Christmas Is Too Big For Christ

CHRISTMAS IS TOO BIG FOR CHRIST

Christmas is a time for love,
Despite the hectic push and shove,
We’re reminded that we all are one,
That peace and joy do have a place,
In uniting the human race,
There is something we are all part of,

This spirit Mister Dickens felt,
That makes the hardest Scrooge heart melt,
We can’t risk losing it, no not a smidgeon,
For unity is our motif,
Regardless of our own belief,
That’s too vital to screw up with religion,

The idea sounds quite radical,
He at least needs a sabbatical,
Been more than two millenia,
With all this Jesus business,
The world’s changed more than he could fathom,
We’ve moved on to Lennon’s Imagine,
So though it will offend some, yeah,
Let’s take Christ out of Christmas,

So let’s stick with snow and sleighbells,
Grand hellos and then faretheewells,
Auld Lang Syne, Good will to all you know,
Be it Kwanza, Christmas, Hannukah,
I’ve something here for all of ya,
Come on over ‘neath the mistletoe,

https://soundcloud.com/ken-donner/christmas-is-too-big-for-christ

Best Before Date

http://www.rawstory.com/2015/12/gun-linked-to-paris-attacks-traced-back-to-florida-arms-dealer-implicated-in-iran-contra-scandal/

Bullets have no best before date.
Nor do bombs or landmines.
Things that kill, maim, or mutilate,
Seem to get a pass from time.
But your milk will curdle,
And your bread grow mould,
Veggies become fertile,
Candy hard, chocolate old.
Maybe bullets should go bad.
Perhaps last an hour.
Before turning weak and sad,
And losing all their power.
Instead what gives life,
Is at best fleeting,
Whilst things that take life,
Prove to be time-beating.

Christmas Belongs in December

CHRISTMAS BELONGS IN DECEMBER
We all know there’s a reason,
For stretching out the season,
It’s very clear, no discretion implied,
The market knows what sells,
They ring Pavlov’s Christmas bells,
Knowing we will open up our wallets wide,
Christmas is swell,
Carols and bells,
But bloody hell,
It’s only mid-November,
Christmas time belongs in December!
Sure I like the lights,
All those funny elves in tights,
Food and toys and candy on each shelf,
Peace, goodwill and all that stuff,
You know I just can’t get enough
But I’d rather wait until month number twelve

DEATH DANCE

Arms makers, arms dealers,
I lay you to blame,
You don’t care who’s killing,
Or in what name,
You don’t care who’s dying,
Who’s crippled, who’s lame,
At the end of the day,
All your gold looks the same,
Call me simplistic,
Argue defense,
Behind all your riches,
The sound is nonsense,
You profit through hatred,
It fuels your greed,
Power or religion,
You nurture the seed,
You’ve no motivation,
For bloodshed to cease,
Because there’s no way you
Can profit through peace,
My limit is reached,
My anger is full,
It’s time to scale back,
The whole world’s arsenal,
Call me naïve,
I don’t really care,
As with nuclear weapons,
It must start somewhere,
Maybe not down to zero,
But as close as can be,
A weapon moritorium,
So that we can see,
If we can slow down,
This daily death dance,
And if there’s really a way,
To give Peace a chance.

What if?

What if I find my angel was a demon?
What if I find my wrongs were mostly right?
What if Jim Morrison had been a woman?
These are the things that keep me up at night.

NUANCE & SHADE

You’re the same age as I,
So I want to cry,
“It’s not fair!”,
Though I’m aware,
It doesn’t work that way
Despite what people say,
About fate or destiny,
What will be will just be,
No fair or unfair, no reason no rhyme,
Only what is, what unfolds through time,
And though we have an affect through our push and our shove,
The real truth we reflect,
Is how much of our world we can cover in love,
In every nuance and shade – with each moment passed,
Ever aware each breath could be our last.

Two Locals

Sitting at Tre Vänner, the pub on Svandammsvägen, out the other Midsommarkransen T-bana exit, and 2 minutes from my apartment. Only been here a couple of times before, lastly with the couple I rent from, after I got the keys from them in March 2014. I had no food, or alcohol at home, so decided to come sit, eat, drink, and write. Awful fucking place.
The place is busy, but not packed, and I put my coat at a table for 4 in the corner, trying to find a place out of the way. As I stand being ignored at the bar, a group of 4 comes in. There are other tables available, but the waitress, still waiting for me to amass the required times of being ignored before I get served, decides they must have the table I was going to sit at. Maybe there’s an actual reason, but like many a State secret, it is withheld from me. Possibly for my own protection – like the paper seal on the hotel toilet seat.
Nonetheless, I quickly assess the situation, volunteer that it is indeed my jacket (which must of confused her, since heretofore she thought I was invisible) and offered to move to the bar. The response? A thank you, a how kind of you, a hint of explanation? Nope.
“Vi tar det.” (We’ll take that.)

I find a perfect little spot at the bar, in the corner, my back against the wall, isolated. Where I can write, and observe, and not have to interact with this group of pub staff and regulars I have kindly come to quickly regard as cretins.
The place is nothing like my regular local, the favoured Southside, where I’m made to feel good about myself, against my will and better judgement. Where I relax, and chat, and socialize, and have grown to be spoiled with kind and efficient service by a group of staff who make you feel it’s their absolute pleasure to serve you, and who seem to look forward to seeing you again.
But by and large, the Southside is a shitty place to write. It’s like trying to write at a gathering of family or friends. But this miserable little hole, that seems to begrudge its customer’s existence, and whose customers respond in kind. Where nobody gives a shit what your name is – it’s perfect for writing. I’ll definitely be back.

