Christmas

Christmas is a time for celebration. A respite from the tedium imposed by the burden of yuletide preparation and frantic work commitments. To revel in the annual festive traditions of Turkey, novelty jumpers, the jingle of bells, Die Hard, consumerism, saccharine John Lewis adverts, alcoholism, stockings, suspenders and all the trimmings commonly associated with this contorted religious festival. Christmas, until you reach that inevitable point of cynicism in your life, is the most magical time of year. A gleeful beguilement that is only rejuvenated by the mercurial derangement of your own children. Only through the vicarious delirium of children can you even hope to evoke that same sense of wonder you experienced as a child. But you’re also reminded of just how fortunate you are to have your family there to remind you of how great this time of year can be.

I have always been somewhat withdrawn, favouring the hospitality of my own inimitable company. Even when I’m coerced into social situations I can exchange pleasantries and engage in inane chit chat for short periods, before my limited interest wanes. Nothing gives me as much pleasure as the mere prospect of having time, as well as my home to myself. But the possibility of spending Christmas on my own is a depressing notion. Though there is a critical distinction between being alone and being lonely, Christmas presents a unique convergence of the two. And it’s in realising that being surrounded by your family, at a time of year notorious for inflicting such crippling despondency, is offset by their presence.

Most people take for granted just how fortunate their lives are. They find themselves aggrieved by mild irritants and asinine concerns, rather than appreciate what they have. Me, I have no such obstructions. I know how fortunate I am to have found anyone that can tolerate my misanthropic proclivities the way my partner does. I don’t want to refer to our meeting as providence, because that would imply that we had no control over our meeting. But there was such a coincidental set of circumstances that ultimately introduced us to one another that it does seem almost destined. Though I won’t go into details, it is staggering to me the unique set of circumstances that culminated in our paths overlapping. People will tell you that this kind of preordained convergence doesn’t happen every day. But it does. It’s just that some people lack the perception to see it. Which does make our daughter a rather miraculous creation. And I take great comfort in that.

As I sit here, gut swelling from the excessive consumption of stuffing, chocolate and beer. A generic Christmas movie reaching it’s final, saccharine conclusion, surrounded by warmth of my family, I reflect on where I could be and realise that though life is rarely perfect, it could be a whole lot worse.

Living With A Cyst.

Since my mid-twenties, I have had a lump that in the proceeding decade has gradually lurched into this rather swollen growth. It was only about 4 month’s ago that I had this conspicuous looking protrusion diagnosed as a cyst. Fortunate for my perennial ignorance, a cyst is a benign lump common in patients that suffer from acne or from ingrowing hairs. Maladies that have afflicted me in the past, with the latter being something I’ve always suspected. The real issue for me is the geographical positioning of the cyst on my person, as it resides in an alcove between my eye and my nose. A most prominent location that makes people’s curiosity and revulsion particularly evident.

Most people would fail to notice “Kuato”, my affectionate epithet for my cyst, unless in it’s malicious, bulbous state. But it is interesting how the general public react to deformities, particularly something as explicit as an inflamed cyst. Often those unfortunate enough to glance at it react with immediate suspicion. Averting their gaze as if they themselves might turn to stone. Some overcompensate, eye’s darting with unwieldy rapidity. Desperate to avoid making direct eye contact, but polite enough not to offend. Utilise their latent amateur dramatics and convey their complete ambivalence to my plight, by being “O so” subtlety distracted by something far more interesting on a shelf or their phone that didn’t go off. Or perhaps I’m projecting my own insecurities onto people who don’t care.

The trouble being is that it’s difficult to believe that people wouldn’t recoil at such a execrable contusion. With the festering bump, weeping periodically without warning, I can’t bring myself to look at myself. Not that my obscured vision in my right eye precipitates much time to admire the distended bump. Though my prescribed medication has reduced the swelling, permitting a gradual return of sight in my partially closed eye, to such an extent that I look like to someone with a lazy eye, as opposed someone who has suffered a mild stroke. It’s still difficult to go out in public, particularly in a work environment where colleagues are inclined to enquire about the burgeoning inflammation. Just as a great flume of liquid begins to cascade out like a heavily polluted waterfall.

I wouldn’t describe myself as proud. Apart from regular cleansing and maintaining a sufficient bodily hygiene, I don’t have a specific facial routine. As someone predisposed to being a part of the setting rather than a foreground participant, exhibiting such an unsightly appendage inhibits that natural proclivity to remain inconspicuous during social settings. Hopefully, once the medication has mitigated the infection back to something that looks less like “Belial” from the movie “Basket Case”, then I can finally undergo surgery to remove this 10 year old attachment. But until then, please, don’t look at me. For your own sake.

Tolerating The Intolerable.

