Apology

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For some time I have been meaning to draft a statement of purpose for Thmusings (or at the very least a styleguide so people can figure out what the heck my name is), but I have never quite gotten around to it. One reason for this is I'm still figuring out what the rules are myself.

I have newly discovered one by breaking it. For breaking this rule, I apologize.

Thmusings has many posts that are non sequiters or absurdities and such I have no problem with--anyone interested in getting to know the Baizzerist should expect such madness from time to time.

But you should always feel comfortable in knowing that all such non sequiters and absurdities do not place the author and the reader on unequal footing. I never know any more about them than you do. Granted, we see them from different angles, but our knowledge of them is equal. They are what they are and that is all.

My recent post on Santa broke this rule. I was never quite comfortable with the post, but I became enamored with the line "Well, I finally killed Santa today" and had to post it. It was not until Silly Marie commented that I began to realize how unfair this post was to my readership. It referenced something that no one but Theric knew about and thus was unfair to post without explanation. I give you that explanation now:

In the spirit of Halloween, I checked out a short story collection that I have been skipping through and which, as a whole, has been pretty good. The collection includes a story by James Dorr that disappointed me, however. It was not well writ and was too obvious. But the concept was brilliant--a little boy with a grudge against Santa leaves him poisoned treats which kill instead his mother's boyfriend. Good: Kid who wants to kill Santa. Bad: "A Christmas Story" by James Dorr.

So I decided to coöpt this concept and write a better story. My story stars the real Santa, does not have a grudge-holding tot, and, I hope, is much more violent and horrific.

Note: as Lady Steed said upon learning of this story, there is something wrong with me

I made short work of the ~1700 word rough draft and was pleased enough with it that I mentioned it on my blog, but decided to do so in a mysterious, joycean way that embarrasses me now. To make up for it, here are the first five rough-draft paragraphs of "Out for Santa":

It’s a make-believe world but no one knows it. Santa is real and is constrained by maintaining his seeming fancy. Parents always assume the other [parent] or some other brought that little extra and Santa knows exactly how much he can bring without causing suspician / and get away with it. Which means rich kids get much and poor kids get little or nothing and there’s nothing he can do about it and he hates it but that’s the way it is. He can’t risk getting discovered by those with the power to legislate and enforce and he is, after all, make-believe. Children belive he is real make-believe, but not that he is real—and thus it must remain. He wound’t have it any other way. And thus he is limited.

The great paradoxes of Santa’s existence produced by logical sixth graders do not trouble him at all. Of course, he does not literally visit every house in the world in one night, but the millions he does? No problem. In and out, in whatever way seems most convenient, a hundred million times, all in one night. He is Santa, Father Christmas, der Weinachtsmann, Juletomten, Pere Noel--of course he can do it. The doing of it causes him not the least anxiety. The only thing that troubles Santa is how transient all his gifts are / prove / prove to be. How few lives he changes. How worthless his efforts are. But of course he does not stop. He cannot stop. He is make-belibe. And so many believe.

He is Santa.

Now. About Jimmy. There will never be as many Jimmys as there are people named James, but there are many, many people named James, mostly English speakers, overwhelmingly white, nearly all male. It’s a popular name. And a reasonalble number of them spend their younger yeards as Jimmy. Jimmy is one of these. He is six years old (too young—10? 12 too old), English-speaking, white, male. A typical Jimmy. He has freckles.

Jimmy attended (attends?---might be good in present tense) fourth grade at Norvest Elementary and was a reasonably good student except he loved saying butt when the teacher’s back was turned. His friends all agreed it was hilarious. Jimmy was an intense dodgeball player but otherwise he did not behave in a way that would raise suspician. In the shouebox in the hollow below the dead elm tree in his backyard were the heads (are) of six squirrels, two chipmunks, three robins, six sparrows, a starling, and the nieghbor’s toy poodle.