Twisted


Dear Eugene,

Yesterday I walked to Chinatown, took me hours, and for the whole time listened to Christmas music very old and very new.  Somehow what went into my ears fitted what came into my eyes.  Elements extraneous were invited to take home, right here, close to my heart, and re-traditioned into a way that I might want to revisit next year, dust off, and make new again.

I looked at houses, but saw almost no one in them, around them.  It was noon.  And this is Vancouver, Canada.  Christmas wreath on the door, I love those, and put myself inside.  The home I so wanted to build, I said to myself, is not the home I am building now.  My door has no wreath on it.

No Christmas lights either.  The kids never asked for any.  I built a Christmas tree with old coat-hangers one windy November afternoon twelve years ago and it stands in my living room year round ever since.  The kids were young then and clothed its dry bones with things they've made, beautiful things, funny things, silly things.  That was one Christmas.  Since then no one watered the tree and I just let it be.

I am not wanting to be a difficult person but I am sure I am, all my life.  I hope I have said enough sorry by backing off from my way, and I would like to think I am trying harder everyday.  It takes a lot to make a house look and sound and smell Christmasy.  It takes a friendly tyrant to pull off a graceful dictatorship.  I don't mind being a slave sitting beside fresh-cut tree and baptized by heavy eggnog.  But not everybody can take this sort of suffocation.  My kids said they hate Christmas hymns, and I hid my tears like they're the missing homeowners.

"There are many ways to live a good life," I held on to this line from Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, which I know is a book very close to your heart too.  And that's only the first page.  Endless wonder, grace after grace.  I am reading it again this Christmas.  It untwists me into better shape.

Since the afternoon and well into the night I served in Downtown Eastside.  Or more like observing, being served.  I didn't do much.  Much cannot be done by me.  Or anyone.  I walked into a washroom in a park and a few young men and women were shooting up.  They were apologetic.  I said It's ok.  I could tell they've been sorry all their lives.  You can use the women's washroom just on the other side, they suggested, and I did.  Every line drawn is only a blurry suggestion.

This can't be a good life, so young, so wasted?

Then what is?

 I heard the words but the sights make no sense.

And I know life could be just as bad as shooting up in a washroom, if not worse.  A person can feel sorry about nothing.  Eat but never satisfied.  Smile with skin.  Oversexed but never loved.  Homeless in own house.  Traveled the world but missed own backyard.  Upsize to a bigger TV this Boxing Day and live a smaller life till the next.  Blame the doctor for our disease and pray to a surgical knife for salvation.  Finally eulogized for being an one big full-stop non-apology.

There too are many ways to live a bad life.

Yours, Alex

Comments

  1. KateDecember 24, 2018 at 5:40 AM

    Dear Eugene,

    “Christmas wreath on the door, I love those, and put myself inside... My door has no wreath on it... It takes a lot to make a house look and sound and smell Christmasy.”

    Last night in Vancouver, I did something I’d rarely done for a long time. I wandered in a big mall with my kid.

    Wreaths, lights, Christmasy stuff were everywhere, untwisting sights, sound and smell of the good life in shops, kiosks and washrooms. Buyers and sellers, dreamers old and young were all shooting up love and longings in their veins coursing through bodies craving for the good life, observing, being served, inviting elements extraneous to bring home, right here and here rightly, close to hearts and hearts closed to elements uninviting, re-traditioned to make beautiful things, funny things, silly things anew. So many ways to live a good life - on paper, in vision, untwisted to better shapes twisted to fit a life good to live on.

    What do you want? I asked my kid.

    She led me into a super-sized store in endless wonder, grace before grace, a retreat from wasted grief, an oasis that need not make sense, a home of warmth I so wanted to build but not quite the home I am building now. How could one grasp so much happiness and hope bound in a tight twist along with Christmasy lyrics throbbing through the ears and out of eyes seeing nothing but a blurry line drawn suggestively to hide the eulogy of infinitely invisibly indivisible mini full-stop non-apologies untwisting smile on skin, eating to never being satisfied, lovemaking without love, homelessness in a home... how could this be?

    After an hour, my kid chose her goods in the store. At the end of the line up, I swiped my credit card to seal her happiness in a bag of T-shirt and trousers. Soon she would wear them just as I had seen them on her moments ago in the fitting room, the folds of cotton fabric untwisting to fit her form, style, unfolding life hers and mine twisted together seamlessly. Watching her in front of me on this Christmasy sort of night, I so long to build for her a good life, knowing there are too many ways to have lived one badly and badly hoping to live a life good for her, feeling twisted into a wreath of wishes untwisting still for this Christmas in turmoil and beauty.

    Yours, Kate








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