Christmas Amendment

In the spirit of the season, and rejecting the spirit of materialism, I propose the following amendment. Gifts may be exchanged if they fall under the following guidelines.

I will not be offended if I don't receive any gifts. 

Presents can be homemade.

Gifts can be bought second hand, as long as I will not be offended if they get re-donated.

I can purchase gifts that are locally made/grown. For example, items from the farmer's market or craft fair.

Presents can be something that you know the person really needs or wants (for example, socks).

Let's appreciate this Christmas season together! 

Signed

___________________

My sister wrote this up two months ago on a scrap sheet of paper. At first it was just an idea, but each of my immediate family plus my sibling's room mate plus my boyfriend signed it. It's only binding to those who enter the agreement. It might sound a little Scrooge-like, but it makes you re-evaluate the whole Christmas thing. 

What do you hope to get out of celebrating Christmas.

With times a bit tighter, out of  our family of  seven, plus the two extras, only two of my younger siblings are regularly employed. My Dad and brothers are waiting to sell a house. The room mate generally doesn't work and my boyfriend and I are both full-time students.

That's not really why this amendment has made us rethink the season, though. We don't need just more stuff. We don't need to just purchase to fill expectations. There has been some incredibly creativity, and a little bit of socially conscious purchasing going on in this household this season. I still have a few friends I shopped for more traditionally... But this Christmas is going to be a little simpler and, in some ways, a little more meaningful.

I absolutely love this time of year! 

However you celebrate, I hope it's an excellent holiday for you! 

Merry Christmas

Artists

I don't think I could do it.

Never wander around, the prisoner of brilliance.  Broke and drunk with ideas.  Passion overcoming practicality.  Romance trumping reality.  I already know it.

My white walls are covered with dynamic magazine pages tacked with painter's tape.  My bottom drawer is full of blue jeans. My fridge holds Orange juice, one percent and a Brita.  I spend on things like snowboarding and Sony stereos on which I occasionally listen to the countdown.  I like Van Gogh's work because his colour and style is beautiful.  I hate Picasso's because it's ugly and doesn't make sense.  I usually sleep at night.  I like being in control of how I feel and how I'm acting.  Anger makes me want to swear, shout and punch things.  Not create a masterpiece.  I read Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes.

So I can't be one of them.  Them with their misbuttoned sweaters, bleary eyes and corduroy.  Loosely masked anarchy, cold apartments, bespecled lovers, ironic welfare cheques.  Sensitive, deep and emotional.  They're closer then me, and they know it.  They're just misunderstood.

I may try, but I won't succeed.

Creating Security

There she is, looking back.  Appearing naked, dishevelled, raw.

This skin, not yet sunkissed.  Curving down her neck, over collar bones.  Yet taut, admittedly.  Soft and clean.  Moisturizer, foundation, concealer and a fight with the shade above her cheeks.  Pale skin and sunblock infused bronzer.  She runs fingers beneath her chin, attempting a seamless meld.

Those cheeks.  Full and prompt to redden with reason.  A brush on the apples.  Blending up and out.  Midnight Rose, today.

These lips.  Capable of forming words to any end.  Needing to be kissed.  Bitten, pursed, twisted, smiling.  Twelve colours to consider.  Lined and dabbed.  "Barely Nude".  Subtle, or so they say.  Stashing the tube in her handbag for emergencies.  A glass of wine, maybe, or absentmindedly licking her lips.

And eyes.  Looking so dull, now, on this face.  The soft gray of pussywillows.  Contacts already in.  Framed by brows she shapes and colours.  She's been told her eyes convey intelligence.  Now she will line them, shadow them, paint the lashes black.  They will stand out.  An artist and her canvas.

Finally genuine.  Ready to face the street.  No hint of last night's late discussion, or the teenage scar on her brow.  Smiling, Crest has taken care of party cigarettes and morning coffee.  Framed by hair carefully sprayed to fall in place.  Straightened to deal with dangerous waves.  Highlighted to look natural.

She's made herself beautiful.