Hello and Merry Christmas!

     Did you know that, according to some Ancient Astronaut theorists, a mighty extraterrestrial, often called something like ‘Wodnes,’ descended the heavens amid that very miraculous an astronomical event—the winter solstice?  Indeed, it is true.  Good Wodnes, piloting his lofty luge, ferried along by his octet of perilous steeds, would befall a torrent of good cheer upon humanity.  Trailing his hibernal visits were droplets of goodies for his admirers and charred remains for his foes.  The man’s curly mane and fluffy suit of periwinkle and frosting were seldom forgotten between annual returns.

     ‘Periwinkle?’ . . . is that right?  I was sure that was the right word.  It turns out to be probably not the right word.  But if you’re trapped under a downed camel that’s unwilling to roll out from under the most burdensome cargo, you’ve likely not got with you some contemporary English usage book . . . or it’s on top of the camel.  But you’ll power through, which I did.  And when I finally escaped, I was like:

     “Oh my, where’s fled the time?  Have we thus abandoned Beltchat aloft the periwinkle of discarded attempts—that downtrodden spiral of exercisable frivolity?  Indeed, to be sure, we’ve certainly not!”

     And, careless of ‘periwinkle’s’ proper perception, I sprinted off to my word processor to reproduce what compositional peculiarities I’d amassed amid my camelous imprisonment, plucked from what recollectable cerebration had survived all that heat, spit, and hey.

     Nevertheless, I do so apologize, of course, but Ben Carsen and I’ve been licking the huff off his glue pops to fix America’s housing dilemma back together again (Otherwise I’d have been writing all this time).  So far there are nearly a hundred and forty pyramids for which to store grain.  Good job.

     Anyway, did you know that December is the month of stuffed animals?  Truly, it is.

     I always had plenty of stuffed animals growing up to encourage my pre-adolescent zoological inclinations, but I’ve only ever caught one turning its head to watch me, and that was Bearspot—my teddy bear.

     I remember I used to line all my animals up around my bed and either hold some combative competition or entertain them with some whimsical adventure.  I also had a blue and white bird, Sky, who had a mirror in his cage.  Once, when I was changing Sky’s water, I caught a glimpse of Bearspot in the mirror, who was looking straight ahead.  When I replaced the water bowl, and looked at Bearspot once again, he was looking right at me.  I whipped around to find my stuffed friend back looking straight ahead.  I always felt thereafter that Bearspot was quite real.

     Of course, this is bullshit; but, there manifests a particular bond between a child and their singularly favorite stuffed animal.  And if you’ve never known this relationship, then I shall weep for you.

     I received Bearspot on my first Christmas and have now dragged him along many of my life’s adventures, including the first time I flew a plane—Bearspot floated in midair during a nosedive . . . it was special.  He now sits on my desk, encouraging my studious creativity.  I’ll often put a book out for him when I leave.  Most recently it was The Satyricon, but I think he swapped it for Alice in Wonderland (who could blame him).

     Now the tale to come, I should warn, can only be recalled retrospectively, as it begins with my death, which is fine as we shall all die.  Of course, this tale could hardly begin should I not die, and you’ll soon know why.  But first, let me tell you a bit about that one special stuffed animal you so dearly cherished amid your hopefully imaginative childhood.

 

     “Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play.”

-Heraclitus

 

     There exists amid some magical reality a fantastic woodland realm, which sprung from the overgrown flora aloft the most monstrous of mushrooms.  A bubblegum sky illuminates the evergreen wood with the warmest meadows and cranberry pleasures.  And, in case you’ve no thought for scale, and why should you, this place is veraciously immense.  It is called Mushrest, and amid its cozy comfort there is indeed much rest to be had.

     It is here where stuffed critters reside, living in little tree trunk cottages with warm bake and smoke billowing from their chimneys.  These little bundles of joy dwell in their homes and walk about the wood until beckoned to serve as companion to some happy little child.  The call could come at any time.

     A soft bell rings inside a wooden box on a table as a small patch of parchment rolls out from an opening in the front.  Depending on the type of stuffed creature receiving it, the note may read something like:

     A young girl has been recently given a handsomely stuffed green alligator.  She seems to already care for it very much.  Would you be interested in assisting this adorable human child along a hopefully imaginative childhood?

     Should the stuffed alligator, and let’s call him Widdle, decide to be this child’s companion, he must simply write ‘yes’ at the bottom of the patch, roll it up, and slide it in the hole on the side of the box, at which time a small parcel is dropped at the alligator’s door, containing a cloth-wrapped bit of carrot cake and a brass/wooden hourglass.  Widdle then concludes his necessary affairs, eats the bit of carrot cake (which is really just enough for one bite anyway), crawls into bed, flips the hourglass over on his nightstand, and waits the slumberous assumption of his charge to slip upon his heavy journey.

     He will thus wake amid the arms of a loving child and assist their Earthly reality as best he can, and, when he is ultimately forgotten and abandoned, Widdle will find himself back in bed, comfy under his blanket, next to a halted hourglass, which will have completed some portion of its one hundred year potential.

     It is not the fabrication of a stuffed critter which sparks the breath of life into a fluffy companion but the moment of expressed affection which beckons them to join you.

     Once, when I still lived in Kennesaw, Georgia, my older sister had come to visit me before a particular test necessary for possible acceptance into a graduate school program.  We sat at the Marietta Starbucks,  which was, as Starbucks go, not very good . . . of course, I was not a regular Starbucks goer way back then and so could not properly gauge the potential introvertable recovering satisfaction a mid-work Starbucks break could produce.  I am now, and it’s a fascinating addiction.  Augusta’s Starbucks are all pretty good . . . although, I can only ever seem to get accurate beverages at one location’s drive-thru . . . at 4:30 am.  But who cares—the Starbucks drive-thru is for fools, right?  If I don’t sit for a few minutes and just leave after getting my drink, it takes only three to five drive-thru cars worth of time for me to be pulling from the parking lot.  The most convenient Starbucks between my house and work nearly always has ten or more running vehicles waiting for their convoluted, almost-coffee, overpriced, affluent indulgence.  Too harsh?  My bad; however, If you get real coffee from Starbucks . . . it is amazing.  Add espresso and it’s basically the best tasting snow you’ll ever consider everything on.

     Anyway, my sister and I had visited the Art supply store she frequented while studying Architecture and were now just relaxing at Starbucks, doodling on a large sheet of construction paper.  It was placed between us, on top of one of those too-tiny, two-person Starbucks stool/tables.  She and I doodled all kinds of ridiculous things.  I recall her happening to draw something which resembled a teddy bear sitting under a mushroom with a pipe.  That was six years ago, and I’ve been writing little journeys for my teddy bear explorer ever since.  It’s certainly something fun to write when I can think of nothing else.

     And with that, have a very Merry Christmas everybody.  Enjoy family and anyone close enough to give you the feelings of familial equivalence.

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.