An English In Kentucky


















Tuesday December 26th 2017Tim Candler9


      As one whole heartedly engaged in the joy of the war against, and who has boldly refused to use the C-word during the month of December I'm pretty much left with Happy Boxing Day. The phrase has a pugnacious charm, goes back to the simpler times when those engaged in the service industries had to work on the day of the savior's birth and for doing so their trickle down came in a box on the day after. Soap, socks and white gloves, perhaps, but quite why it was a box, researchers remain suspicious. All these things were a great deal easier to handle with liberal quantities of alcohol, and here the word Liberal is defined as "unrestricted" or for 12 happy days disappearing into a bar that has a duke box. Now that I am more saint than sinner I have opened my arms and warmly embraced restrictions, and by so doing I find myself increasingly intolerant of the more shameless and ill-disciplined in our number which does kind of put a mote in the eye of "Good Will to All Men." So this side of a banner proudly declaring "The End is Nigh" it's tricky to find a balance that doesn't upset the whole idea of a vomitorium as the motive force behind daily life. There's a madness to it, doomed to repeat the same thing for ever and ever, which I guess does grant Blessed Release a truer and more perfectly straight line meaning than is found in the nonsense about circles that we cling to at our peril as they rob us of hope and do absolutely nothing for faith..



     But in keeping with the cultural norms that require some kind of excuse for rampant excess or its opposite, those in my position who may have again over indulged in the traditional product of a Trappist Monastery, we will have to devise a myth that informs and justifies a bright new progressive attitude toward Fruitcake. The Walden Pond fellow might have had some kind of answer. He was a naturalist, engrossed in the habits, shapes forms and functions of creatures. Pausing in his quest for understanding, he took of his hat and remarked that he couldn't begin to understand the nature of things or belong to them unless he could feel them, and in science there was a feeling for science but there was no feeling for the objects of scientific examination, and if there was it wasn't glorious summer day science it was more like boring old accounting, the bottom line, and I paraphrase a little. It's also true that you don't spend two years as a hermit communing with a pond without coming away with a feeling of some sort that has you yelling back at the Mockingbird and discussing meaning with the Frogs, Grasshoppers, Tics and the like. Clearly new myths will have to include the stress of Jolliness, the ho-ho-ho quality is always a given, which means the issue to be resolved is a description of joy that currently relies far too heavily upon the miles and miles of indigestion products that can be found in the aisles of Grocery Stores, which means there's no punishment, doesn't it? It's just round and round, a vicious circle. On the other side, I imagine the purists would come up with some typical and feeble reply that blames the victim. "It's not the fault of Trappists scratching their living in silence you ate too much fruit cake."


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