Far more than a religious observance, Christmas is a cultural behemoth; consequently, it holds vastly different meanings to different people. Its ubiquity means nothing at all or may be a sore point for many non-Christians and Christians alike; some take pains to remember the holy roots of the day, whereas others genuinely enjoy the excesses of shopping and eating, or the too-infrequent celebration of loved ones gathering together. Similarly, theaters capitalize on the many facets of the holiday with remarkable variation, and the mainstream-ducking Blackbird Theatre has found an approach that suits it perfectly. The theater's revision/revival of If Only In My Dreams, directed this year by Patricia Wheeler, is once again a wintry mix of seasonally themed literary works as told by their authors. The production dodges orgasmically festive commercialism and done-to-death cautionary tales about goodwill to humankind, instead fully embracing a personal, contemplative view of Christmas, in particular the sharply recalled warmth and magic of those past.

For the occasion, the Sh\'aut\ Cabaret and Gallery is arranged in a semi-cabaret formation, with one prominently placed table mingling among those placed before the front row. At first sight, the setup can mistakenly suggest the eavesdroppy closeness of a restaurant setting, as though the audience and performers alike are simply murmuring Christmas-weary patrons huddled in a dark bar with obligatory tree and half-subversive seasonal soundtrack. However, Wheeler's staging thwarts this preconception: its big physicality, buoyancy, and disregard for the fourth wall elevate the writer characters to magical heights. These are not so much men as literary giants, backed up by their gorgeous, lyrical words.

This year's slate has changed and expanded to six offerings, from brisk one-off glimpses to pages-long rapturous prose, representing three characters each for performers Barton Bund and William Myers. The child's perspective is amply represented, from Bund's heart-attack-serious approach to play in "A Child's Christmas in Wales," by Dylan Thomas, to Myers's gloriously sulking Roch Carrier, horrified at the gift he's expected to wear, in "The Hockey Sweater." Less-immediate writings from Groucho Marx and Leigh Hunt are well-measured additions that balance out the heavy, engrossing narrative of other pieces. Between scenes, Gayle Martin breezes in and out of the space, matter-of-factly moving set pieces and singing un-self-consciously to herself, like a party hostess excited for the upcoming event. Despite this often small and private feeling, awareness of the audience is always at the fore; this may be a reflective exercise, but it's meant to be shared, and the effect is pleasantly interactive.

The payoff of this curious premise is in its approach to storytelling itself — the works as portrayed here are not so much recitation as monologue; it's a collection of charming and intelligent pieces, surely, but the finest of the lot work brilliantly merely as stories, told fresh or sharpened to a point with practiced repetition. As with the best stories we tell each other, Bund and Myers revel in the very act of telling them, in the details and the memories they inspire; as with the best stories we hear, their performances trigger the viewer's own recollections and favorite tales. In particular, Myers's studied turn as Truman Capote and his "A Christmas Memory," beyond its portrait of poor rural life and an irreplaceable friendship, is certain to recall people long gone and inspire fond, aching remembrance.

Every Christmas celebrant keeps the holiday in his own way, and the subtle joys of If Only In My Dreams are likely to overlap with many viewers' appreciation of the season. Holed up in a little house in Ann Arbor, with a snowy visage outside the windows and boots dripping onto the floor, audiences can expect to be steeped in ritual and reverence of an unexpected flavor, but one no less deserving of a place in the Christmas panoply.