Outside the chilly window of my spam filter, this year's snowfall of hungry ghosts, the trillions of names generated by spammers trying to get past, are whispering. The names have gotten more and more baroque as the name generators reach into the "more unusual" name lists. Mohan Broadfoot, Delicia Blount, Odoacer Darrigo, Zhenya Prenatt, Niloufar Willetts, Myrddin Ramage, Ponzio Faust, and Leokadia Goranson have sent me solicitations for the usual drugs and mortgage renewals. Aghavni Bernhard, Rhydderch Dolloff, Pablo Hawk, Platon Polzin, and Tabatha Thivierge have also tried to contact me. If I could reply to them, I would. But they are ghosts, verbal phantoms, momentary creations as ephemeral as those "virtual particles" the advanced physicists talk about.

Their subject lines are just as intriguing as their names; these are also generated by some stoned program which puts words together in sentence-like, but addled order. "Silver may pliancy, a Amalia" asks one e-mail. A certain Kobus Tibbles sends me a note: "Maggot some ergodic, it Paloma." What am I to make of a message titled "Campanile or lockout, or Shaun?" Shaun, can you get back to me? Some of the titles are more terse: "Unhappy inedibility." "Ingredient cult." "Outgrown nowhere." Or a more holiday-oriented one, perhaps: "Song peaceable."

I am here for the holidays, not there. On the Internet, there is no here or there. And in the Holiday Season, as elsewhere, it is the myths that are true, not the reality. The miles-long backups of cars exist in the other world, but in Mythworld, silver bells ring, as perfect snowflakes drift over a little village of wood houses with white porches. You really can take a ride on a one-horse open sleigh. And families and friends can't wait to get together to celebrate, with tasteful presents and home-baked goodies around a real Christmas tree.

Somewhere in a wintry, woodsy area is a little cabin filled with light and warmth. An old couple lives there. He is rotund and good-natured, with a big fluffy white beard. She is nurturing and creative, surrounded by things she has knit or sewn or baked. They invite all their friends and relatives to their cabin, but it never seems to be crowded. Every present that Mr. and Mrs. Winter give out seems to be just what the guest desires, or needs. What only a few of the guests know is that this couple are a benevolent Pagan God and Goddess in disguise.

Out in the clear winter night the planets roll in their crystal orbits, and the stars twinkle their insect-like wings of light. In the trees, owl physicists pose problems: The acceleration of gravity at the surface of planet X is 8.0 m/s²….is the string theory "landscape" anthropic? They hoot to each other in woodsy scientific conferences. Beyond the virtual gateway, in the outer darkness, a billion spam people shop in frenzied malls. It's the longest night of the year, and the cold heavens wait for the dawn.

Posted at 2:38 am | link