The Ghost of Christmas Multiverse

Author's Note: Thursdays for the next couple of weeks will be major holidays and so I will not be sending anything new until after the New Year. 

So it is with gratitude both for your dedication as regular receivers of this blog, and your comments in email and in person, that I wish you a warm and peaceful Yule and a Happy New Year.

See you Thursdays after the holidays!

Ebenezer Scrooge awoke on Christmas morning to find himself a new human, having faced his past, his present, and then looked fearfully into the yawning maw of his future. His experience awoke within him a sense of the importance of things beyond money and gain. He made his amends and started anew. It is a lesson we could all use, daily, not just yearly. Of the many uplifting Christmas tales, this is the one we are all familiar with at some level, even today, and it resounds with a potency that reaches even the hardest hearts.

Recently, though, I found myself contemplating a possibility beyond Dickens’ three time frames of past, present, and future. What if another spirit arrived and brought Scrooge, not through time, but through the foam of possible realities? It is fascinating to consider, especially from the modern realm of scientific theories regarding the fabric of reality. This is not to divest Dickens of all of his cleverness and moral potency. Using his three spirits, he managed to write possibly the first science fiction story involving time travel. He even anticipated some of the main rules of the genre that are often adopted in modern time fiction. He can perhaps be forgiven for being limited to a literary understanding, but we are not, as science and fiction together have built upon his formidable foundation and provided us with libraries full of speculative writing about traveling through time.

Modern science has postulated the quantum many-worlds theory, where every quantum event with multiple possible events has all those outcomes realized as different probable worlds. For every Frostian “road less traveled” there is a reality where the road was also not taken, and there, reality splits into the two possibilities. Thus, there is a reality where I write this essay and another where I write a different essay, and both of those realities are realized in a branching timeline of universal waveforms. For each choice, each possible outcome any (and all) of us makes, another universe, just like ours, but a little different, pops into existence. Thus, the foam of uncountable possible realities fluffs out like soap bubbles in the Thanksgiving casserole dish. We are unaware of these other realities, and we cannot travel through them on our own, though we can ponder the consequences of other decisions easily enough.

Thus, rather than traveling through time (or visiting the times that each ghost is master of), it is possible for there to be another, somewhat nerdier ghost, who saves time (perhaps literally) by taking Ebenezer through possible realities.Therefore, I invented another spirit—the Ghost of Christmas Multiverse—in honor of Dickens and physics. This interdimensional specter alleviates the necessity for the other spirits, as it merely shows him the infinite possibilities of his choices had he been fortunate enough to make different ones. Scrooge can then see what his life could, is, and will have been like without the need for all the dawdling. The resulting spectral experience is no less life-changing, and the final change is not diminished in the slightest.

As Scrooge is confronted by the ghost of his old business partner, Jacob Marley, he is told that he will be escorted by one spirit through all the many choices of his life. Scrooge hesitates and then lies down to await this visitor in the night. When the spirit arrives, it isn’t a ghost but someone who resembles Dr. Richard Feynman, but glowing like Obi-Wan Kenobi. This spectral physics master takes Ebenezer’s bony claw and, waving something that looks remarkably like a pocket calculator, opens a portal through reality.

As a lad, we are told that Scrooge was abandoned by his family on the Christmas holidays, forced to stay at school, because his father blamed the lad for the death of his mother in childbirth. The Ghost of Christmas Multiverse shows Ebenezer what might have happened if his mother did not die. He also shows him what happens if his sister also survived Fred’s birth. Maybe he is shown how, rather than leaving the employ of Mr. Fezziwig, Scrooge stays on and eventually inherits the business, marries one of Fezziwig’s daughters, and has a large and rollicking brood.Rather than growing cynical and fearful of death, Ebenezer grows to contemplate just how fortunate he has been despite the challenges and trials of his life. He and Jacob Marley become friends, but it is a friendship of deep trust, loyalty, and affection.

Later, Scrooge is shown with himself and the woman he loves, but when she comes to rebuke his lust for gold, rather than doubling down, as we see him do in the book, he demurs and repents his greed, choosing love instead, and goes on to great happiness and is redeemed by the love and faith of an adoring wife.Instead of the Ghost of Christmas Present showing Scrooge all of the people, poor and wealthy, great and small, celebrating the holiday, and then landing at the Cratchits’ home, Multiverse brings Scrooge through other Londons. In one, Christmas is forbidden by a mad, puritanical ruler; in another, Christmas is celebrated the whole year literally.

