something you wanted for her, or should it be something you think she wanted for herself? And if I gave the intended receiver a gift based on all indexes I formulated, did that make me - in all irony - selfish and conceited?

In my, and the little angel's, case, I may actually did both. Partly by selfish blunder, I censored some choices thinking she was young of age to appreciate mature language (of course, I proved myself wrong). But then I picked some books for her against my will, judging as I did her wisdom over my naivete, and proved later on that, yes, o yes, her wisdom should always prevail over my naivete under all printed and published circumstances.

For the holidays, I got quite a few bookstore giftcards. Awesome cards, awesome values. I feel sorry to miss an EB with my friends, missing an opportunity to find what their bookwishes were so I could have used the cards and bequeathed them with my legacy of books.

But on second thought I can never be late. Books, like friends, like Christmas, in spirit, in our hearts, are always here to stay, ready for sharing, for keeping, for celebrating.

QUANTUM OF THE 6TH VERTICAL:
A TESTIMONIAL TO TIME, FRIENDS,
THE TIMELINESS OF FRIENDS, and
THE TIMELESSNESS OF FRIENDSHIPS

FBJ JAG re oen helb t go ule'es ders lt ed t jat sis oir c geysa osecen rt sou s n h t me c seher et pesan hrf nn dee u'gs pst get aeuol is nreim t tesce;;;;;!