Why I Hate Santa Claus, and Other Notes of Interest on Christmas Music.

I am no bah-humbugger. I love Christmas, and I love the season. I love the family, food, and sleeping, and games. I love celebrating the birth and life of Jesus. There is one thing: music. I hate "Christmas" music.

I'm not talking about Christmas hymns. Those guys are great! I love Far, Far Away on Judea's Plane more than most hymns, actually. I also love The First Noel, O Come, All Ye Faithful, and Silent Night. These songs are some of the best, and I love hearing them and singing them.

I also enjoy some of the other songs of the season, such as We Wish You a Merry Christmas, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and The Nutcracker Suit.

What I do not like are songs that have to do with Santa. Sure, kids are a big part of the Christmas holiday, but do all the songs played (over, and over, and over, and over, and over...) on the radio need to be about Santa and presents? I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Santa Claus is Comin to Town, and Santa Baby are among my least favorite "Christmas" songs. Why? Two of them are about implied sexual relations between Santa and someone else (Ew. So gross.), and all of them are about a mythical creature, but furthermore, focusing on the myth, not symbol for Jesus within the myth. I am a supporter of Santa in that he can help us understand how Jesus loves us, gives to us, sees us individually, and wants us to be good people. Just replace "Jesus" for "Santa" in the song titles, and you'll get it: I hate these songs.

I also hate another Santa song I don't know the title of --- the one they've played a lot --- at least in J. C. Penny's --- about "The Man with the Bag." Seriously? Who wrote that thing, and who got drunk enough to play it on their station? Repeatedly? What musical artist can take their self seriously while singing it? We're talking about grown ups here, people. Not elementary school students. Life is not a day care.

It is time to grow up.

And that leads to another interesting song that is played again, and again, and again. I like it, and I don't like it, too --- it is played too much, and the sentiment is slightly off. I find myself singing along, and thinking, "wait. Something is wrong here." All I want for Christmas is You? All I want for Christmas is to own another person. Can you own another person?

Abraham Lincoln issued the emancipation proclamation 148 years ago. You cannot own another person.

That is all.

Passive Voice Novel: Coming Soon!

There once was a river. The river was called "Passivity." It was not desired to be swam in, but it was required to be done. The dangers were known; the signs were read, and the foot was placed in the flowing water. The Hero was told "farewell," and the heart was calmed of fear. The boat was pushed from the shore, and the journey officially was begun.

Then it was declared "finished" because of its difficulty and decided repulsivity.

The End.

BYU = Cool (Sometimes).

Check it out:

Thought of You from Ryan J Woodward on Vimeo.

Artists Called Mothers.

Christians believe that dreams can be powerful.

Joseph, son of Israel, had dreams about his future, and was gifted with the power of interpreting dreams. The Pharaoh had a prophetic dream, given to him in order to care for his kingdom, and also for Joseph to interpret. Lehi had an important dream, the dream of the tree of life, and he was even called a "visionary man."

I am not a prophet, though I am a Christian. My dreams are usually just the random sparks of a sleeping brain, but sometimes, sometimes: my dreams mean something to me.

I don't know that I have ever had a prophetic dream, and I really don't think that I've ever dreamed something that affected someone else (like whether or not they eat in the next 14 years). However, my dreams give me insights to how I feel, and sometimes, rarely, my dreams can be answers to prayer.

As a Mormon, I believe in personal revelation. God talks to me, because I am his daughter, and he loves me. Sometimes I am so dense, it takes something so involved and visual as a dream to make me realize something important about my life.

The other night I had such a dream.

My oldest sister just had a baby. You could say the concept is on my mind.

I have often had dreams about being pregnant. In these dreams, various things happen. Sometimes I'm asked who the father is, and I can't remember, and seriously? That's distressing. I remember once in a dream my dream-Mom asked me about my baby, "Who's the father? What's your baby's last name, huh? What's the last NAME?!" and I replied, "It's BARNHART. Mom. The last name is BARNHART."