Then, diving in to show other variations of Bob Cratchit and his family, there is one universe in which Bob is a drunkard and a domestic tyrant and another in which he dies of disease, leaving Mrs. Cratchit and young Peter to fend for the family. Perhaps most painfully, there is one reality in which Mrs. Cratchit dies in childbirth with Tiny Tim, and rather than adoring his young, frail boy, Bob blames and loathes the child and sends him off to school and abandons him. That might pluck the old miser’s heartstrings a bit, eh?Later, at Fred’s, we find that rather than a cheery and upbeat young man devoted to his wife, Scrooge’s nephew has inherited that miserly grasping nature, and is living a life not of love and joy, but of wretched penny-pinching, mistreating all who cross him. Like his uncle before him, Fred is given the chance to choose love, but chooses rather the master passion of gain. How much pain might it cause Ebenezer to see that his one real relation is turning out to be no different than himself?

Finally, stepping in for the gaunt and dreadful Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, Multiverse shows Scrooge many variants of the future beyond his death. Instead of his grave, Scrooge beholds himself, but not in his customary black, but brightly dressed with Tiny Tim, now thriving, perched on his shoulder. Perhaps, instead of Mrs. Dilber, the charwoman, and the undertaker seeking to make themselves a pittance on the items stolen from his deathbed, Scrooge is witness to himself as a kind and benevolent master, doling out gold pieces as gifts, and thoughtfully rendering kindnesses the value of which cannot be measured against the pound sterling.

How could such visions fail to move Scrooge if he sees the best versions of himself? Or, what if, by some strange and loathsome set of choices, Scrooge runs for parliament and, in the House of Commons, creates legislation to enact his antithetical ideologies about the destitute? Scrooge, seeing himself as the worst possible monster, persecuting those with less as the ultimate end of his current miserly fetishes, might repent his ways in horror.

If you think that I have gone around the bend a bit, rendering a nearly perfect classic into a scientific mish mash, then I beg you to watch the myriad cinematic versions of the fable this year. Each, in its own way, occupies a slightly nudged variation of the original theme from the book. Although true to the spirit (there’s that word again) of Dickens’ tale, each version is a slightly dislodged example of the whole. True, no film can ever capture the beauty of the novella. Dickens had a way with words and a scalpel-like wit for pointing out the best and worst of humanity in his era. To capture that skill would be to attempt the impossible, but I maintain that each movie is, in a way, a kind of quantum many-worlds view of the book.Take, for instance, my favorite of all the Christmas Carol versions, the 1951 classic with the miser played by Alistair Sim. In this fantastically dark tale, Scrooge doesn’t just leave his apprenticeship with Fezziwig, he buys the business with Jacob Marley and puts Fezziwig on the street. Ebenezer’s sister, “Fan,” died in childbirth with Fred, but because of his passionate resentment at her loss, he misses her plea to take care of her son before she expires in a heartwrenching scene that gives emotional depth to Ebenezer.

Although the film takes special care to cover all of the most important parts of Scrooge’s “reclamation,” it is nevertheless necessary to make the story a little more logical to the audiences who watched it, over a century after the book was published in 1843. As such, things at which Dickens merely hints are drawn out in clear, stark lines, and although it is not a horror per se, the film gives a most Gothic performance of the story and captures the sardonic, cruel-hearted Scrooge mirrored against his nearly mad, joyful, childlike redemption at the end. The movie feels haunted, as if the emotions within Scrooge dampen and blur the experience, which adds to the grim but delightfully terrifying portrayal.

The other of my favorites, a made-for-TV film starring George C. Scott, from 1984, skips over much and also makes up much. Whereas there is never a mention of Scrooge’s lost love interest in the previous film after they split, the screenwriters go to great lengths to show that she went on to be happy after leaving Ebenezer. Both show the children beneath the robe of the Ghost of Christmas Present, but the latter gives a much less threatening promise about them.

There is a heartier, robust performance of the lad Tiny Tim and added dialog and depth to the Cratchits, while not getting their family numbers right as in the book. Scott’s Scrooge is also a more grounded, naturalistic character, and the particular London makes the viewer feel like you’re in a Victorian painting, where ghosts just happen to be part of the scenery.

The very farthest, nearly unwatchable version of the beloved tale is the 1999 TV movie, with Sir Patrick Stewart playing Scrooge. The whole thing feels flat and overacted, with large parts getting skipped over, relying on the audience’s familiarity with the story, perhaps, to cover a multitude of evils perpetrated against the story. Of all the versions, this is the one that feels less like a Christmas movie and more like a TV commercial or parody. Even so, it seems to have the benefit of fitting in the multiverse reality, where multiple Scrooges all eventually make it through to a redeeming end.

