Bail, part 1

Blue and white capsules floated on the surface, while the heavier, more dense tablets sank to the bottom of the bowl. The bottles had been pretty full. If the flush didn’t sweep them all away the rest would dissolve. Everything dissolves eventually.

The house was quiet, save for the hum of appliance motors, ticking clocks and other devices marking time and distance in their circular precision. A collection of inanimate objects assembled in a way that breathed a mechanical imitation of life into their existence. These things at least were spared the burden of consciousness. There were four walls and a roof with a staggering inventory of items contained therein, yet it was empty, hollow. Echoes of thousands of words whispered from the shadows, mindless chatter that in the end said nothing. This was how he would remember it, if at all.

The car was already loaded, it’s share of household inventory on board to be transported to the next hollow shell they were destined to inhabit. Once there, these would continue their mute existence as before, oblivious to the change of scenery to which they would become a part. Unlike their pilot they would remain unchanged for the journey.  He drove away with nothing in the rear view mirror. Rear view mirrors are illusions: what is behind remains behind.

March in the Midwest is suicide season; the light at the end of the tunnel dims even as arctic air recedes. The white blanket spread upon the land in the preceding weeks is no longer sparkling, pristine crystal. Roadsides are lined with the accumulated removal, skulking mounds shuddering around their icy core. They are weary, turned the same bleak hue as the clouded skies bringing the slow thaw of their pervasive damp. Away from the road in open ground, patches of land are revealed in their sickly brown pallor. Though daylight hours grow, the cold ever returns with the night, unwilling still to relinquish it’s hold. The sleeping earth is unfolded still lifeless, awaiting renewal. For those who make winters an annual soul cage the faltering light of hope on the March horizon is a fragile thing, easily extinguished by an early spring snowstorm. Each new cloud front carries with it the threat of extermination.

The monotonous landscape played in the car windows for miles. The only escape from the gaping maw was southbound now.  I-75, a piece of old Ike’s interstate system which ran along the route of the old Dixie Highway, marked a trail of tears for the many and varied rites of passage for generations of restless youth. It marked a route for spring break for many, a path of flight to anonymity for others: both escapes, distinguished only by their differing durations. He had himself traveled this highway as an economic refugee in the early ‘80s, one of hundreds of thousands of young people from the rust belt who descended upon the sun belt for work. They came, worked, then returned to Norma Jean or Betty Sue, or whoever waited for them back home. They went on to make the rest of their adult lives there, only to then sell off the home, pack up the RV and once again flee to the lands of fairer winds.

He’d forced himself to push on past the cold, inhospitable rust of Cincinnati. Even here, as far south as the Ohio River, the land was still held in the clutches of that ubiquitous grey. Low, grey cloud pregnant with the cool grey mists, inviting the parting season to linger on under protection of the shroud. Truck trailers, cars, the streets themselves, all were dusted in a fine grey powder of salt. Snow piles here had been relegated to those few mounds still cowering in the corners of mall parking lots, like a rearguard covering the flank of winter’s slow retreat, they stand as the final snows to melt. As he crossed the river into Kentucky, he noted that even the bloated, brown waters of the Ohio had taken on a grey cast from the dull reflection of the skies. In twenty minutes he was beyond the north Kentucky suburbs of Newport, Florence, Walton, approaching the 71/75 split.  Six hours. It was a good place to stop. Get fuel and decide: onward to Louisville to pick up 65 south or remain on 75 and make for Florida.

He found a BP station with a Mini-Mart that was easy off/easy on from the interstate and wheeled into the first pump available. As he stood by the pump, blankly staring at the digits rolling by on the display, he considered what else he might want to grab from inside. Occasional gusts swept across the lot carrying the faintest hint of warm, salt water as borne upon the winds from the far distant Gulf. On that particular day it smelled like freedom; on another day it might just have smelled of low tide. With the tank filled he replaced the nozzle to it’s cradle and headed into the store for a bathroom stop and a soda. He still had not decided which route he would take ahead.

