Imagination grows by exercise
-W. Somerset Maugham
My beloved legion, in keeping with my resolve to explore more styles of writing I have decided to reimagine a format that has been abused by countless generations at this same time of year. Thus I hope to conquer that foolhardy belief that “quality beats quantity” and replace it with the more accurate description of this phenomenon bought to us by Chancellor Mao “quantity has a quality all in itself.” In short, here is my (adapted) letter to Santa Claus, old Saint Nick, Krampas, Jultomten and grandfather frost.
Dear Santa,
As you sit atop your enchanted reindeer, eyeing the shimmering world below you with a cynicism known only to the immortals and an unnatural knowledge of every urchin, infant, newborn, child and preteen’s sleeping habits, I wonder if amongst this tumult of information you remember a small, grubby kid who was your most fervent believer. Probably not. But if he still lives on, lodging in some distant corner of your mind, and if you find him one day, he is still waiting for that pterodactyl he asked for ten years ago.
Before I begin the main part of my letter, I have some rapid-fire questions for you: How do I address you? Is it Mr. Claus? Or are we on a first name basis, Nick? Also, whilst on the topic of names, do you have a correspondence with Satan so he can send you all the letters of the dyslexic children that accidently reach him? Do you pay your elves, or did you refuse to sign the abolition of slavery and UN declaration of human rights? Do you have a vote? If so, what country does is go towards? Do you have a translator, or can you read every language well enough to understand the hundreds of millions of requests you get a year? Did you like the new star wars movie? How many children ask you for peace in the Middle East? Do you know what the tooth fairy does with her hoards of dentures? How do you deal with immigration? Other than being indefinitely immortal, do you have any other metahuman abilities? what do you want for Christmas? Can you pass me the list of where all the naughty girls live, or is that breach of contract? And finally, what is your favorite color of M&M
I suppose I should get along with this letter, you have millions of kids to disappoint, and yet, many more to amaze. Please forgive my cynical tone, I do not remember exactly when your fantastic charade caught up to me, but since then I have regrettably turned to one of those boring adults that your existence so fervently combats. Despite this, here I am penning this letter to you as I would an old friend, despite my most hardy resolve, I am grinning like... well, like a child on Christmas.
So Santa, I suppose this is where we stand: on the one side, a closet dreamer dressed up as a dry-wit cynically disenchanted grump who’s favorite party trick is to find setbacks in the most idealistic notions, on the other side, a man who’s existence (or, lack thereof) marks the path to pubescence, yet, one who gave the best gift of all to a child dreaming of the stars, the hope of a dream and the comprehension of beauty that your legend brings with it. Before I delve into my list Santa, I want to thank you. Bantering aside, I want to thank you for the month long Acadia you used to transport me to. Starting with a growing realization that whatever that year may have held, whatever grueling reality I was running from at the time, it was Christmas again; and aside from the rights, wrongs, evils and joys of the year, this was Christmas and this was bliss. Soon followed by that constant glee that surrounded me in the days leading up to your arrival, the giddy, nervous mix of emotions that took hold of me every Christmas Eve, the spurt of innocent energy whilst waiting for your sleigh all through the night. All of this culminating in morning when (with a great lack of consideration for those who did not share the same level of enthusiasm at four in the morning) my over-zealous activities would fill the house with a noise reminiscent of a dying pterodactyl (note, the afore mentioned bird, also note I am still awaiting it’s promised arrival), the following day would always be a fumbling ecstasy of gift giving, receiving, food, and general bliss. The family was together, there was good food and new toys to play with, put simply it was an island of certainty I could constantly rely on to bring my dispersed family under one roof.
Christmases were almost never in the same place twice; we hopped all around the globe, from one continent to another. In all honesty I didn’t mind it, for me Christmas was not confined to one day, one night or a few hours of gift exchange. For me, what made this time of year so special in the past was simply the sense of togetherness and unity that I felt. That was the ultimate magic of Christmas, and without trying to sound too cheesy, it really is a season to be jolly.
Thank you for that Santa, well beyond all the gifts you bought me, the greatest you ever gave me was my family, the rag tag group of people that seem to have nothing in common but each other, you made them come together for one season a year. That is something even my hard cynicism cannot explain without calling it magic.
