Christmas Beetles

"Is that one, Mummy?"
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.

Hating Christmas

It sounds extreme,
Hate.
The opposite of love,
The harshest word,
 (That is not a curse)
Not to be written or stated lightly.
But yes I can say without hesitation,

I hate Christmas!

Why:

Asperger's dislike of all faux,
The superiority of a dominant religion on parade,
The obligations,
The rampant consumerism,
The overconsumption,
And the machinations of insincerity,
Bah Humbug.

Humanity on Parade

Stuck in Town.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.

Christmas in Australia

It sneaks up on you.
Christmas and the Summer holidays.
Already the diary is filling with those,
Compulsory Christmas events.
Countless Christmas parties with freezer food and too much soft-drink.
Santa in all his incarnations and levels of intoxication.
Kids petrified by the blaring fire truck,
Handed a bag of mixed lollies.
School productions with 'parents please bring a plate,'
And' a gift under the tree from Santa.'
Ridiculous images of snow, reindeer,
And an overdressed octogenarian with rosacea,
When it is forty degrees in the shade.
I enjoy the Summer holidays,
The singing,
The excitement of small children,
And their deep philosophical discussions of the existence of Santa,
As a real being or as a metaphor.

But besides that...

Bah Humbug.