Thursday, December 02, 2004

Blogger Writing Block

It seems lately I've been suffering from an affliction that anyone that puts pen to paper, fingers to keyboard can suffer from on occassion, writers block.

It's not that I can't think of something to say, I just don't feel very inspired to say it. There are always subjects out there to comment about, but sometimes it doesn't feel as if those subjects are all that important. Writers block must have something to do with the connection of emotion to rational thinking.

In my case it may be affected by my daily grind of my occupation. We all at times get wrapped up in our own destiny, this is natural as the world doesn't cease to revolve while we focus on what is vital to our own personal existence. Most of the time I can seperate my daily grind from the turning of the world, but lately I have been ignoring the world's revolution knowing in the back of my mind that it will continue.

Part of this personal shift in focus has to do with the recent Thanksgiving and the time off from the job that came with it. A few days of relaxation shifts my attention away from the job and then the subsequent return to work can seem a bit depressing. If only I was rich, I could concentrate on leisure or causes that have more of a emotional return.

Another part of the shift of focus is knowing that Christmas is approaching fast. I've long had this strange relationship with the end of the year holiday season. I've never been able to accurately describe my wishy-washy Christmas cheer. Part of it is the fact I'm both anti-traditionalist and traditionalist. I at times want to upset the tradition applecart but at other times find comfort in some traditions. For instance, outdoor Christmas lights I would basically be in favor of banning them, an indoor fake Christmas tree seems after all these years a relieving requirement. There is no real logic to this, just my strange feelings.

The Christmas season has increasingly over the years become over-commercialized and this aspect has increasingly affected me toward this season. I know for instance that American society has come to rely on that commercialism, many businesses depend on the sales at this time of year to even exist. How many of us work for companies that have a big stake in the 12 sales of Christmas? Whether we work for a retailing company at the end point of sales or a wholesale industry in the middle point or a manufactoring/supply business at the beginning point, it all points to Christmas. To paraphrase, if we build a capitalist Christmas, they will come shop. And that is what we've done here in America, and the true meaning of Christmas is shop till you drop.

In the Detroit area we have a radio station that plays Christmas music 24/7 starting before Thanksgiving. I know that deep down they do this for the bottom line rather than any sense of joy to the world. They broadcast with no DJ (and no DJ salaries), it's all on DVD including the commercials. It's Christmas mall music or elevator music for the Christmas soul, but I start feeling hypnotized by the station like some subliminal message is being broadcast, "go buy something, spend money, go to a store, shop, shop, shop..." You can bet I don't listen to this station voluntarily.

I could offer many more examples of this strange exploitation of Jesus in America at this time of year, but suffice to say that it hardly feels like something to look forward to. Oh, I enjoy the actual day of Christmas and a family get-together and a song or two will lift my spirits, but the onslaught of commercials pressuring me into shopping at this point makes me feel more like running screaming into the night. In other words, it's not Christmas depression I suffer from, but the Christmas commercialization blues that gets to me.

Oh, I've got to go to a store, (da, DA, da, duh)
That's what the ads tell me to do, (da, DA, da, duh)
keep buying and buy some more, (da, DA, da, duh)
'cause I've got those Christmas shoppin' blues.

And apparently I've worked through my blogger writing block, at least for now.


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