Family gatherings are always awkward. In most instances they’re compulsory, which only further exacerbates the discomfort I endure. The solace of my mother’s cooking and genuine adoration for my family is what makes these congregations a tolerable affair. The problem comes from the one’s you’ve inherited through long term companionship. You’re familiar enough to engage in light, courteous dialogue. But not comfortable enough to express yourself without inhibiting filtration. It’s a necessary burden to maintain equanimity between yourself and your much more gregarious partner. But it does necessitate indulging in the distorted appraisals of those with a selective persuasion about the ethnicity, genealogy and sexuality that is representative of today’s society.

Engaging in direct discourse that conflicts with their own skewed perceptions of say, “immigration” for instance, is a futile endeavour. It’s also sparked by some tenuous associations, that they can retroactively assign to their own bigoted agenda. Whether it’s rising unemployment, the escalating cost of living or the reduced size of Mars bars, almost anything can be attributed to those pesky foreigners. They see it as a dilution of their national heritage. The deprivation of our sovereignty. It’s of little consequence if you are born in this country though. If you’re complexion isn’t one of perpetual pale transparency, then you are deemed an invader by default.

All the world’s sins can be attributed to those “foreigners”. Lamenting the demise of the English language, despite their own negligible understanding of it, slurring more obscenities as they sip from their bottle of imported lager. The type of person that refuses to eat anything that isn’t quintessentially British. Like chips (Portuguese/Spanish origins) or Tea (Chinese). This kind of subversive “casual” xenophobia, is only expressed in the abiding safety of a family setting. Knowing that these polarising views can be expressed without recrimination. Which is a deeply unsettling to know that they feel emboldened enough to confide in you, as though these discriminatory perceptions are reciprocated. All you can do is grimace and nod in a non committing fashion.

Nobody wants to be the errant agitator in such a relaxed, family orientated environment. Especially if you are the proverbial emigrant in the group. All it achieves would be to alienate yourself from people looking to enjoy a relaxed Easter weekend. Besides, challenging them on their flagrant, incendiary grasp of immigration policies, is like trying to describe colour’s to a blind man. Bigotry is not something easily reasoned with. But nor is it something that we should be complicit with. I’m a very tolerant person, scarcely offended. And though I’m not aggrieved by such repugnant attitudes, I do feel piteous of those that nurture it.

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But what do you think? How do you tolerate discrimination? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.

Live For Today.

Let me first preface this by saying that I love my family. Without the continued support of my partner and the perennial exuberance of my daughter, I’d probably still be living with my mother, isolated from the world like the reclusive misanthrope that I’m inclined to be. Despite this general contempt for humanity, my family mitigates these manifestations with their radiant disposition and indelible philanthropy. Having said that, maintaining sustained period of domestic bliss with individuals whose personalities are often the complete inverse of my own, requires a patient balance of give and take, that is often more take than give. You do yearn for those days of intended solidarity, despite knowing that being alone at time’s bleeds into lonliness. So when my partner arranged for a holiday I ultimately was unable to attend, I took full advantage.

Work remains an institution for mental volatility, exacerbated by the conceited inmates that operate in this particular prison. The reprieve of finishing my shift and returning home to my family used to mitigate the emotional desolation I accrued, but as of late that sense comfort has been diminished by the increased provocations of my job. Though I’m not going to bore you with the banal details, suffice to say the resulting aggravations has only further hastened an already lingering despondency. So any excuse to vacate such a hostile environment, even briefly is a luxury I dare not turn down. Knowing my family would be vacationing for just under a week, I decided not abuse the little holiday time afforded to me for my own selfish desires, instead choosing to reserve the final 2 days of their excursion. And it was wonderful!

Those 2 days was some of the most liberating autonomy I’ve experienced since I left school. You have to understand that even though I’m very reclusive by nature, I have always lived with someone. Whether it was my mother and sister growing up, or the decade long cohabitation with my partner. Being permitted such uninhibited perogative to organise the day without comprimise, is a privilege rarely afforded.

There was no plan. No domestic obligations. No artinery to follow. Just the potential for spontaneity, supplemented by foods generally prohibited in my household. A 48 hour interlude to just meander, permits an escape from the stress of reality I most certainly needed. Indulging in the usual comforts their absence can bring, such as: sleeping in the middle of the bed. Defecating with the toilet door open. Sheding my constraining garments just so I can saunter around my home without judgment. Play games. Cook food. Or relax on the bed, pondering the deep philosophical questions of our existence. Anything that wasn’t regulated by the whims of others.

When I ventured out, there wasn’t any specific destination nor purpose. Just a benign ramble simply because I could. The freedom I revelled in wasting, was not time wasted. I doubt there was anyone in my immediate post code as contented as I was. I doubt Bob Ross has ever been that serene! People take for granted just how liberating time to yourself is. As much as those that don’t fully appreciate just what they have. Fortunately that isn’t me. As much as I cherished that time to myself, to indulge in my own selfish endeavours, I value my family more. Live for today or fade away.