He’d advanced to within ten or twelve steps of the door when he first took notice of the girl. A couple of steps to the left of the exit door she was propped up against the wall, slumping downward as though she were melting off the side of the building. She was clad in an olive drab, army surplus jacket, with the pastel pink of a hooded sweatshirt blooming from behind the collar. From beneath the hem of the jacket  her legs protruded in the “skinny” jeans that were in fashion, terminating in the incongruous pair of black Converse sneakers. She was a little waif of a thing, surely not an inch taller than five feet, and were it not for the bright splash of the sweatshirt about her neck she would have simply blended right into the wall. As he neared the door he gained a better look at her. She had a thick, brunette mane of somewhat wiry hair, tossed about unruly in the gathering breeze. A tiny hand emerged from one of the sleeves to brush her hair back, revealing the sunken and hollow eyes of a junkie.

“Hey mister! Ya got a cigarette?”

At first he wasn’t certain that she had been speaking to him. He heard the question and was close enough by then to get a look into those eyes. Within the sunken and dark-ringed sockets deep brown orbs still flickered with a trace of the plaintive charm of her youth. They were the one aspect of her emaciated face that still showed signs of whatever fire of life still resided in her.

“Uh, no, sorry, I gave ‘em up sweetheart.” 

She managed a weak smile, nodding in acceptance, though her body language seemed to slump further in defeat. He moved past and entered the store. Encounters like the one he’d just had were fairly commonplace and typically forgotten within moments. He found the restroom, finished his business there and then searched the cooler doors for Mountain Dew. After retrieving a 20 oz. bottle from the shelf he walked across the aisles to quickly survey what junk food was on offer, but decided against anything. A bit of a line had formed at the register. He took his place at the end of the line to patiently await his turn.

With only so many things to look at inside of a gas station mini-mart his gaze was inevitably drawn outside. Over the shoulder of the cashier there was a window with a clear view to the lot beyond. Through there he could see that the girl was still out front in the same spot. As he waited two more people came to the entrance, each of these also greeted with what he assumed were further requests for cigarettes. The next customer in line decided to buy a sampler package of lottery tickets and there were yet two more customers ahead of him after that. It was obvious there would be a few more minutes to wait. For no reason he could think of he stepped away from the line and went over to the door to poke his head outside.

“Hey! What’s your name?”

She seemed startled at first and then the smile. “I’m Tammy.”

“What kinda smokes ya like?”

A light came upon her face like a child opening a present. “For real? Uh, Camel filters...”

She was still saying something else as he ducked back inside. He grabbed another bottle of Mountain Dew and then resumed his previous place in line. After a few more minutes his transaction was completed and he exited the store with the sodas and a pack of Camel filters.

“Hey Tammy. Here ya go. I got ya a pack of smokes and I hope ya like Mountain Dew.”

“Holy shit! Thanks! I don’t have any money, uh… ”

“No, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” He was ready to wave it off and return to the highway when suddenly, for no cause he could fathom, he decided to talk with her further. She had the sickly cast of skin common to junkies, a Goodwill wardrobe, begging cigarettes outside of an interstate gas station. He might just as easily have found this girl at a downtown bus station. She was running from something. Then again so was he. “ So… ya waitin’ on somebody?” A brief shadow of suspicion crossed her face.

“Yer not a cop, are ya?”

“Me? Hell no! What, do I look like a cop?”

It was the first time he had seen her smile. It was electric, a broad, kind and innocent smile that would seem better paired with freckles and pig-tails. It was at one time: some missing teeth rendered it to broken toy status in her mind, causing her to self consciously bring a hand to cover her mouth. “ Yeah, ya kinda do!”

“Really? Shit, man! That sucks!”

“Well, okay… ya don’t look like a cop, but you look like you could be.”

“You wanna see some ID?”

She laughed again, now careful to keep her dental imperfections obscured. “ No, we’re cool, uh… what was your name?”

“I’m Vic.”

“Okay, Vic. So, seriously, uh,thanks for the smokes.”

“Oh, no problem. So, uh… you need a lift somewhere or something?”

“I’ve always been more of an or something girl. Where ya headed?”

He couldn’t say he didn’t know. Could he? Really, what difference did it make? “South. No point certain. Just south.”

She drew from her cigarette impassively, affecting a Gallic indifference. “No point certain. Yeah, that’s kinda where I was headin’.”