Once, in a pregnant dream, my skin covering my baby was just like bread dough -- soft, plasticky, and difficult to keep a baby inside. It was an active baby, too, so it was really frustrating, trying to keep the child in. It was very strange.

Once, I had a dream that I was pregnant, and somehow was back in high school. My show choir, from back in the day, did their best to be kind to me. At practice (dream practice, that is), they asked me careful questions and looked at me curiously when they thought I couldn't see.

This dream was different from all of those.

I was pregnant, which makes it similar, but the mood of the dream was different. I wasn't panicking about the pregnancy for any reason. I don't remember being married in the dream, but I don't remember being single, either. I was coming close to the end (I wasn't uncomfortable, which probably tells you how often I've actually been pregnant, to dream it like that), and I was very, very excited about it. My whole family was excited, too. It was like counting down to Christmas: delightful anticipation! In my dream, I was waiting for a baby to become my daughter. I was anticipating motherhood.

I can think of no greater work of art than the creation of another human being.

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

Passion.

–noun

1.

any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as in love or hate.

Passionateless people are unimpressive perversions of legitimate humanity. Show me a man who is impassioned by life, and I'll show you someone worth my time, money, and infatuation. If you are a man, and you do not understand passion, meaning that you have not felt impassioned, then you are a disgrace and a travesty. You are an embarrassment to the species.

Love is a most ardent passion.

There is a trend among men for shallowness and mediocrity which seems to be matched in women with a desperation for depth and exceptionalism. Men seem to generally lack strong emotion. They also turn from expressions of unadulterated emotion with mild repulsion. This is epically disturbing.

In dating, I find that the finger is generally pointed toward women, that women are the problem. Women complain about being single, and ergo must change themselves in order for the situation to become rectified ---and yet, we must never, never, never expect men to change their behaviors in any way. The flaw of singlehood is engendered by women's general lacking of man-catching skill, outgoingness, bravery, and leadership. I, as a woman, and most women I know (especially the single ladies in my ward), have looked inward and excavated and re-built our beings  again and again until we can fervently say that we are in legitimate danger of Juno's jealousy. Without fundamentally changing our personalities or innate persons, we have hiked --- no, ran --- up the mountain of self improvement, and find ourselves lonelier still.

Let's have a moment of honesty here. Can extensively improved human beings really be the ones at fault for their loveless lives, their inability to compliment another's passion with passion of their own, when there is another half playing video games and watching reruns of "South Park"? No. Don't be stupid.

Perhaps you think this is prideful, or perhaps you see it as dodging blame. In this you would be wrong without question, and for obvious reasons. I do not deign to address such a horrible misconception of the women I am referring to, and the fact that you would stoop to ask such a wrongfully crafted questions causes me to question your stability of character, morality, and upbringing.

Perhaps I am truly blind.
Perhaps my young women's leaders lied when they told me that I am precious.
Perhaps I am as mundane as the men I blame for the widespread dearth of companionship provided to the  unimpeachably remarkable women I know, love, and have cried with on occasion in regards to our embarrassingly prolonged interludes of solitude.

Perhaps.

But at least we have passion. Yes, we are passionate creatures, and cry we must (Medea said in Euripides' tragic play, "I am a woman: I have to cry!"), so cry we will.Women cry, on average, five times a month. Men cry, on average, once a month. Feeling compassion is a godlike attribute, and shame for this expression of potential godhood is nonprogressive and ridiculous. Perhaps the stigma associated with crying was created in defense of those who lack. Those who can't, mock. In any case, it is counterintuitive.

What this world needs is one more vertebrate man. A man who is passionate, strong, brave, and a leader. Is that not the definition of manhood? So many males say, when referred to as boys, "No, I am a man."


Prove it.

 It is time for a real hero to step forward. It is time for now's Beowulf to prove his passion, and show the world of Provo that men with spines are still being born. Do not expect women to hand you all that you want, because although we will try, unless you stand up and create a world where men are men, and women are allowed to be women, what is wanted will not exist to be handed to anyone.