This Is Why I Don’t Talk To People.

Before the start of the pandemic most reasonable people would deem my social proclivities as being “anti-social”. Now – post pandemic, my introverted persuasions might be considered “socially responsible”. I prefer the latter definition. When it comes to engaging in conversations, that aren’t work related, I’m rather introverted. Averting eye contact. Giving one word responses to others anecdotes. Just radiating a discourteous apathy many people find ignorant. This inherent verbal anaemia is an affliction that has only progressed as I’ve gotten older. But being in a committed relationship with someone far more gregarious, with a daughter who could natter total nonsense for hours on end, does require compromise on my part. So I often find myself under the duress of my partners extroverted whims and enduring the hospitality of occasional acquaintances.

Take for instance last weekend. My daughter attended the Birthday of a 3 year old. At only 5 herself, my daughter couldn’t very well visit without adult supervision, despite my repeated insistence that those apron strings will have to be cut sooner or later. The party of this particular toddler was, like most middle class families, held at a village hall. Decorated in bunting, balloons, inflatable depiction of “Happy Birthday” draped across the expansive windows and a bouncy castle hired for a short period to provide a distraction for the kids and necessary respite for the parents. My daughter couldn’t have been happier, cavorting with children half her size that she could command like some sugar addled dictator. While my partner engaged with anyone that would listen, I did what I always do in these obligatory social situations, by retreating to the farthest reaches of the room with my head down, a novelty paper plate in hand, devouring cocktail sausages, pizza and cake. A natural scowl creasing my features, that acts as a natural deterrent against any genial guest that feels remotely compelled to introduce themselves with a clumsy attempt to relate about the struggles of parenting.

Everything was going fine. My daughter was having fun organising her own tiny militia. My partner was scheming some alternative social gathering to inflict further deliberate misery of me. And I had successfully negotiated my way to the modest buffet without having to engage with anybody, past the cordial nods and brief, barely audible pleasantries. As we neared the end of the party, watching my daughter relishing the fragment of power she had acquired, I noticed something to my left. More like a sensation than something visual. A figure, stout yet commanding. Like a smurf that had served two tour’s in Afghanistan. Materialising at my side as if he had somehow willed himself into existence. A notable glint in his eye as if he had been waiting sometime to say something.

“Maximus, Meridious, Decimus”. I paused. Hesitant to respond in a manner that might provoke further elaboration. Hoping he had mistaken me for someone else. I turned, finally acknowledging a man I had never seen before. He looked at me expectantly, as if a context had already been established. “Sorry” I responded, confused and concerned in equal measure. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what that’s from” he replied exasperated. “I know the quote” I retorted, “But its “Maximus. Decimus. Meridious”. You could see a faint glimmer of agitation in his demeanour before he said “Yeah, but, you know what I’m talking about?”. At this point I didn’t want to say yes. I didn’t want to say anything. I just wanted this conversation to end so I could immediately discard the whole sordid event with a collection of memories I’d already erased. But he was persistent.

“You do one” he insisted. “I’m good with movies”. Realising that I would have to collude in this man’s fantasy, if I was to stand any chance of escaping, I capitulated. “Okay” I began. “I’ll choose an easy one”. Testing the waters to the depths of his cinematic knowledge. Having taken a moment to compose and most importantly, recite the dialogue accurately, I continued. “How about ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat'”. A vacant, brain dead look emerged across his face. As if someone had switched off his ventilator while he was urinating. A balloon slowly drifted past us like tumbleweed. He insisted however that with multiple choice, like “Who wants to be a millionaire”, he would get it. So having demonstrating a keen intellectual wit, he deduced that “Alien” “Forrest Gump” and “The Matrix” were a devious ruse on my part. And in fact my personal favourite movie “Jaws” was indeed the correct answer. “Badly acted isn’t it” he confessed, without a hint of irony.

With his ignorant assessment and continued slander towards “Jaws” I’d suffered as much as I could handle. That feeling was seemingly mutual, as this still unnamed assailant look set to finalise our diminishing liaison, by posing one last probing question: Xbox or PlayStation? I steadied my nerves, prepared for the inevitable opposition as I exclaimed, with great relish; PlayStation. With that our brief association was at an end and my sanity restored.

In summary: Don’t speak to people. Particularly those that deliver an unsolicited, misquoted reference to very recognisable movie. Insult the acting in one of favourite films. Give very objective opinions about matters that are very subjective. Before declaring that our already declining friendship has been compromised, simply because I use a different platform to play my games.

I hate people.