Christmas Gifts

EDIT: THE FIRST PARAGRAPH OF THIS POST WAS CUT OUT ACCIDENTLY. REWRITE ENSUED.

For years I'd respond to my parents query of "What do you want for Christmas" with one word: money. That's what I wanted. That's what I needed. Money for gas, skateboards, dates, beer, and whatever else. Money made my world go round. Extra skrilla in my pocket meant less time at work. And besides, why leave something as important as what I got for Christmas up to chance. Couldn't go wrong with a fat check at Christmas time, right? No. Wrong. Opening up a single envelope with your name on it while your brother tries on a fresh t-shirt and shuffles new Pokemon cards is enough to make a boy's blood boil. Where were my mounds of gifts? You asked for money, remember, my mom would always remind me, noticing the disappointment on my face. Every Christmas morning left me feeling, I don't know, unsatisfied.

So this year I skipped the annual envelope under the tree and left the gift giving process up to Santa. Santa and Molly. Because one of the perks of a relationship is that extra Christmas gift coming to you with a big kiss from the girlfriend. Coincidently, I asked for a swap like situation so that kiss came from Molly and some Puerto Rican hoochie mama we picked up in the bar.... Just kidding. Molly kisses well enough that we never need to spice things up.

What lay under the tree (and handed from Molly) this year? Books. Two of them. Two fantastic books of unbelievable quality. One of them alone has enough material to keep a man like myself mentally occupied for a lifetime. But two? On top of the already impossible pile of reading material I'm confident I won't finish in this lifetime? Well people, I got some reading to do.

Book 1 from the parents: Carl Jung's Red Book

I know absolutely nothing about psychology, even less about the history of the field. And I went around for six months calling the author of my first gorgeous Christmas gift by the wrong name. It's 'young', some fellow corrected me, not 'Ju-ng'. Sounds like a 'Y'. Why then, would I want the definitive work of Jung's career, the essence of his oeuvre, especially if Jung scholars can't even fully comprehend the recently published work? I must like a challenge? Yes, but that's not why I hinted heavily at my dad while shopping in Powell's Bookstore that the heavy book would be a perfect gift for his favorite son. I wanted to own the Red Book because I consider Mr. Jung something of a compadre. A comrade, actually.

A New York Times Article several months ago piqued my interest on the Red Book. This book, this long held private book, is all about Dr. Jung's purposeful, calculated descent into madness. He believed he could further his psychological understanding by inducing dream-like hallucinations that unveiled his unconscious mind. Nightly for sixteen years he gave in to anxiety, to fear, and to otherworldliness, in hopes of achieving a deeper knowledge of himself. To wade through the horrible swamp and to come out the other side with all its riches. All joking in this blog aside, this is what interests me. To know oneself and one's psyche is of the upmost importance.

Have I positioned myself in my living room, induced psychosis, and woken up 3 hours later, all the much better like Jung did? No. But maybe something in this book will speak to me.

On a lighter note, this book wasn't casually placed under the xmas tree for me to unwrap with glee. This puppy was hauled in. At 20 pounds, its the largest book I've ever seen. This book has a psyche of its own.

Book 2 from Molly: Autographed Copy of John Cheever's Short Stories

This book taunted me from behind a glass case for the entirety of my time in NYC. Should I purchase the simply autographed book (by the hand of a God, albeit) for an almost palatable price. Or, should I wait to start my fancy book collection until I have one of the following: money, career, permanent residence, bookcase? Molly answered that question for me. Now I have Mr. Cheever's shaky penmanship to stare at for inspiration whenever I need it. Sweet. Too bad the autographs from after he sobered up and not pre-Alcoholics Anonymous Cheever, where the real crazy was still in him (Bullet Park). But I guess then his autograph would have been too shaky to be read or authenticated.

Another plus, I get to wonder about Iva Bowes. Who was this woman who sought out the autograph of Cheever? Was she smart, funny, pretty? I smell a short storrrryyyyy.

That's it. I got other things, but these were two of the sweetest xmas gifts ever. What a wonderful Christmas.