As I exist in an American city, trapped – and too comfortable- by my possessions, the large and looming hand of my robust Irish friend dangles over the open edge of my self-built box.   Like a “Kitten for Free” living in a cardboard box in front of Wal-Mart, I claw and shred the sides of the box in an attempt to escape, all the while urging the rest of my kitten family to join in the escape escapade. Whether or not we actually break the bonds of the box becomes irrelevant as the entertainment of scratching satisfies our need for movement and mission.

The potential for freedom and adventure lingers outside the box and is represented by the Irishman - the Irishman without a permanent address or the ties that bind.  At first it was the car that I ditched, then, thanks to Wanderlust: A History of Walking, a book sent to me by the Irishman, I dropped the bus.  Using my very own energy to transport myself from place to place results in big personal rewards – and big hassles for people who wait on my slow arriving presence.

Last month I kicked society in the chin and spit upon its sacred Christmas traditions as I fled the cardboard box for the solitude of the American Southwest.  On Christmas morning as I sanely sipped my tea and felt no pressure to produce, my mind wandered to the life of the Irishman. Surely he was riding a reindeer, or at least bidding a new friend goodbye as he skied away from a snowbound week in the hollow of a tree. However, to my shock, and maybe horror, I received an email from the Irishman saying:

"The rich irony was that whilst you were successfully escaping Christmas, something I have managed to do for the better part of twenty years, I found myself suckered into the whole thing complete with teenage children, an ex-husband, Christmas tree and decorations, various foods I dislike including vegetarian options for one of the teenagers, not enough drink and a range of family 'traditions' which I found more bemusing than anything I have ever discovered in months spent with Berber tribes, Argentine gauchos or Kyrgyz horsemen. It was, to sum up, unmitigated hell, dubbed into Swedish. And ran to New Year with little break. Luckily, very luckily (THE GIRL) is cute and sweet and not unlike the picture you chose to illustrate her possible self, but even my general good feelings towards her were strained…. I had hoped to avoid it (Christmas excess) all up here in the north (Sweden), but who was I fooling -one step closer to Reindeer, Santa Claus and the rest of the myth, and in the nation that runs the States a close second on sheer naked consumerism."

What to say?  Has the Irishman fallen in love and mortgaged his freedom for a spin on the wooden train traipsing underneath the Christmas tree?  Love and warm skin often direct our path, but what I believe is that the Irishman will persevere and instead of falling victim to the trappings, he will pluck the Swedish girl from her cardboard box and serve as tour guide to the world at large.

Comments

[Shelly]

Maybe it's some sort of karmic trade-off. In order for Bitsy to escape, she had to offer up the sacrificial Irishman.

[Shelly]

By the way, how many automated robots have attempted to post on your site? And how would you tell the difference between their comments and, I don't know, say, mine?

[Value wIT]

First, Shelly whom I know, I can accept or decline comments on this site. Also, by requiring the commenter to repeat a code before submitting usually sorts out the robots from the people.

As far as sacrificing the Irishman, I think the Christmas gods saw his fresh meat and eagerly took him into their arms.