...because I'm a sucker , okay?
Dec. 25th, 2003 09:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lavandarlizard2Christmas sucks. Bah, humbug. The Grinch was right. Scrooge wussed out.
...and happy holidays to y'all.
Ii Kibarashi - ‘Tis the Season
I catch snatches of conversation around me in the shops and on the streets; people oohing and aahing over merchandise, parents trying to pry children away from impossible displays of toys, games and other stuff that the kids probably already have too much of anyway. A kid screaming because his mother told him ‘no’ about something. A couple of teenaged girls whispering about a third girl who longingly fingers the fabric of a particularly gaudy garment. A group of teenaged boys trash-talking as they amble boldly down the sidewalk, not caring that other people have a right to that same sidewalk. Scenes of the ‘season’ as well. The woman in the severe dark uniform ringing the bell next to her cauldron while another woman fumbles in her purse for loose change. A pair of bemused men being towed along by a woman with the light of battle in her eyes, heading into a department store already impossibly crowded. A young boy pointing impatiently at something in a window display while his father rolls his eyes and sighs.
A man and a woman arguing next to a car. She’s almost crying, her eyes wet and wobbly, her hands beginning to shake. He slams the car door violently, almost catching one of her hands. I stop walking and look at him. It takes him a few seconds, but he notices me noticing him, and glares at me.
Don’t like it when someone catches you, do you asshole, I think to myself.
His glare begins to break up under my scrutiny. His face reddens under my warning gaze. The woman is wiping her eyes with a tissue, not realising that the argument has moved on. She starts to say something, stops, and begins again. Her voice is soft and low. She does something with her hands and something small drops onto the pavement. He is still trying to stare me down, pumping out testosterone at an alarming level. He doesn’t even notice as she turns away, hitching the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder.
Yes, I think, go now. This isn’t the one you need; it won’t hurt for long. Better this small hurt now than the big hurt later.
She is halfway across the lot before he even notices. He does a classic cartoon ‘take’, at her, at me. Starts to follow her, stops, glares at me, takes another step after her, looks at me again.
I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, but he suddenly pales, his whole body seems to shrink, and he looks scared and guilty, fidgeting now with his keys and unable to look away from me.
I look down slowly, at the glittering object on the pavement near his feet.
He looks down, sees it and snatches it up. His anger builds again, and I can feel the word on his lips; an ugly unnecessary word aimed at someone he claimed to ‘love.’
He looks at me, looks again at the woman, now walking briskly along the sidewalk, almost to the corner. Looks at me again, venom once again filling him.
I catch his eyes, hold them, refuse to let him look away. He falters quickly; his kind always do. I lift one eyebrow slightly; he knows now.
He jerks around and flings himself into the car, the engine roars and it lurches out of the parking slot, rights itself with a shudder, and then lunges down the aisle to the exit. It turns away from where the woman has gone, and disappears in a spray of dirt.
“What an idiot!” exclaims a voice behind me. “Damn fool’ll hit someone!”
“Or run a red light and cause a crash!” adds another voice.
“Damn punks,” grumbles the first voice. “In my day, you didn’t behave that way…”
The voices fade, two people heading for their own car, righteous for having survived their own youth.
I walk on. Past the kids bouncing impatiently as parents extricate a baby from a carseat. Past the street violinist and the small group listening to his mournful playing. Past the two men struggling to lift a gawdawful huge box into the back of a pickup - looks like someone is getting his big screen TV this year.
Into the alley, out the other end, across the less-traveled side street to the shop that lifts my spirits for some reason. No toys, no electronic gadgets, no mine-is-bigger-better-faster-has-more-watts-horsepower-megs-bells-and-whistles-than-yours. No arguments over cost or need or which is better. Just memories of a touch I never knew, a smile I never saw, a heart I never doubted. A place filled with fluff and sparkle and imagination, and a faint tiny murmur in the back of my mind, of a lullaby I never heard.
I step through the door and the woman behind the counter looks up from a pile of that fluff.
“Duo! How nice to see you!”
I can’t help grinning, seeing the kinship there. “Hi Danielle. I want to make something…”
...because christmas is having someone to give to...
...and happy holidays to y'all.
Ii Kibarashi - ‘Tis the Season
I catch snatches of conversation around me in the shops and on the streets; people oohing and aahing over merchandise, parents trying to pry children away from impossible displays of toys, games and other stuff that the kids probably already have too much of anyway. A kid screaming because his mother told him ‘no’ about something. A couple of teenaged girls whispering about a third girl who longingly fingers the fabric of a particularly gaudy garment. A group of teenaged boys trash-talking as they amble boldly down the sidewalk, not caring that other people have a right to that same sidewalk. Scenes of the ‘season’ as well. The woman in the severe dark uniform ringing the bell next to her cauldron while another woman fumbles in her purse for loose change. A pair of bemused men being towed along by a woman with the light of battle in her eyes, heading into a department store already impossibly crowded. A young boy pointing impatiently at something in a window display while his father rolls his eyes and sighs.