A Plea From My Civilised Heart

There’s something that irks me.

Very often, when landing on a webpage, before you have even a second to check the page out, you get a pop up. Sometimes small, and in the middle of the screen, and sometimes covering the whole screen. The pop up is asking you to do something, most often to like their site, to receive their newsletter, to rate their site, or of course, to make a purchase.

I haven’t even had a chance to look at the site yet!

It’s like stepping inside a shop and immediately having a salesperson suddenly lunge into your protective boundary, into that moat of emotion that we all keep around us to ward off the world.

It’s bloody rude is what it is.

I would like it to stop. Please.

Fitbit Madness

I threw caution to the wind recently and purchased a Fitbit, partly at the urging of a gorgeous friend, and partly because after gaining 7kg since my heartattack almost 6 months ago I needed something to help stem, or rather turn, the tide. I was a little hesitant, because hey , it’s sort of pricey, and secondly, I’m about as far from a technonerd as you can get. I love it. I absofuckinglutely love it. It’s not so much that it’s technologically superb, measuring steps, pulse, and a multitude of other things, as well as linking to an app that provides personal stats that make me feel like I’m a world class athlete. (who hasn’t wanted THAT kind of pampering!) It lets me compete against friends! What better motivation is there then competing against friends? Okay that may make me sound horrible, but if it gets me off my fat ass (fat stomach more correctly, my ass remains pretty damned fine), it’s all good. I have turned into a walking madman! Today, while surging through the crowds in downtown Stockholm, walking to a friends for dinner after work, I seriously hit the zone. I had already taken a long walk at lunch and hit my 10,000 step daily minimum. So these steps were all gravy. I walked right through the heart of Stockholm, from Globen via Slussen, through Gamla Stan, and up to the top of Drottninggatan, where my friends Steve and Som live. I walked at top speed, weaving in and out of packs of tourists, reading the path ahead of me, slowing as little as possible. Whenever I was forced to slow down by zombies, in my head I became Dustin Hoffman’s character in Midnight Cowboy, “I’m walking here! I’m fucking walking here!” My legs and feet, after first struggling, finally replied “Fuck yeah!” and rose grandly and elegantly to the occasion. This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, me and my Fitbit, and my ass is going to be seriously in shape. Well, not my ass, as we’ve established it’s primo, but the rest of me is going to catch up!

Fear and Loathing Subsides……..

Wow.

It’s June 27th, 2015, ten days after the slaughter in Charleston’s AME church, and a day after Barack Obama delivered a eulogy in that same church, at the funeral of the Reverend Clementa Pinckney.

I have just had to time to watch it in full.

This is a good man. A real man. A man of substance.

I find my thoughts drawn to Hunter S. Thompson. HST was the keenest poltical writer America has ever known, in my opinion. He saw the big picture. Always. In a way it was his curse, and I think what created his cynical, biting edge. But he wasn’t cynical for the sake of cynicism. He was that way because he saw the whole machination at once. Many of us only see the figures that appear out of the cuckoo clock on the hour, but Hunter always saw the wheels behind those doors and understood them. One of his last books was Better Than Sex, an almost grudging tribute to Bill Clinton, whom HST saw as a perfect politician, because of his natural charisma, and his ability to play that machine better than he ever could that saxophone of his.

But HST could not have foreseen Obama. He could not have dared to have hoped that large, except perhaps maybe in his heart of hearts, where only few, if any could see. I think if Hunter were around today, and had not taken himself out (yes, I’m still pissed at him for that, I miss his voice in this world) he would be describing Obama as “the perfect blend”.

Does he know and play the political game? Of course he does. He has to. No one becomes President any other way. But no President in living memory could represent what he stands for, and could have stood in that pulpit, and delivered that eulogy in the way that he did. He did so from his heart, with conviction and passion, and in a way that showed what Christian ideals are when they are understood and lived properly, regardless of the theology. The social side of the church. He did not bow, or hide his faith, nor did he trumpet it as better than any other. Indeed, he spoke of the church’s actions in fighting actively for change as representing not just Christians, but all Americans.

In a time with so many divisions, Barack Obama is a courageous, tireless, intelligent, passionate, unifying force. Sisyphus with a mission. Sisyphus with a quiet stubborn streak. This man is something we have not seen in leadership in a longtime. He is an inspiration.

I am willing to bet that Hunter would have admired Mr.Obama a great deal. Would he have found some stuff to be cynical about and written about that? Of course he would. But looking at the span of what could have been his lifetime – from Richard Nixon, whom he viewed as the epitome of evil, all the way up to Obama, and the escalation of changes in between, I am convinced he would have seen Obama as just that – the perfect blend, and the person America, and the world, was ready for and needed.

May the remainder of his term give him the leeway to continue the path he is on, and has been on from the beginning, and may his legacy become clear in his lifetime, and even moreso in the history to be written.

http://talkingpointsmemo.com/news/obama-clementa-pinckney-eulogy-charleston