This is something I wrote. I have no idea whether it is something you would dare to or ever consider publishing. But in my fantasy world, its a beautiful human christmas story, worthy of publication.
Dear Santa Claus
I tried writing to everybody but it seems nobody is home. Family, friends, neighbours and old lovers, MPs, GPs, the Mayor and the portrieve. Dressed in their golden medallions and puffing cheeks. Mr Cameron, and all his undermen, henchmen and churchmen, solicitors, barristers and even a Judge, not to mention the queen, and every other person that I could think of. But they chose to ignore me.
Just how did it come to this ? How do they not look interested for even one second when I say there is child abuse ?
” You’ve got 3 weeks from the date on the letter that we sent you last week. Didn’t you read it ? We’re repossessing on the 27th. Can you pay some money ? “
” I didn’t realise. The man said I had 3 months, and No ! ”
” Hi, it’s PC Bodiddly, you know what I’m gonig to say dont you ? ” ( before I hang up on you again. ) ” We won’t be protecting your child and family, or your rights with the law. Your car can be taken, along with your child, home, money, safety and anything else you thought we might protect. And yes we can burst in any hour of the day and night and brutally drag you into the streets. ( Slamdown phone.)
The snow is really thick. It really is Christmas. Finally it’s white. Christmas isn’t quite real somehow without snow.
The light heals me, sparkling and dazzling my eyes as if a fairy waved her wand in my face with a woosh .
Theres no heating, and noone to share it with. Im often unconscious, dehaydrated, mistreated, tortured, anaemic, missing one child who was stolen, angry, sad, panic stricken, and dragged out kicking and screaming from my bed,, thick bloodied, missing one thyroid, lost in time, lacking memory, malnourished in modern day Britain, hypothermic,disabled and paralyzed by services, that wiped out my life with another whoosh, then failed to put anything good back in.
And what was it that I did, to bring you flocking through my door with such great force and inhumanity ?
Argh yes that old chestnut ” NO thing ! ” Other than send a child to school one Morning.
After that all hell broke loose. Then you demons swooped in, and dined upon my life, for absolutly no other reason than its all that you know. Destruction and utter carnage in the name of “service provision”. Something service users learn to dread.
You expect me to walk into the street, ignoring that sometimes I can’t get up from the floor. It will be interesting to experience what you do. I have no doubt from recent expereince that you will delightedly force and stretcher me out of here, dumping me out there, before asking me to move along. Ridding yourselves, finally of the proof of your crimes. You may breathe.
Arrest me for breaching your peace, if I don’t. Call upon the hospital, again. See if you may finally diagnose me mad ? There are many vaults to conceal people with, whether they agree or not. What does it matter that the jailers are middle ages henchmen, drunk on solicitation, utterly nuts and injecting drugs. Your outcomes are guaranteed time and time again. Squash the people out of their rebellion, until they dribble and drool. Coffin box liners, taking their time, lustily devouring their slaves. if only my words were ironic, elaborate use of creative language, or just a bitter and twisted old bat, being bled. But they are not. If only …
On Fri, Dec 24, 2010 at 1:34 PM, healing millions <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
Dear inspector Nott.
I agree not to call upon you again. It is apparent you have no intention of servicing me with the law. However in return, please could you promise also to stop calling upon me. When I commit a crime or turn mentally lost, I will call upon your officers. Otherwise please leave me be, except of course for the investigation of the abuse of families. If ever you decide to apply the actual law.
Lives have been put at risk, and I have received injuries as a consequence of Devon and Cornwall police refusal to investigate life threatening abuse, and their resultant misuse of the law.
If I write too often, it is because of this. However you have made it clear that you have no intentions of carrying out the law, and will continue to compound the effects of crime with bullying, illegal and inhumane practices of your own, including stone walling.
I will ask once more that evidenced, witnessed and partially ADMITTED CHILD ABUSE IS INVESTIGATED. Children and families protected, and the harrassment of myself from many sources is stopped.
I practised being out there this week. Stepped into the snow and panicked, thinking, how will I sleep in this. And cars roared by me, splashing iced cold onto what had almost been a warm spot, ignoring me utterly as a human being and driving on, depriving me even of dry as I stamped and marched out panic onto the road, swerving cars around me, insisting on my right at least to have a path to place my foot on, without risking death and car abuse.