“Well I’m getting ready to go, so if I can give you a lift somewhere?”

Her face suddenly brightened. “Can you take me back up into Cincy?”

He wasn’t really keen on heading back into the city, but he had asked. It wouldn’t take that much time and he didn’t plan on pushing too much further before he would stop and get a hotel for the night. “Sure, I can do that for you. Come on, I’m over here”, he gestured towards the deep blue sedan at pump number 5. “You can smoke in the car, but ya gotta crack the window. Passenger side should be unlocked.”

Inside the car was still warm as he turned the key. The fasten seatbelt chime had just begun to ring as she pulled the passenger door closed. They exchanged a brief and awkward eye contact, there in such a confined space, as they engaged their buckles. Smoke had just begun to gather in rings about her head when she found the switch to crack the window. The sudden updraft caught thin wisps of her wiry hair, drawing them up to entangle with escaping smoke to form a wreath about her face. For the first time he noticed that there were shadows of freckles on her cheeks.

“How old are you? Do I need to ID you?”

She giggled. “What?! I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”

“Old enough to be your daddy.” His response came out a little more gruff than he intended.

“You ride me up to Cincy and you can be my daddy. For a while.”

This was a response loaded with implications. He had not offered the ride with the idea that she was a prostitute. There was perhaps some part in the back of his mind that recognized the possibility from the moment he’d spotted her outside the station, but he had not entered this as a solicitation arrangement. As he pulled off of the lot and back towards the northbound on ramp he was asking himself if he would pay to have sex with this girl. It seemed she was offering and he could not find a single reason to say no. 

“So what’s up in Cincy that’s so important?”

She pouted, ignoring the question. “You don’t wanna be my daddy?”

“You want me to be your daddy?”

She grinned, again drawing up a hand to hide her smile. “Maybe I do. We’ll see. I need to get some of my pills.”

He’d had her made as a junkie from the start. Oddly he was a little relieved to discover her poison was pills instead of the needle. So she wasn’t a prostitute by trade; just by opportunity.

“What kinda pills, sweetheart?”

“Oxys. Ever try ‘em?”

“I’ve had vicodin. Those are pretty good.”

“No shit! You like to party?”

“I’m an old stoner who went legit.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

He had to stop for a time to consider the broader implications of this question. Was it a matter of her not being familiar with the term? Or was she questioning the general premise? 

“It means I went over to the dark side.”

“Gotcha.”

He had answered while still considering the premise of going legit. What does that even mean? His flippant reply had seemed to satisfy her curiosity on the matter. The fact that she accepted the answer so readily somehow affirmed his suspicion that it was, in fact, an unvarnished truth.

 

The Dragon

Here is one fished out from another archive. We hope you will enjoy. It's a tale that should ring familiar...

Once there was a peaceful realm of woodcutters and farmers. It wasn’t a kingdom so much as a loose collective, assumed by general consensus. Peaceful must always be understood as a relative term, as petty quarrels will always arise. Thus is nature and likewise the nature of man. Nevertheless, we may say that within this realm good will and honest toil to the general benefit of all prevailed. There were no princes or kings among them as there was found no need for these.

Life continued in this happy fashion for some generations. The inhabitants of the realm were content to apply their various talents and enjoy the fruits thereof; in short, to prosper. They did not concern themselves with those quarrels outside their realm and dealt in their own fashion with those which should arise from within. Their’s was not a paradise, for inequality and injustice still existed within their borders. Still, they had no need of code or statute; accepting that natural law is realized, for good or ill, as Nature will ever find her own balance. Thus was it that their society, while as imperfect as any other of man’s creations, was more just than that of all others.

As the virtue of their industry multiplied they became known to other realms. Their people prospered further from trade with those outside of their own boundaries. This indeed led to an exchange in human capital as well, for they welcomed those from kingly realms to join in their good fortunes. No titles did they wield, nor banners did they fly. Their home was known only as the land beyond scrutiny.

