Expectation is a curious orientation. At its heart, it is a state that we feel entitled to. When we turn ourselves outward, grasp invisibly into the future, and take hold of a thing un-yet realized . . . something about that feels justified; even if it doesn’t feel so very realistic. What we expect draws within and coalesces around a core of right: as if some deeper reasoning has been at work, drafting a bill that comes into effect at midnight. From inside our subjectivity: the eager public: ourselves: we have been given just enough grounds to dwell upon even our most modest desires and our willingness to be spoiled. There is something in the future that we feel we deserve just as much as we want.
Often what comes to be revealed on the day is both a fulfillment and a desolation; a raw recognition or conversely equal disappointment. Jubilation. Despair. The accumulated evidence of many tomorrows waited out has its own way of making us feel adequate but out of sync. We are led to invest in the coming moment, to foresee a kind of destiny upon its arrival. Life, it may be said, encourages it. Patterns emerge effortlessly, and we project them on a luminous screen that banners across the approaching morning.
To expect, in the true sense of the word, carries with it an array of consequences. To expect brings all stray desires home with you, but snappingly hungry and irritable about the meal that’s on offer. In reality, and I speak broadly, the random, unforeseeable nature of even the simplest outcomes means that our dreams are constantly thwarted; but also that the most reasonable drafts detailing our rights in the future promised by ourselves to ourselves refuse to manifest faithfully. Our fictions are choked with characters perfectly adapted to the whims and uncertainties of their time and place. The sleuth susses out the criminal, rarely surprised by the knave’s nefarious endgame—but together they’ll often talk it out, until all the motivations are clear. The valiant and perspicacious leader addresses the crowd—but wasn’t he always sure of persevering, and wasn’t the defeat in line with his expectations from the beginning? The Machiavellian plots of the mastermind results in a coordinated pulling of all the strings of countless hangers-on, and puppets, wound in clockwork, dance according to the might of the right she has invested her powers in. The dream of a dream realized is reinscribed over and over. We might expect that at some point our own hard-won deductions, inductions, or abductions will someday work out for us unequivocally. The projected rights of tomorrow will work out right in an end befitting our creative drafts.
This is a season of expectations. Despite the anti-climaxes of ambitions thwarted and dreams unrealized—relationships, presents, and events unrequited despite our unquestionable deservedness—the holiday season is a lesson in acceptance, of things as they are with all of their unexpected manifestations. Our right to the future can only ever be approximate, just like everything else. What we see coming our way, behind the luminous screen, resolves itself into view as it crests the horizon. Is that what I was waiting for?
Yes. This is what you get.