I’ve finally wrapped all presents, cleaned the flat so the Analog Girl can visit me without complaints, and am absolutely not in the mood for Christmas. As usual. May be connected to the fact that I’ll have to travel to Berlin three days before Christmas Eve, and due to the current weather in Europe I am a bit concerned that I may not get back to Ireland in time to pick up my bag full of presents, and travel back to Germany to make niece & nephew happy. But what can you do? I will sacrifice some mulled wind for the weather gods tonight. Mead is difficult to get here on the Emerald Isle.
Speaking of a bag full of presents: this little story here perfectly incorporates my attitude towards the birthday of the imagined son of God. It comes from the boss, Neil Gaiman himself, and is called Nicholas was:
Nicholas Was…
older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.
The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.
Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.
He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.
From the blog of the boss also comes this brilliant little animation of the story/poem:
39 Degrees North: Christmas Card 2010 from 39 Degrees North on Vimeo.
PS: Christmas story still coming up. Humbug!
0 responses so far ↓
There are no comments yet...Kick things off by filling out the form below.
Leave a Comment