Kings and princes of other realms observed this fair land of woodcutters and farmers, and with time grew concerned that as the reputation became more broadly known to their own subjects, they should become aware of their rulers’ shortcomings. Among the various courts of these realms it was thought for some time that there should be a net benefit in the exodus of their people to this strange and distant land beyond scrutiny. However, over time they learned that the opposite was true. The tradesmen, artisans, the skilled of their populations were the ones to leave. As news of their successes in their new home spread back to their peers there were still more queuing to leave. Finding their extravagant treasuries sagging in tax collections, the kings and princes convened to plot a solution. Being over leveraged, they invited the money-changers to join them in forming their plans.

King Archos was the greatest among them and assumed the direction of their royal confab. With him was his chief money-changer, Neotoma, and the rest of his beady eyed associates. There were many ideas debated in this forum. Some suggested that they should combine their navies, or perhaps contract mercenaries and pirates, to disrupt their trade upon the seas and lay blockades upon their ports. This led in turn to the idea that mercenaries might be employed to raid and pillage those lands, stealing their treasures and terrorizing their people. There were those who favored the approach of barring the exit of their skilled subjects and instead export their own human refuse as a burden to their economies. All of these ideas and more were found to have merit. Inevitably it was asked, “Why not do all of these?”

King Archos was the most shrewd of them all. All of the suggestions were sound, in his opinion, yet he considered that even with all employed at once they might only be setting themselves up for a prolonged battle. In the grand scheme of things this did not suit his ultimate objective. Prolonged battles are taxing upon the treasury. Further, and most importantly, a prolonged battle increased exposure of the idea that others might prosper absent the benign rule of their leaders. He alone saw clearly that this and this alone posed the greatest danger to their interests. There was still something missing from these plans.

After a time Neotoma cleared his throat and rose to address the assembly in his reedy voice. “You are all making this too complicated. What you need here is a dragon.” From the sudden murmur that arose from their number some were heard to ask out loud, “A dragon? What should a dragon accomplish?” King Archos, intrigued at this, rose to quiet the room.

“Please, my brethren. Let us have order”, he exclaimed, and turned to Neotoma. “Please go on, Neotoma. Explain.”

“Thank you, my liege. I and my esteemed colleagues may, for a nominal fee of course, conjure a dragon which we shall loose upon these simple peasants. Their people may already know of our navies and armies. If we should employ those, or even mercenaries under no banner at all, they may learn more of them and imitate these methods. With their demonstrated industry and known resources they will in little time be able to effectively resist. A dragon is not known to them. A dragon will strike fear into even their boldest hearts. And they are unable to conjure dragons of their own to defeat it. Only another dragon may defeat a dragon. A dragon will plunder their treasures and store them into a hoard and once there is enough? We will then conjure another dragon to wrest away that hoard for our own.”

The room was silenced, so in awe were the kings and princes of this diabolical plan. Heads began to nod at the brilliance of it and voices began to cry out, “Yes! Send the dragon!” King Archos was pleased, though he solemnly weighed this plan and was left to conclude one shortcoming.

“Neotoma your idea has found favor. Indeed, there is little fault to be found in it, yet I fear that you may be too focused upon only the treasures. What of their peoples? Do you suggest that your dragon may slay them all? “

Neotoma’s eyes squinted into ever narrower slits. His hands folded upon themselves at his chest and he offered a gracious bow. “Ah, my liege, herein lies the true brilliance of this remedy. The dragon may very well slay them all, but that is not required. We may slay one half and enslave the other. Once they become aware that they may not defeat the dragon, we shall come to afford them our protections and be welcomed as heroes.”

King Archos was instantly struck with the sheer and beautiful simplicity of this plan. His mind leaped instantly to it’s ingenious conclusion. To assure the others present who may not have reached it, he encouraged Neotoma to continue.

“Yes, for you see once we should come as saviors we shall inform them all that we too have suffered this scourge, but that our law and custom (under your wise rule, of course) has saved us. We will teach them to institute a lottery to appease the dragon. They will see that submitting to this rule shall permit them to still enjoy a share of their labors, whilst our rule will spare them utter destruction. If they will accept this most barbaric tenet in exchange for their safety, then surely it will be no time at all until they should destroy themselves. Then we shall be left to rule and take from whatever is left.”

Thus was the end of natural law and the ascent of the rule of man, until the land beyond scrutiny was forever lost. It is now known only in legend, like the lost continent of Atlantis. Men still dream of it, others still seek it, but her history now sleeps beneath the waves where only fish may know.

