this could be considered a Holiday story, given that santa (or a somewhat dadaist version) plays prominently in this account. i wouldn't consider it so-ho, ho, ho-only on its face. a tribute to e.e. cummings, true, but only in part. beyond that, it is an explanation (not an apology, you'll note) of how my quirky writing style is the way it is.
?? questions of who we are where we come from why am i the way i am...my life is a question mark. i've wondered which of those unknown progenitors gave me my love of language, words, poetry, (music, too, since it was a language itself).
until recently, i had not known about cummings' christmas play, nor his familial turmoil. i had only known him as a poet taught in snippets from school textbooks. things come in their appointed time, however. as much as my rational mind tells me there is no fate, no karma or kismet that dangles our lives on invisible strings, some events in life just can't be explained or reasoned away...