-W. Somerset Maugham
My beloved legion, in keeping with my resolve to explore more styles of writing I have decided to reimagine a format that has been abused by countless generations at this same time of year. Thus I hope to conquer that foolhardy belief that “quality beats quantity” and replace it with the more accurate description of this phenomenon bought to us by Chancellor Mao “quantity has a quality all in itself.” In short, here is my (adapted) letter to Santa Claus, old Saint Nick, Krampas, Jultomten and grandfather frost.
Dear Santa,
As you sit atop your enchanted reindeer, eyeing the shimmering world below you with a cynicism known only to the immortals and an unnatural knowledge of every urchin, infant, newborn, child and preteen’s sleeping habits, I wonder if amongst this tumult of information you remember a small, grubby kid who was your most fervent believer. Probably not. But if he still lives on, lodging in some distant corner of your mind, and if you find him one day, he is still waiting for that pterodactyl he asked for ten years ago.
Before I begin the main part of my letter, I have some rapid-fire questions for you: How do I address you? Is it Mr. Claus? Or are we on a first name basis, Nick? Also, whilst on the topic of names, do you have a correspondence with Satan so he can send you all the letters of the dyslexic children that accidently reach him? Do you pay your elves, or did you refuse to sign the abolition of slavery and UN declaration of human rights? Do you have a vote? If so, what country does is go towards? Do you have a translator, or can you read every language well enough to understand the hundreds of millions of requests you get a year? Did you like the new star wars movie? How many children ask you for peace in the Middle East? Do you know what the tooth fairy does with her hoards of dentures? How do you deal with immigration? Other than being indefinitely immortal, do you have any other metahuman abilities? what do you want for Christmas? Can you pass me the list of where all the naughty girls live, or is that breach of contract? And finally, what is your favorite color of M&M
I suppose I should get along with this letter, you have millions of kids to disappoint, and yet, many more to amaze. Please forgive my cynical tone, I do not remember exactly when your fantastic charade caught up to me, but since then I have regrettably turned to one of those boring adults that your existence so fervently combats. Despite this, here I am penning this letter to you as I would an old friend, despite my most hardy resolve, I am grinning like... well, like a child on Christmas.
So Santa, I suppose this is where we stand: on the one side, a closet dreamer dressed up as a dry-wit cynically disenchanted grump who’s favorite party trick is to find setbacks in the most idealistic notions, on the other side, a man who’s existence (or, lack thereof) marks the path to pubescence, yet, one who gave the best gift of all to a child dreaming of the stars, the hope of a dream and the comprehension of beauty that your legend brings with it. Before I delve into my list Santa, I want to thank you. Bantering aside, I want to thank you for the month long Acadia you used to transport me to. Starting with a growing realization that whatever that year may have held, whatever grueling reality I was running from at the time, it was Christmas again; and aside from the rights, wrongs, evils and joys of the year, this was Christmas and this was bliss. Soon followed by that constant glee that surrounded me in the days leading up to your arrival, the giddy, nervous mix of emotions that took hold of me every Christmas Eve, the spurt of innocent energy whilst waiting for your sleigh all through the night. All of this culminating in morning when (with a great lack of consideration for those who did not share the same level of enthusiasm at four in the morning) my over-zealous activities would fill the house with a noise reminiscent of a dying pterodactyl (note, the afore mentioned bird, also note I am still awaiting it’s promised arrival), the following day would always be a fumbling ecstasy of gift giving, receiving, food, and general bliss. The family was together, there was good food and new toys to play with, put simply it was an island of certainty I could constantly rely on to bring my dispersed family under one roof.
Christmases were almost never in the same place twice; we hopped all around the globe, from one continent to another. In all honesty I didn’t mind it, for me Christmas was not confined to one day, one night or a few hours of gift exchange. For me, what made this time of year so special in the past was simply the sense of togetherness and unity that I felt. That was the ultimate magic of Christmas, and without trying to sound too cheesy, it really is a season to be jolly.
Thank you for that Santa, well beyond all the gifts you bought me, the greatest you ever gave me was my family, the rag tag group of people that seem to have nothing in common but each other, you made them come together for one season a year. That is something even my hard cynicism cannot explain without calling it magic.