Bah Humbug
I'm breaking through the last wall on this
marathon of words. And it's a thick one.
The wall is built out of writer's blocks instead
of building blocks. And with each passing day, more
of them pile up. Fifteen-hour workdays are the clay
that forms these blocks, and stress the heat that
fires them. The mortar of sleep deprivation cements
them together. Against such a barrier, inspiration
is a feather, as incapable of breaking down the
wall as the herring used to cut down a tree in
"Monty Python and the Holy Grail."
I bowed to cold reality for the past two nights,
choosing sleep over writing. An easy choice. I
yearned to do the same tonight, but didn't want
"The Daily Strick" to become a weekly when less
than fourteen days remain in the year. So here I
am, beating my feather against the wall.
I've felt more like Scrooge this year than ever
before, ready to shout out "Bah Humbug!" at the
slightest provocation. Besides one fun evening at
"Christmas on the Prado" in Balboa Park, my only
taste of the holidays has been the few late-morning
shopping excursions I've made between jobs. Oh, and
hearing religious Christmas tunes wafting from the
speakers in a theme park that's too politically
correct to print the word "Christmas" anywhere. Ah,
the irony.
Family is an important component of Christmas,
and I'm blessed with a wonderful family. Yet the
holiday lost all of its magic for me years ago.
Most of my siblings have created their own
families, so Christmas for all of us comes several
days before December 25 every year. After a
bountiful Christmas dinner, the seventeen of us
spend eight hours around the tree in an orgy of
gift exchanging. I still take joy in the giving of
presents, but the unwrapping process for such a
large group has reached near-farcical
proportions.
Yes, I'm a cynic, sorry to say. I'm sure I'd
feel differently if I had a family of my own.
There's a sense of renewal one can achieve by
looking at life through the eyes of a child. But
for now, I'll probably grumble more than I should
at the family Christmas, and drink too much wine
waiting for my turn to come around. I will likely
hit the road on December 25 to get out of the empty
apartment.
And I'll hopefully find something to write
about.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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