Solitude (2012).
I read in the newspapers they are going to have 30 minutes of intellectual stuff on television every Monday from 7:30 to 8. to educate America. They couldn’t educate America if they started at 6:30.—Groucho Marx
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I know, Monday. Erg. No one likes Monday because it means going back to work. And there’s the rub, how much of our lives do we spend hating one-seventh of our week? Any way you come at this, you end up with the blues. Monday means an end to the fun, an end to the play, an end to family time, an end to leisure. Who wants to give that up? Well, unless, of course, you’re an NFL player or something related where you work on Sunday. I suppose the Peyton Mannings of the world look forward to Monday as a chance to recuperate from Sunday. That would be another reason we’re jealous of the rich bastards, and another reason to have the blues.
Preachers typically like Monday, too. I know Poppa did. Mondays were his quiet day, or at least he tried to keep them as quiet as possible. He put everything he had into those two services on Sunday. Monday was for him. He’d get us kids and Mom off the school and then hit the coffee shop, or donut shop depending on where we were living. He’d sometimes hang out with other preachers, maybe go to lunch, and then take a nap before we all came busting through the door as noisily as possible, absolutely destroying his solitude. There are probably a lot of people who look at Monday as a relief, but doesn’t mean they don’t still sing the blues.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Actually, you realize we have unions, industrialization, and that whole 40-hour-work-week thing to blame for our attitude about Monday. Prior to that whole 40-hour thing, Monday was just another day. Sure, folks would take a pause on Sunday for church and such, but there wasn’t any difference between Monday and any other day of the week. There wasn’t such a thing as the weekend. There was no Friday night football. No Saturday afternoon football. No Sunday night football. Good god, how in the world did those poor people survive without football? No wonder they had short life spans.
Music gives Monday a bad rap, too. Rainy days and Mondays alls ways get me down, you know. Manic Monday. Blue Monday. Monday Monday. Blues great T-Bone Walker sings about Stormy Monday below the break. The thing about Monday music, though, is it actually seems to help one feel a little better about getting the day started, or surviving the whole thing. That’s what the blues does for you, gets out those negative emotions so you can feel better about yourself and get on with your week.
Although, Tuesday’s just as bad.[/one_half_last]
Dance Or Protest
Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame! —William Butler Yeats
May Day gives us an option: we can either dance, or we can protest. Which is likely to do us more good?
Happy Easter!
Yeah, I know, that wasn’t exactly what you were expecting, was it? But yes, this is the Greek Orthodox Easter. Enjoy the highly decorated eggs.
For everyone else, Happy May Day! You now have a choice for how to spend your day: will you dance or will you protest?
One of the few memories I have of first grade is our May Day celebration. The music teacher organized the event complete with a Maypole, and flowers, and dancing, and May baskets. I remember the bright colors of the Maypole and how much fun it was to dance with all my classmates to the cool music of the lute. We were really into lutes when I was six. I also remember how proud I was of the woven construction paper basket that, somewhat unbelievably now, the teacher filled with candy and flowers with instructions for us to take them home and give them to our mothers. What’s unbelievable about that is not only that the teacher gave us fresh-cut daffodils and candy, but that the candy actually made it home!
There really is no accurate dating of when May Day celebrations began. They are unique to the Northern Hemisphere because if one lives in the Southern Hemisphere one is getting ready for winter, not Summer. The general consensus seems to be that by May 1 all of the plantings would have likely been done and it was a good day for everyone to take a break, celebrate life, and, oh yeah, sex. Pagans tended to be rather big on that part, even though there is some debate over whether that was an actual ritual or not. They called the day Beltaine and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
After centuries of dancing, though, the day took on new meaning during the 19th century when workers chose that day to strike for better working conditions and ultimately a 40-hour work week. Those protests have expanded over the years to include most every form of political statement one would want to make. All over the world today, marches are scheduled in protest of government action, government inaction, and a lack of basic rights and living conditions. Some of the strongest may come in Venezuela where the government ordered clocks set 30 minutes ahead, among other measures, to help save electricity. Greece also seems to be a likely target for protests as the combination of economic and immigration problems keep the country in distress.
The difference between the two ways of commemorating the day is striking. One, the oldest, has a positive message and attitude, one born of joy and celebration, anticipation for the future.  The other is  born of anger, resentment, and frustration at one’s condition. The two don’t remotely go together. This means we have a choice. Are our efforts best served in the pursuit of dance and happiness and maybe even a little frivolity? Or is our time better spent raising our voice against injustice?
Personally, I choose to dance for a couple of reasons. One, dancing in circles is the one dance I can do well. Give me a brightly colored piece of ribbon tied to a pole and I’ll dance until we’re both dizzy. Second, I’m not convinced smaller protests matter any more. Politicians are too dismissive. The only time a protest seems to work is when the crowd is large enough to be genuinely threatening, and no one in Indiana is quite that passionate about a damn thing. So, dancing seems to make a lot more sense, doesn’t it?
I invite you to dance with me, if you will. We actually have wood in the fire pit, but after yesterday’s rains, I’m going to assume it’s all soaked. And I don’t have a pole or brightly colored strips of cloth. We can still dance, though, even if it decides to rain. Dancing is never a bad use of a Sunday.
Go ahead. Indulge. Dance.
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