The final reality is a now often maligned film, when not forgotten, the 1970 musical Scrooge, starring Albert Finney and Sir Alec Guinness (yes, that Alec Guinness), where each scene is punctuated by a very good and lovable song. One assumes that there is a universe in which we all break into song like a Disney princess after every few lines of spoken dialogue. This, if you can find it, is a worthy watch, even just for the novelty of it.

Finally, I think it would be fun if, as part of his journey, Scrooge was brought by Multiverse, through a sideslip where all the versions of his tale are shown, whether badly acted school plays or church sketches, or just any or all of the films, cartoons, and commercials ever made, to show Ebenezer how his transformation still resounds with all of us, even today, getting on to 200 years later.

If nothing else, I think he’s earned it. And if we have to live in any universe at all, then I’m glad it’s the one with A Christmas Carol in it.

Inevitability

All Things Must Pass

All things must pass, George Harrison asserted in his 1970 album of the same name, and he was correct. My favorite Beatle was referring to the undeniable reality that everything moves on, sunrise, sunset, love, fear, and eventually, life itself passes. To some mindsets, this idea seems somewhat morbid. It clouds the present with a sense of impending grief and loss, and I admit that, from a certain point of view, focusing on things eventually ending can seem maudlin. Just as dangerous, though, is the opposite. The idea that we go on forever and that our choices have no consequences presents a whole other set of problems.

I have found that there is balance in remembering that, as Bertie Wooster said, indirectly quoting the book of Isaiah, ‘all flesh is as grass.’ It’s not morbid to remember that we won’t be here forever. In fact, I tend to take this a step further, refusing to allow myself the false consolation of some realm beyond life where I might have another chance to do the “next right thing”. All we have is today. All we have is this moment. Nothing else is guaranteed to us. Today is the day, and the time is now. This is one of the foundational concepts in the philosophical school of Stoicism, and I have found great comfort in it over the years, especially when faced with the inevitability of loss.

I used the phrase “false consolation” earlier, and to some of my readers, this may appear to be somewhat harsh. Humans tend to deny the reality that when we lose a friend or loved one, we will never see them again. This idea is abhorrent to the imagination because we make powerful connections with others. It becomes impossible to imagine the world—our world—without them, and so, to cushion the horrible rending of loss, we try to create fabulous afterlives, where they live on. When I think of the monuments and rituals surrounding our loathing of the idea of death, I am moved to use the term ‘morbid’. 

Numb

This past week, with no warning, I lost one of my closest friends. I will not go into details, except to say that I wasn’t prepared for him not to be here anymore, and I felt gut-kicked by the news. Most of that first day, I spent on the phone with mutual friends. I was reeling. The shock of the news seemed unreal. My head flooded with questions and denials. ‘How could this be?’ ‘Surely it must be a mistake.’ Beneath this roiling sea of distress and profound disbelief was an implacable white mist of numbness. Most upsetting was the understanding that the fog would lift, pain would swell, and the tears would flow. In the meantime, I had to try to make rational sense of a scenario that was completely irrational.

No stranger to loss, I have come to believe that the numbness is there as a biological or psychological buffer. It protects our fragile sanity from the horrible cracks that form when part of our reality disappears from our lives. Just like a sleeping limb or the fat-jawed puffiness of a visit to the dentist's office, my whole body felt tingly, but emotionally unresponsive, except for dread of a slowly creeping sadness.

Sitting with the wolf

I’m no longer sure if the concept is Native American or Northern European, but at some point, I read about a non-traditional conception of grief. Most of us now know that grief comes in stages. The unpleasant truth is that, if we refuse to deal with these stages of grief, it can turn to poison and, worse, fracture us permanently. In the myth, grief is represented by a large, dark wolf. It doesn’t arrive right away, but it eventually shows up, and when it does, it won’t leave until we acknowledge it and look it in the eyes. The myth implied that, until we sit with the wolf, we cannot be whole again.

I’m aware that, as I write this, the wolf hasn’t come for me yet. I’m keeping an eye on the proverbial treeline, though, as I know that it will make an appearance, and when it does, I’ll need to be prepared to sit with it. There is no standard or timeline of grief. It takes how long it takes, but the one way to make sure it drags on forever is to pretend that the wolf hasn’t come to the door, yet. 

The real afterlife

There was a sycamore tree near my grandmother’s house, and over the years, one of the branches or boughs grew so close to the power or telephone lines that the wood eventually grew around the wires. When a storm damaged the old tree, the city took it down, but forever after, there was a small log floating up there with the wire running through it. The tree was long gone, but high in the air, there remained a tiny bit of proof that it had once existed.