 

Hope you will enjoy today's feature, Ugly

That's it for us this week. We will have a few shorter features over the next few weeks, hopefully with another Christmas holiday tale to post on the Solstice. If you are in that frame of mind, until then, we might recommend last year's Christmas tale, A Night at the Parliament, found in our December 2024 archive.

Ugly

 

Before you begin, friends...

We recommend that you watch the video first (that's why we put it at the top). The whole thing is a bit past fifteen minutes. You'll get the whole entree in about fourteen. I stumbled across this and found that it stirred some thoughts I have had around this general topic: why is the modern world so damned ugly? It's a good question and a discussion worth having. So, what follows are my thoughts, for whatever they're worth. We would encourage you to visit Mr. Quirke's site, linked in his video.

I'll have to admit that I have often used this quote as, "Art exists that we do not go mad."  To cite either of these as the actual quote is an imprecise translation. Nietzsche arguably expressed this idea in various ways and times in his life, but generally this quote is pegged to his 1888 work, Will to power. The proper translation is rendered as, "We possess art lest we perish from truth." These are eight words that speak volumes.

The overt suggestion of this phrase offers the idea of art as an object to possess, as a physical shield from truth. The more subtle, though no less profound suggestion being that truth may somehow be harmful, even unto death. The phrase becomes an allegory to support the broader thesis that truth is ugly: 

 "For a philosopher to say, 'The good and the beautiful are one,' is infamy; if he goes on to add, 'also the true,' one ought to thrash him. Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish from truth." (Will to Power; Section 822)

Ugly is one of those words, like art, which is generally subjective. The best we can do in assigning a definition is to arrive at a broad consensus as to what exactly constitutes "ugly". Sometimes, in fact most times, the best understanding of the meaning of a word is to go back to the word's origin. Ugly was born of Middle English, first appearing in the thirteenth century. It has an old Norse pedigree, from the word uggligr; to be dreaded. This descends from the verb ugga; to dread. According to the lads over at OED the prime definition of the adjective ugly is: unpleasant to look at. There is a tiny bit of nuance, but essentially the original intent shines through.

Without wading into the murky waters of personal opinions and preferences, we will err to the side of caution and operate with this as our definition. Nietzsche could have said those very words, not ugly, instead that Truth is unpleasant to look at. Everyone can grasp this idea, in any language. It is with this spirit of the word that we arrive at young Mr. Quirke's observations, beginning with the simple lamp post.

by their fruits ye shall know them  

Ah, here is an oldie, but a goody! Remember this one from your Sunday School days? Matthew 7:16. Now don't get alarmed and go checking for other signs of the apocalypse. I have not been ordained by any religious order, nor do I plan to be. This is less a matter of an aversion to the faith, more a matter of not wishing to be in any club that would have me as a member. I cite this scripture because it is illustrative to this discussion. Good trees bear good fruit, while bad trees... bear bad fruit. Or none.

Early in his presentation Mr. Quirke makes an observation about lamp posts, lamp posts which are 150 years apart from one another. He then reminds us: "If you want to understand any society, don't listen to what it says about itself. Look at what it creates."  What a society creates is the manifestation of those things which a society values.

The selection of the filming locations, as well as the filming itself, was brilliant throughout this feature. Quirke walks down centuries' old alleys, describing how that very space had once served as a canal of human waste and disease, a segue to his tale of Joseph Bazalgette's modern sewer system. We are given the visual of the place in it's modern iteration, though it is a look to the quaint Victorian past. The stark contrast captured between Victorian Era and modern London is quite striking. It hammers home the broader theme throughout. While Mr. Quirke's subject case is London, we can easily examine any modern city in the western world through the same lens.

Quirke observes that at the time of their initial lighting, in 1870, the lamp posts installed atop Bazalgette's embankment were the first public lighting project in London. It was a big deal, like the I-phone in 2007. For lights on a sewer embankment. Which are still in service today. Anyone still have a first generation I-phone? And, aesthetically, is there any difference from whatever number I-phone they are on to now?

