Despite the nippy air of December mornings and the occasional Christmas carol playing in the background it is difficult to feel that we are in the middle of the yuletide season. It does not help that carnage of historic proportions continues to assault our sensibilities from the murder of innocents to the killing of remnant institutions that remind us of our near-dead democracy.

The Christmas reds and greens have turned bloody crimson, scarlet, and olive drab. Reckless experiments with our constitution and the threat of resurgent dictatorship is in the air. The sound of chimes is now the sound of mortar blasts and gunfire. Heavenly choirs have turned into wailing and weeping. The rooftop pitter-patter is neither from Dasher nor Dancer but the creeping and crawling of second-storey thieves. From the banal to the spiritual, the constant assault on sensibilities is overpowering.

Of what significance is giving when there is nothing left to sacrifice and our fragile humanity is reduced with the triviality of life wantonly snuffed out? Of what substance are institutions when hope is dashed by the perpetuation of high-level criminality?

Fortunately, there are other signs and here we list some that come as certain as the calendar flips to the merriest time of the year.

First, it’s a certainty that when the yuletide is near motorists can expect traffic enforcers and street aides to be overly diligent. Ask any mulcted taxi cab driver. The only other time this pouncing phenomenon occurs is during the run-up to St. Valentine’s Day as salivating packs hide around corners, slither behind signages, shrubs and garbage bins. Hardly any citations are handed out, but cheer is no doubt spread.

Another sign that the season of giving is here are hand-written notes in our mailboxes, scribbled by a gaggle of garbage collectors who, throughout the year are as scarce as tiny reindeer. Rather than written on stationeries, greetings are etched on envelopes conveniently the size of paper money – proof of McLuhan’s symbiotic postulate that the medium is the message.

Note also another sign of Christmas that invades our privacy as does criminality intrude aggravated by a season perched on the eve of an electoral campaign period. Pickpockets are everywhere, their omnipresence rivaled by baby-bussing and crowing politicians who frighteningly materialize at all Misas de Gallo.

Past is prologue and Christmas is as good a time as any to start early. In informal settler neighborhoods, squatter enclaves and slums, street children are happily engaged in a fantasy world, immersed in imagination and role-playing deep within the universe of make-believe. The most popular toys are no longer dolls or train sets. At this time of the year, street urchins from three to sixty-three can be seen racing after each other, leaping over fences, gutters and canals with the most realistic, lethal- and deadly-looking plastic replicas of Smith and Wesson, Glock and Uzi.

In the corporate universe, utilitarianism also rules. Umbrellas have replaced fruitcakes as the most circulated present and it has become a sign of the yuletide when, on every street corner, messengers ply with at least ten umbrellas wrapped with plastic.

The utility of umbrellas cannot be denied. People need at least three – one to leave at home, another to leave in the bus and yet another, to leave in taxi cabs. Umbrellas also have longer shelf lives than fruitcake. They advertise and circulate. While fruitcakes also circulate, no one really eats these and I suspect there is really only one loaf passed around and recycled yearly.

One can likewise tell that the holidays are here by the proliferation of off-line automated teller machines. In the case of one bank, their machines are reputed to regularly hibernate during weekends, non-working holidays or when the public needs cash the most.

One explanation is the volume of withdrawals. The other is the interest float banks earn when cash is retained or lent in the overnight inter-bank call loan market.

Finally, in our litany of Christmas signs, the season of giving would be senseless without recipients. During the yuletide these are provided by enterprising syndicates that import ethnic (Aetas, Lumads, etc.) beggars from far-flung provinces and strategically placing them under tree-lined routes next to plush palatial enclaves. Location, location, location.

Never mind that for the herded and trucked-in, none speak Tagalog. Cardboard signs are scribbled for them invoking the spirit of sharing.

Counterfeit charity, cabal carnage and constructive martial rule notwithstanding, these are signs that Christmas will still push through as scheduled.

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