Revels and Rebels II

Dear Santa,

Last year I asked for a revolution. I’m sorry you weren’t able to make me one in time. This year, I hope you will have the time.

Since I last wrote to you, things have got worse as integrity and truth sets sail from England's shores. And with it, we are left to struggle with the lack of political choice, puzzle as to why religious buildings are converted into luxury housing and hold our breath as Democracy is sent to be archived next to Freedom of Speech. Amidst this state of confusion, the media scavenge on the carcass of justice. With all the disillusionment that this has created, should we really be surprised by the disturbing rise of the BMP at a time when X Factor offers a greater voting spectrum, OK magazine has become the modern day scriptures and money has been re-invented as the new Venus? Santa, you’re lucky some people still believe in you.

Yes, I know we have a new decade to look forward to. But as we teeter on the precipice of 2010, what do we believe in? That a text messaging service can confirm if our beloved is compatible. That our opinions are freely stated in the policing of 140 word tweets. That shoulder pads and leggings are here to stay for a little bit longer.

As the pretty lights of Facebook and Reality TV twinkle against the scaremongering of swine flu, we continue to try and live our tidy lives in this fairground of bewilderment. Love and faith have already become casualties of its charade. How long will it take until hope is corroded? Santa, before it is too late, please leave a touch of magic in our stockings this Christmastime to encourage us away from the gild of the carousels and point us towards the revolution of the coconut shy. May each coconut we claim renew our freedom and our humanity.

-------------------

Reference:
Reflections on the year that was 2009
Photo by Brigitta Schneiter on Unsplash

Revels and Rebels XIII

Dear Santa, I’m sat by the Christmas tree. The fairy lights twinkle, the baubles sparkle, and the clip-on-birds look really confused. The white dove is looking at me wondering where peace went, and the robin, having given up on Christmas, is taking a nose dive towards the floor. I understand the birds’ confusion. 2020 is the year where the world turned upside down and inside out. Bound at home, unable to hug friends and visit family, attempting disconnected living in a connected world. Which way is the North Star – who knows? We’re all a bit like Odysseus down here, stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one side you have the rock of reality eroded and twisted by politicians and media. The other side, the six headed monster of big Pharma trading health for profit and barking down contrary ideas to protect financial growth. One thing is for sure, Capitalism is not interested in paying the ransom for Freedom. You’ll be sad to learn that ‘Ho, ho, ho’ went out of the window mont

Revels and Rebels XV

Dear Santa, When I was kid, I created a make believe village. Do you remember it? Every Christmas, between the ages of eight to twelve, I asked for Philip Laureston village figurines – perfectly detailed buildings complete with climbing roses and house signs. My village started with a cottage, the Rose and Crown pub and an oak tree. Over the years it was extended to include a farm, a school, a church, a village hall, shops and a duck pond. Each week I visited the villagers and had delightful conversations and arguments, and in the messiness of my imagination I understood what made their imagined lives happier. I remember one heated debate where the parents demanded a school house because they thought it was inappropriate to educate their children in the Rose and Crown pub. The children rather liked their lessons in the snooker room. The parents won. Since the Pandemic began, I can honestly say that I’ve truly understood what life was really like for my imagined villagers. This idea of

Revels and Rebels XIV

Dear Santa, It's Epiphany. Twelfth Night. You're about to hang up your Christmas sack for the festive season and here I am writing to you with my last-minute request. I know, I'm as irritating as a Christmas Pudding that refuses to light no matter how much warm brandy you pour on it. Soggy Christmas Pudding aside, there is a reason why this letter is late. I've been ruminating over what to wish for. And the thing is this - I still don't know what to wish for. My current plan, or hope, is that in writing to you I might write myself into my wish. The thing is this, since the pandemic began, I'm having trouble finding a way to live in the world. Working out what I must suffer, what I can change. How to navigate sorrow and joy. And how to live with the conflicts within whilst the noise of division and marginalisation rage all around. Sometimes, they become one of the same. Sounds confusing, right? And fuelling this confusion is the general level of fear we have to

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