We are further introduced to another piece of Bazalgette's legacy, the Crossness Sewage Pumping Station. Quirke reminds us that this was infrastructure, a facility dedicated to the sole purpose of processing human waste. It has long since been removed from service yet stands today as a museum. A sewage pumping station. We are also shown the replacement, which is by comparison certainly, at least, unpleasant to look at. Well, one should not expect that things dedicated to performing what is an ugly task to be attractive. Or at least we don't, but Quirke shows us that the Victorians thought differently. They valued craftsmanship. There was pride in even the mundane and ordinary. As Quirke concludes, echoing an earlier sentiment: "If you want to know what any society really believes in, look at how they design their sewers." 

These artifacts are but a taste of the Victorian legacy. These are their creations, the fruit of their tree if you will. It is by their works that we may know them. Even something as unpleasant as sewage, something so ugly, still bears their aesthetic values. These things stand as a testament to the wealth and technological prowess of a society that could deliver such advancements, while still emulating a classical tradition. There is no good reason, technically speaking, for placing such adornments upon the management of waste, other than to demonstrate that such things mattered to them.

What then of our modern age? What do our creations tell about our society? Quirke starts with the ubiquitous air conditioning unit as the contrast. It's as good a place as any to begin, a post Victorian innovation manifested in our modern infrastructure. It cries out to the world that we have not only mastered the science of wastewater management in the ensuing 150 years. It projects a society that has mastered a technology of climate control, so much so as to have the capability of mass production of the technology for delivery to the masses. I don't know that the Victorians even had electric fans. If they did, I'm certain that it was a luxury only enjoyed by the upper strata of their society. With beautifully detailed, ornate design, no doubt. As Quirke notes, it might cost a little more, but we absolutely possess the ability to produce AC units that could at least attempt to be more aesthetically pleasing. But we don't. Instead, they are ugly and worse: they're boring.

It is profit over pretty. Quirke states it, and I happen to agree, that maybe that is okay. Profit is not a dirty word, as some might have you believe. Within our theme of trees and the fruit they bear, this model is best illustrated by an actual fruit tree. If one were to cultivate a fruit tree, let's say a pear tree for example, and the only goal was for the tree to bear the maximum amount of fruit, then this is surely done. With proper care and nurturing the goal may be achieved. What must be understood, however, is that one is not making better fruit, just more of it.

In a competitive marketplace, manufacturers have an incentive to produce a product that is superior in performance, thus providing their customers the incentive to choose their product as the best value. In a monopolized market, this dynamic vanishes. In the monopolized market one need only produce the most pears for the lowest cost. The decisions taken by a producer in such a market are based solely upon what is convenient for the producer. There is no consideration of the desire of the market, the convenience to the consumer.

There is no better example of a monopoly than the BMV. Their customers are compelled by law to purchase their "product". They have no competition. There is not another BMV that customers can go to. When one goes to a retail establishment, the closest parking is reserved for their customers, while employee parking is relegated to the back forty. Not so at the BMV! Front rows reserved for employee parking. The customer's convenience be damned. If your renewal is in January or February be prepared to hike one-hundred yards through the frozen slush. Much of our modern world has been relegated to the BMV model.

The creation of our society says that we are technologically advanced. Convenience is king. And that we are, in fact, rather dull, unimaginative and wasteful. Add lazy and severely compromised in attention span. Somehow all of that adds up to ugly. This ugliness has infected every facet of our modern society, even the arts. If we hold up a mirror to what our society has created, the image in that mirror will reflect the truth. This truth is too ugly for us to behold. Let us have art that we do not perish of our own reflection.

One of the things that impressed me most when first viewing this feature was when Quirke reminds us that, "it's vital we accept that there is another way".  For all of it's other merits, this one phrase alone caused me to share this article with our audience. One will find that this is a theme very often captured in numerous short stories that have been featured on Midnight and other beasts.

There is always another way

Hefty

 

Tough enough to overstuff

I'm afraid there isn't a garbage bag big enough for this turd. This turd is a pipe plugger. Every last one of these melon heads need the boot. They are backward savages that will not assimilate into this melting pot. A total net negative having them here. Does this make me a racist? Well, sonofabitch! Guess I'm a racist. SO SUE ME

Welcome back to ordinary time....