A little more than a year ago, my aunt sent me a box containing papers, notes, forms, and documents from my great-grandfather and his father’s life. As I carefully paged through these artifacts, I realized something fairly profound. My ancestors had been real. They lived, breathed, had hopes, dreams, fears, and dreads, and they collected and compiled and left their mark on the world during their fleeting lives. For just a few moments, the light of my interest and curiosity brought them back into a direct connection with the current moment.

Loss is permanent and horrible. We’re not adept at dealing with it, and it often leaves us broken. And yet, given enough time to deal with the grief, we may find that the person we lost continues to live—not in some inaccessible afterlife fraught with rules and barriers, but within our hearts, right now.

This has been one of the most comforting realizations in a series of devastating losses throughout my fairly short life. Eventually, the pain subsides a little (it never goes away permanently), but the person awakens in us, grafted onto our hearts, part of us. As my youngest son eloquently said, “You keep on living as long as people keep saying your name.” 

As my thoughts turn to my aunt, to my mother, father-in-law, my grandparents, to Uncle Dan and all the people I’ve lost who mattered to me, their spark of life lights up and burns in my heart. Their deeds, words, heroic acts, mannerisms, personalities, and idiosyncrasies have become part of my own. The more we think of them, the more they continue, aiding us, providing wisdom and love, and some comfort to us.

The Next Right Thing

During the years we knew one another, my friend filled my mind with a series of his sayings. It was just his nature to share aphorisms that helped him with others and some of those sayings have stuck with me. There were times when he was clearly struggling with some aspect of his life that I would say, “hang in there,” or “one day at a time” and he would respond with, “I’ll do my level best.” However, the most common of his sayings had to do with proceeding through life on the sometimes shaky terms life throws at us. He would say to me, “Just do the next right thing.”

As I sit here, thinking about this new reality without him, I find that his words, mannerisms, irascible sense of humor, and genuine, sincere caring are already with me. I hope that maybe this means that when the wolf finally comes, I can share with it that the words and deeds of my friend helped me to deal with the grief of his loss while he was yet with us. I’m prepared to sit with the wolf, though, because no matter how philosophical I feel I can be now, it will take some time for me to come to terms with his loss.

The Undiscovered Country

The Bard spent much of his life and his writing contemplating the idea of death. Of all of his works, Hamlet seems to be the one that most powerfully examines all of our fears about what happens when we stop living. In one of the most famous and well-known soliloquies, the Prince of Denmark says, 

“The undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveler returns ...”

We cannot come back. Even in the major faiths, with a few exceptions in their accumulated stories, no one gets to undo the power of the end of our lives. This is the hard and shattering truth of life. Eventually, we all have to pass on, as George Harrison stated.

In the meantime, each moment we have here, each opportunity to help, to share our feelings, to be truthful, to care, to comfort, to grow and learn, to expand the walls of our minds, and to do the next right thing, is really the only opportunity we have to do it. We never know when the thing we’re doing in the moment, will be the last time.

This motivates me to spend a little more mental effort to remember how tenuous life is and to be a little better today than I was yesterday. Far from being a morbid concept, I find that this accomplishes something simply and without the emotional or spiritual coercion of fundamentalist dogmas. Like Ebenezer Scrooge, it is the concept of my own impending death that makes me better, not threats of torture or endless worship of a deity in the time after my own parting.

Eulogizing

I didn’t set out to write this essay this week. More than usual, my friend is on my mind. Although some of us were able to gather and celebrate his life, and it was joyful, though also sad, I realize that more tears are coming. When they do, I will try to remember the words spoken to Merry, Sam, and Pippin by Gandalf as they watched Frodo and Bilbo prepare to depart Middle-earth for the Undying Lands. “I will not say ‘do not weep’ for not all tears are an evil.” My own sadness feels like this.

Weirdly, I’m joyful and sad. I miss my friend. I’m sure I will miss him more as the days, months, and years go on. Yet, I have my memories and the many times that he made me laugh, stepped in to help or offer comfort, and the ongoing meandering conversations that we had will help to assuage the pain, until he becomes a memory that will not fade from my mind.

It is perhaps enough, for now, to say that I’m filled with gratitude that I was considered a dear friend by one of the best people I have ever known. Although he was sometimes aggravating, or irritating, or slightly inappropriate, he cared and was a loyal and devoted, and stout-hearted friend. He helped me become a better person, and I cannot adequately express my feelings at how lucky I was to be his friend.

This, That, and the Other

New Baby, Who Dis?

