Rogue Riskmas

I'm attempting to do this suburban holiday thing, but I find it all together insane - the trivial talk, the art of the common, and the unspoken rule to never risk the impossible. And all the eating. Meal upon meal. Snack attack after snack attack. Dozens of bowls of hard candy congealed together into garish lumps of tooth rot. Yes, during this festive season, food is evenly distributed throughout my house, which is actually rather convienent because I quickly cram my mouth full of food whenever I have the urge to start hurling epithets.

I wonder what Foucault would have written about the North American suburb? Cul-de-sacs are panopticons, for sure. And maybe these are the most refined prisons ever; for, their denizens don't even see their own prisons; worse, the occupants die to live in this state: it's called mort-gage.

And for all the upholding of "private space" around here, they sure are a suspicious friendly bunch: always dropping by to find out how you are, tongues waggling for tidbits of gossip, acting as generous as the yule-tide gift of fruit cake in red cellophane, which is only good for trash and door stops, unless you live in these parts, then it's the greatest foot-in-the-door tactic for initiating the game I like to call "best thy sanctimonious neighbour". Next year I'm suggesting we brick our doors closed with this year's cakes.

You know, if you mix in a bit of "Brave New World" into the suburb-opticon batter, you've captured the gel-capped rapture infecting this place. Here, rogue elements (what I call "life") threaten the common security and are therefore relegated to sensation-sanctioned spaces (like Butchart Gardens!!!) - joy, progress, development, and the sublime drive the needle-exchange buses in unimaginable lands far, far away. Here, feeling and joy beats not in the heart of man, but in the days of a calendar. Here, change is a threat - security outweighs progress - and therefore the definition of progress has shifted, becoming more tantamount to its stagnant antonym. Here, "Progress" means never losing the job you hate.

Here, the fear of freedom reigns on such a massive scale that whole regions live in the same house, though suburbanites call them "their own". Sure, the facades are different, but everyone who lives here unconsciously understands that underneath this surface difference every house is actually the same, and this undercurrent is happily policed, from neatly trimmed lawns to fix-it notes tacked onto worn doors. No wonder good boys smash Christmas lights and cute girls deface Barbie - wouldn't you want to see your wardens? Wouldn't you want to call a fake a fake?

You can spread Foucault's theory on thick like Olestra around these parts. You can also listen to people wonder on and on about the causes of cancer. Is it genetics? Or specific environmental things - like chemicals and second-hand smoke? Sure it is all of these things. But it's not the ingredients, it's the batter; after a lifetime of supressing freedom and chance, your body will revolt and go rogue... think about it.. it's only Natural.