An Occupational Therapist and Health Service Manager, made incapable at times of getting up off the floor. How do I even walk into this street and permit you to repossess me. I’m often incapable of possessing myself, or even laying down to sleep. My lungs hurt me! A result of being visited too often and for no good reason by service providers, set up allegedly to assist me . But somehow I kept getting squashed, in all forms imaginable, including underneath a pile of police.. making reasons up as they went along, excusing outrageous actions. Wiping out an entire family, ignoring abuse, then pouring on your own. . Do I exaggerate ? If only… !
Is this letter too long ? Too unbarable to see, to know ? Too honest ? Free ?, weird, strange, too scarey to read ? What is the reason these things may exist ?
I, a Mother have read your notes, written in week one of this mess, written too many years ago. Saying ” Let’s ship her to a stranger on the otherside of the world, ” And not trouble ourselves to investigate blatant, evidenced, witnessed and even admitted child abuse.
I ‘ve spoken to the entire world, asking them to make it stop .
You walk past me, or look the other way.
It means nothing.
Who screams back how soon they will help ? or more importantly ” It has been stopped ! “
I find these facts unsettlingly strange.
I will sleep in the snow. She although very cold, is also very kind to me, and makes the world much more fun.
Dear Santa Claus
Please send some human beings this Christmas.
PS I’d like to experience myself as a Mum, again. I believe we did nothing wrong. I’d like my Daughter to have her Mother’s love returned, immediately, to her heart..
There is no earthly reason to deprive a soul of this. Please deliver my love priority delivery. With Rudolph and jingling bell kind of things, just for fun.
PPS – Please leave a gift for the couple that listened when I had a panic attack, in the posh lingerie shop. In return for the love they offered me, splashed with baubbles and pink lace. I think there might even have been a Christmas Robin somewhere : )
Thank you for your letter for possible inclusion in Around Ashburton.
The Christmas edition has already gone to print and will soon be distributed (snow permitting!) so I am afraid your letter is too late to be included.
With best wishes for a happy Christmas.
“It’s Christmas, I hear a wand whisping . “
Enter stage left an Angel: wearing nothing but Wings and a smile 🙂
And maybe a Hula Hoop, and a few feathers, a bit of glitter, that kind of thing 🙂
I am a light, removing this burdening of self 🙂
Stage right : Walk in God, with a torch
Dear Santa Claus
Please also post this letter in god’s chimney, whilst your delivering his gifts, ty.
” Dear God, what took you so long ? “
There are no mistakes in Heaven or upon earth. Just meals that we forgot we’d ordered. Making them seemingly difficult to digest, at a table already filled with all form of dishes. A task made even harder, whilst shouting at the waiter for delivering them.
Instead. let’s toast our servants with wine, no matter what undesirable meal they deliver. Cleanse our enemies feet with spykenard and tears. Feasting as brothers together, upon life – A meal prepared unerringly by and for the gods within us.
Without my life force I am death. Within it I am the whole is and isn’t.
Rio de Janeiro, December 15, 2010
As a way of thanking you for the continued support throughout 2010, and in maintaining with the tradition of years past, I am sending along a Christmas story that I wrote for my column, which has been published in many newspapers around the world.
May the universe conspire in ways that all your wishes for 2011 are realized.
The Pine Tree of St. Martin
As the parish priest of a little village called St Martin in the French Pyrenees was getting ready to celebrate Mass one Christmas Eve, he began to smell a wonderful fragrance. It was winter, and the flowers had disappeared a long time before, yet there was the pleasant smell of springtime floating through the air.
Intrigued, he decided to go outside and look where the smell was coming from and across a young boy sitting in front of the school door. Next to him was a golden Christmas tree.
“What a beautiful tree!” said the vicar to the boy, “It seems to have touched the sky, and it gives off such a delightful scent! It’s made of pure gold! Where did you find it?”
The young man looked up at the priest, seemingly unhappy with what had been said.
“Truth is, the longer it took me to carry this home, the harder the leaves got and the heavier it felt. But it can’t be real gold, and I’m scared of what my parent’s reaction will be.”