Here we are, at the other end of the time warp known as the Thanksgiving weekend. For much of the previous four days, at least in the US, time has been suspended. Though not universal, the four-day Thanksgiving weekend has become the norm for a fair majority of Americans. While each of the four days are not officially designated as holidays, it is generally accepted that they are not in any way productive and reserved for the pursuit of sloth and gluttony. We here at Midnight and other beasts sincerely hope that you all got your share.

For those familiar with the Roman Catholic (and some Protestant) traditions, one knows of the Liturgical Calendar. For those not familiar at all, this calendar serves as sort of a season program for church services. In addition to a weekly schedule, the calendar has distinct demarcations of various seasons and feasts, alternating between penance and celebration. Those days within the calendar, which are not within any of these demarcations, are known as "ordinary time".

The final day of this Thanksgiving weekend, 30 November, marks the first Sunday of Advent in the Liturgical Calendar. It also, as Advent does, marks the start of a new liturgical year. Within the modern, secular reality that most people navigate this means nothing. We're still on someone else's calendar, wrestling against one or more arbitrary deadlines set by others, or by ourselves. We are attuned to the Christmas shopping season, which actually overlaps the Thanksgiving weekend, beginning as it does on Black Friday. With sloth and gluttony already well represented, it hardly seems right that greed should be excluded.

The spirit of Advent is lost. The season that was meant for quiet reflection, patient and careful preparation for the light to come, has been supplanted by a frenzied season of commercial indulgence. For most, the only remaining vestiges of Advent are the calendars, stuffed with everything from stockings to shortbread. We've left ourselves little room for patience and quiet. We've abandoned the ritual of preparing that wreath and lighting the candles every Sunday. The Christian holy days have been overtaken by the secular holidays.

To you, our readers, this may seem to be little more than another of countless laments voiced at this time of year, every year, for the erosion of our holiday traditions. You're not entirely wrong. It is a lament, of sorts; yet it is not. You see, this has happened before. Many of the Christmas holiday traditions to which we have grown accustomed, are in fact pagan traditions which were co-opted by the Roman Church during their first "World Conversion Tour" (590-1095 CE). This goes down right to the very date of Christmas Day, the birth of the Christ. December 25 just happens to coincide with the more ancient Feast of Mithras, a common custom among the Gentiles of the region. Other pagan traditions marked the Winter Solstice as a feast day. 

I'm confident that most of our audience is already familiar with these facts. I will take this occasion to add yet another aspect to consider surrounding the Nativity story. In the season of that blessed event in Bethlehem, the Julian calendar which we know today, had only been established by Rome a mere forty-five years prior. We'll call that two generations. In a world where maybe five percent of the population could read. Despite Rome's proclamations, most indigenous peoples of the region, if they operated under any calendar at all, it was likely one based upon the lunar cycle. The ultimate point being that no one can say, with absolute certainty, what date Jesus of Nazareth was born. And so, we settle upon this date, December 25, as being the day, for right or wrong. Christmas is the only religious holiday that is also designated a federal holiday. The Romans would be proud.

When one starts to examine the calendar of federal holidays, it would seem that it approaches the character of a liturgical calendar, albeit with dates spaced more evenly throughout the year. There are federal holidays, weekends and those odd days strung in between. Then there is ordinary time. They are better to stick with the model of co-opting the prior regime, adopting the term ordinary time. A better term for these days would be "slave days", but that is another conversation.

I can easily imagine a progression here. Eventually there will be a federal holiday, known as the Feast of Saint Halas, which would run from Thanksgiving Day until December 24. Hell, it's not like there are any federal employees working those dates now. The feds can auction off naming rights every so many years for this, and other extended holidays. This Easter/Vernal Equinox celebration brought to you by the makers of Wegovy. Independence Week celebration sponsored by the Gates Foundation, because... fuck you! And all of the other little days and weeks between will be officially designated Ordinary Time.

Until that happens, the Monday after Thanksgiving still feels very, very much like a return to ordinary time.

Hope you all have a great week. At least an okay week. Or don't and you could always lie about it. We'd never know the difference. Coming up this week on Midnight and other beasts...

An article titled Ugly. And maybe some other stuff...