a vivid dream of shopping malls

Blue lines taped to the floor tell us where to stand and how to move. We are being drawn into Santa’s lair like the Millennium Falcon being pulled into the Death Star’s tractor beam.  The chances of escape are unlikely.  I look at all the diverse yuletide faces around me.  Grimacing men with goatees and baseball caps.  Moms of all shapes and sizes.  Children in Christmas colors–green felt dresses, maroon and matching outfits, black suits giving way to blue jeans.  Cell phones are whipped from pockets and purses like 6-shooters from gunslinger’s belts.  Lattes swirl in Styrofoam cups as the line snakes its way towards Jolly Old Saint Nick.  Different currents of people ebb and flow around our turn-styled queue.  They tote packages and determination; they count down the minutes with their stride.  In the midst of chaos smiles turn up on faces.  Again and again–the grins rise and fall like waves.  There is a buzz of conversation swelling about me–clips, blurbs, sound bytes–they interrupt and complement my thoughts.  Every English phrase, a blessing.  I catch up on a year and a half of deferred eavesdropping.

Thirty two years of Christmas consciousness seems to press down on me, through my epidermis into the capillaries and then throughout the bloodstream.  I think of various Santas.  Like in A Christmas Story (You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!) like the reluctant Tim Allen transformation in The Santa Clause, or in the computer-animated format ofThe Polar Express.  Even though I know Christmas is not about these things (it is about so much more) I think about these things with a magical sort of fondness.  I hear the soundtrack of Christmas echoing in the high rafters.  Bing and Frank, Nat, Natalie, and others.  The sounds are like jazz being syncopated with the electronic swipe of debit cards and cash register drawers opening.  Plastic swishes, strollers slide, coats crinkle in a Gore-tex breath, as the girls and I take up our place near the front of the line.  Their pre-school eyes glaze over as they lick their candy-cane sticky hands.  They don’t know about the busyness, the hustle, the Grinchiness of their fellow man–at least not yet.  They only know the pleasures of consuming Christmas sweets, the delight of tearing into presents unopened, the wonder of nativities, trees, and ornaments (large and small), decorative reminders of the unique essence of the season.

As the ageless, geriatric Santa beckons, I foresee Sarah screaming in terror as Anna gives her smug and satisfied grin.  Yin and yang.  Black and white.  Day and night.  They become polar opposites in that moment on the lap of Claus.  Once caught on film, it’s sad how funny this spectrum of emotion appears… You can’t help but laugh even though Sarah’s condition seems so pathetic.  You remind yourself that Christmas (indeed) is coming soon now.  Her mood will change and brighten.  For a 3-year-old, presents heal all wounds (or something like that.)  The Santa experience is over and we’re soon off to other holiday events…

But then again…this is all JUST a distant dream, anyway…

There are no Santas or shopping malls in Xining.