The young man continued his story.
“This morning, my mother gave me money to go to the city of Tarbes to buy a Christmas tree. When I was going through the village, I saw a lonely old woman who had no family to spend Christmas dinner with. I was certain I would be able to get a good discount on a tree, so I gave her some of the money I had for her to buy herself some dinner. As I continued through the town, I passed by the prison and saw an enormous line of people waiting to go inside to visit their loved ones. I overheard some of them say they did not even have enough money to buy a slice of Christmas fruit cake. I was so moved by these young people waiting in line and I decided I would share some of my money with them too. I gave most of it to them, keeping just a small amount for myself to buy some lunch. The florist I was going to visit was a friend of the family and I was sure that if I promised to work all next week for him, that he would give me the Christmas tree for free. When I reached the market, though, I found out that the florist I knew did not go to work that day. I tried as hard as I could to find someone who would lend me the money I needed to buy the Christmas tree somewhere else, but it was all in vain. Frustrated, I decided that having some lunch would help me clear my head and I walked over to the restaurant counter. As I approached the bar, a foreign-looking little boy asked me if I could spare some change because he hadn’t eaten in two days. I remembered that at one time even Jesus may have gone hungry, and I handed over the little money I had left and began returning home. On my walk back, I broke off a brand from a pine tree and tried to decorate it as well as I could, since I didn’t get the Christmas tree I was supposed to get. But as I continued to walk it just kept getting heavier and heavier and turning into metal, and it’s far from being the Christmas tree that my mother is expecting me to come home with.
“My dear boy”, said the priest, “the perfume that is emanating from this tree leaves no doubt whatsoever that it has been touched by heaven. Let me tell you the rest of its story.”ť
The priest sat down next to the boy and continued, “As soon as you walked away from that lonely woman, she immediately asked the Virgin Mary, a mother like herself, to give you an unexpected blessing. The parents of the prisoners were convinced that they had come across an angel, and said prayers of thanks for the Christmas cakes they were now able to buy. The boy you met at the restaurant gave thanks to god for satiating his hunger. The Virgin, angels and Jesus heard the prayers of those who had been helped and when you broke off the brand from the pine tree, the Virgin bathed it in perfume. As you continued to walk, the angels touched the leaves and they turned to gold. Finally, when everything was complete Jesus looked upon the work and blessed. From now on, whoever touches this tree will have their sins forgiven and their wishes fulfilled.”
The legend goes that the sacred pine tree is still there in St. Martin, and that its force is so great that all who help their brothers on Christmas Eve, however far they may be from the little village in the Pyrenees, are blessed by it.
(Inspired by a Hassidic tale)
Reply |healing millions to paulocoelho
show details 2:03 PM (49 minutes ago)
My response to your email.
A letter to Santa Claus, from a witch of portobello. A story I’d considered sending to you this morning, as I watched Sufi dancers and began to spin 🙂
Then you emailed me giving me an excuse.
St. Martin’s Day, also known as the Feast of St. Martin, Martinstag or Martinmas, the Feast of St Martin of Tours or Martin le Misércordieux, is a time for feasting celebrations. This is the time when autumn wheat seeding is completed. Historically, hiring fairs were held where farm laborers would seek new posts. The feast day, is November 11, the feast day of St. Martin of Tours, who started out as a Roman soldier. He was baptized as an adult and became a monk. It is understood that he was a kind man who led a quiet and simple life. The most famous legend of his life is that he once cut his cloak in half to share with a beggar during a snowstorm, to save the beggar from dying of the cold. That night he dreamed that Jesus was wearing the half-cloak Martin had given away. Martin heard Jesus say to the angels: “Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptised; he has clothed me.” 
The Skirt of a Sufi is but Jesus ‘ cloak spinning.
Tonight an Angel, disguised as a Viking travelled, this time from Ireland ,to hold me in his wings, before leaving again in a truly heartbreaking Christmas kind of way. Leaving me to myself . The scariest place to be 🙂
You may slam your hammers down, disemboweling me in your courts. Throw your papers upon my soil, and even leap on me. Email, telephone and directly inform me. Non the less ,I will write.
Free, being me.