Last week, we welcomed the newest member of our expanding clan into the world. There were a few concerns in the weeks leading up to the moment of her birth, but she and her mommy managed very well and are doing fine.

Amazingly, the sensation of clutching the child to my chest for the first time did not diminish from two years earlier when I held her sister on the day of her birth. I was still a blubbering mess, but what pure joy flooded from her little form through me. I was immediately her servant and knew that we would share many stories, snacks, and adventures together. I can’t wait.

Children of the Future

I work with kids and teens as part of my job, so I’m used to other people’s children, generally. However, it is such a nice change of pace to spend time with kids in the family. Our nieces and their husbands came for the holiday week, and the eldest brought her two amazing children. I’m biased, of course, but they are such sweet, genuine, bright, and funny kids, and we all had a blast keeping them entertained. We’ve decided that we need to invest in some construction paper for their next visit, as both kids are super crafters.

As we cooked and baked and played with them, I suddenly got very excited for the time when our two granddaughters are of a similar age. What fun it will be to hold entire conversations, read books, make up stories, and goof around in the backyard when they are school-aged. I’m in no rush, of course. I’m so happy to spend time with them, even though they are quite young, but it was a nice flash forward, for sure.

Bachman’s Dead

Once he was found out, Stephen King jokingly (and somewhat bitterly) said that his alter-ego, Richard Bachman had died as a result of cancer of the pseudonym. Most King fans don’t know, but King’s first published novel was written as Richard Bachman (Rage, 1977) and only later did Carrie come out under his real name.

I never cared for the Bachman stories, myself. King admitted in an interview I saw a long time ago, that he felt that Bachman allowed him to write things that his own persona couldn’t or wouldn’t. And to be sure, Bachman’s stories are controversial. Because of the release of a cinematic version of two of those books recently, though (The Running Man and The Long Walk) I have decided to revisit them and rate them with an eye toward understanding this nuanced difference between the author and himself as a nom de plume. I’m a third of the way through The Long Walk, and it is interesting to say the least. It seems more of a challenge to write than to read, but I’m slowly getting into it. I may review both in a coming essay.

Leaf Me Alone

The reality of my front yard is unpleasant to me right now. Because we had family coming in, I wanted to get a head start on hanging up the Christmas lights and it took me most of the beginning part of November to get things set the way I like them. Between rain, busy weekends, and other commitments, I didn’t get as much time to deal with the leaves from our big oak, so the front yard looks like a giant mess. Because I mow the leaves right now (my blower is kaput) and because the yard is strewn with cords for the Christmas lights, it is hard to manage this, but in the coming weeks, I’ll get it in better shape.

It doesn’t help that the big oak tree only releases its leaves in waves, beginning in mid-October and continuing to drop batches every few days until the end of November. Which means that, even when I do get to dealing with them regularly, it is still a challenge to keep things looking neat. I guess, given the choice, I’d rather have leaves than hot and sultry weather, so there’s that.

Parade Goeth Before the Fall

As you read this, I’m preparing for our sixth year participating in all the local town Christmas parades, which occur throughout this coming weekend. Micki is headed to the kids to help with the new baby, and I’d like nothing more than to be with her, but I will say that driving the Mobile Library in the parades is fun and helps get me in the mood for the holidays. Between Thursday night and Sunday, I’ll drive in four parades, so good luck to me getting any chores done this weekend, I guess.

Washer Step!

Last weekend, when the house was too quiet again, after the kids went home, I heard a nagging pinging coming from the basement. Our washer, it turns out, was not filling. So I called our appliance guy. Before he could answer, though, I happened to catch up with my brother, who told me what the problem was (he’s had the same issue) and what to do to fix it. So, I ordered the parts and, when I’m not driving in the parades, I guess I’ll be in the basement with the family cats, working on getting our washer going again. 

In the meantime, our Elliott has graciously allowed us the freedom to trek to his side of the house with detergent packets and dryer sheets and full baskets until we can get things sorted. You never realize how much you take appliances for granted until you don’t have them working. And this year has been a time of realization, for sure.

Final December Thoughts and what’s coming next

So, this was a potpourri just to get things back on track after the busy and fun Thanksgiving week. Next week, I’ll get back to regular, full-length essays, and one of those will hopefully be entertaining, if not comment-inducing. 

I have a longer essay on a topic of physics in Dickens in the pipe and one on personality tests, too. In the New Year, I will revisit some of my previously-mentioned drafts and brush them up a bit for public comsumption.

Anyway, I hope you all had a happy and enjoyable Thanksgiving and got to see family or go on adventures or both. Yay winter and Yule!