A man and a woman arguing next to a car. She’s almost crying, her eyes wet and wobbly, her hands beginning to shake. He slams the car door violently, almost catching one of her hands. I stop walking and look at him. It takes him a few seconds, but he notices me noticing him, and glares at me.
Don’t like it when someone catches you, do you asshole, I think to myself.
His glare begins to break up under my scrutiny. His face reddens under my warning gaze. The woman is wiping her eyes with a tissue, not realising that the argument has moved on. She starts to say something, stops, and begins again. Her voice is soft and low. She does something with her hands and something small drops onto the pavement. He is still trying to stare me down, pumping out testosterone at an alarming level. He doesn’t even notice as she turns away, hitching the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder.
Yes, I think, go now. This isn’t the one you need; it won’t hurt for long. Better this small hurt now than the big hurt later.
She is halfway across the lot before he even notices. He does a classic cartoon ‘take’, at her, at me. Starts to follow her, stops, glares at me, takes another step after her, looks at me again.
I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, but he suddenly pales, his whole body seems to shrink, and he looks scared and guilty, fidgeting now with his keys and unable to look away from me.
I look down slowly, at the glittering object on the pavement near his feet.
He looks down, sees it and snatches it up. His anger builds again, and I can feel the word on his lips; an ugly unnecessary word aimed at someone he claimed to ‘love.’
He looks at me, looks again at the woman, now walking briskly along the sidewalk, almost to the corner. Looks at me again, venom once again filling him.
I catch his eyes, hold them, refuse to let him look away. He falters quickly; his kind always do. I lift one eyebrow slightly; he knows now.
He jerks around and flings himself into the car, the engine roars and it lurches out of the parking slot, rights itself with a shudder, and then lunges down the aisle to the exit. It turns away from where the woman has gone, and disappears in a spray of dirt.
“What an idiot!” exclaims a voice behind me. “Damn fool’ll hit someone!”
“Or run a red light and cause a crash!” adds another voice.
“Damn punks,” grumbles the first voice. “In my day, you didn’t behave that way…”
The voices fade, two people heading for their own car, righteous for having survived their own youth.
I walk on. Past the kids bouncing impatiently as parents extricate a baby from a carseat. Past the street violinist and the small group listening to his mournful playing. Past the two men struggling to lift a gawdawful huge box into the back of a pickup - looks like someone is getting his big screen TV this year.
Into the alley, out the other end, across the less-traveled side street to the shop that lifts my spirits for some reason. No toys, no electronic gadgets, no mine-is-bigger-better-faster-has-more-watts-horsepower-megs-bells-and-whistles-than-yours. No arguments over cost or need or which is better. Just memories of a touch I never knew, a smile I never saw, a heart I never doubted. A place filled with fluff and sparkle and imagination, and a faint tiny murmur in the back of my mind, of a lullaby I never heard.
I step through the door and the woman behind the counter looks up from a pile of that fluff.
“Duo! How nice to see you!”
I can’t help grinning, seeing the kinship there. “Hi Danielle. I want to make something…”
...because christmas is having someone to give to...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-12-26 06:12 pm (UTC)sorry you had such a crappy christmas. *huggles you*
no subject
Date: 2003-12-27 12:44 pm (UTC)And this little spur-of-the-moment diversion is in no way the usual for me. Sometimes I just get lucky. I will admit that a certain level of 'pissed' helps, but sometimes it doesn't go over well with others.
Irritated as I may get, I *do* try to remember that most people didn't pick their religion; they were born to it, and have become rather attached. But sometimes, boy, I just want to... well, fire up the barby and throw some meat on the grill.
To avoid becoming the lead on the 5 o'clock news, I write. Hmm... That's why my ex-husband is still alive. If I couldn't either write or crochet, he'd be a charbroiled chunk serving as christmas dinner to the furry woodland creatures...
But I digress... And that's probably waaay TMI.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-27 09:43 pm (UTC)ooh... you can crochet? Hm... too bad you're so far away or I'd bug you to teach me. I can sort of knit. that's all. ;_;
Well, I for one am glad that you take out your frusterations writing and I'm glad you had a pretty good day despite all the rest of the shit that's going on in your life. *hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 12:43 pm (UTC)It keeps my hands out of the Doritos bag. And insures that the cat is always happy.
And the last time someone came to my door selling their religion, I invited them in and fed them to the dragons and the gargoyles. Not to the hamsters, though; they were on a diet right then.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 01:02 pm (UTC)I know what you mean. Most people I know are knitters and so I've learned a bit of that but I can't find a crocheter to save my life so I'm trying to figure it out on my own and that isn't working out so good.
You make kitty sweaters? hehehhe...that's so cute.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-29 10:21 pm (UTC)I've never had a cat you see, so I do'nt know this kind of thing. We've always had dogs so far. =) Usually we contend with the drool and "nonononno! Do'nt jump on me after you've been through the mud you heavy mutt!" I've always wanted to try having a cat but lol... little kids in the house all the time is a good way to traumatize any animal.
must. learn. to. crochet.