MONDAY

Last Monday was real bad. Real bad.
No need to go into detail. I want to keep it under 500 words.
Balance is not innate and has nothing to do with being a Libra. Balance is learned after many a hard lesson.
My lesson comes in the form of Monday.
I hate Mondays.
I know Monday is temporary. A bad case of ‘this too, shall pass’.
That mantra doesn’t always soothe this savage beast.

Disclaimer: My disdain for Monday is unrelated to the stereotypical reasons the rest of the human race hate Monday. It’s not because the weekend is over and the drudge of deadlines and alarm clocks begins again. It’s not the sluggish traffic to the office delaying the inevitable when all I want to do is get it over with. It’s not even the phony smile I sport to dodge the whizzing jibes.

Here is the recipe that comprises my most hated 8 hours of the week:
There is something wrong with my energy the second I step into the office on Monday. The air is curdled and frenzied. The stress is wire taunt. Every ounce of ‘happy me’ is drained by the first ringing phone.

It can be sunny, it can be cold. It can be a holiday, a boss-free day, a free lunch day. Nothing takes the sting out of Monday. I have even started disappointing my Sundays in dread of my Mondays.

Pathetic.

But hating Monday is not about where I am. It is about who I am.

I hate Monday for whisking me away from my home, my studio, my keyboard. I hate Monday for being my source of sustenance and support. There is a cracked molar in my head. There is a 20 pound tabby too fat to lick her own butt and a vet appointment that raped my frail income.

So Monday has proven (gah!) useful. Monday provides balance. Monday is the deep breath I take and hold as long as possible to enjoy the eventual release. Monday, it turns out, only intensifies my gratitude for the other days of my week, when I can basically do whatever I want. Which is make art.

If it weren’t for the muck and mire of Monday, I’d never appreciate what lies beyond it.

I’d never prize the people who don’t bully me. I’d never bother to meditate. I’d never step back from a painting and think ‘damn, life is good’.

This Monday I will enjoy the pettiness. I will revel in the traffic. I will celebrate my aggravation. I will sit in the pain and know it is the balance that I need.

Sigh…it’s still Monday….

So What's YOUR Excuse???

Ugh.

So, yes, dear reader, what is my excuse? I promised to blog at least once a week. Cuz you all want to know what’s going on in this, er, maundering mind. I also promised not to bore you. I will keep the infernal whining to a minimum of 500 words. No more, no less.

Excuse the typos and bad grammar, i.e., the use of ‘cuz’ as opposed to ‘because’. It is the result of feverish revising of my novel. Yes, to all of you who have heard previous lamenting, I’m still working on it 3 years later but again, I reiterate, it is hard work writing a book. I want it to be (cringe) as near perfect as possible before handing off to the benevolent souls willing to read it for me and offer feedback. Then I’ll be diving head first into the deep blue sea of literary agents and publishers and I don’t swim very well. Especially when undertows of ‘is it good enough? Does it suck? Should I bother’ threaten to drown me.

And art. Always art. When the pen goes dry I reach for a gouge. My ‘Music Muse’ triptych begins taking on another form, this time in linoleum cut prints. The Girlz have seen life as oil pastels and collages. Soon they will be seeped in ink and crushed in a press. But first, I have to gouge. God willing there will be a show in December and again Doubt rears its evil little head; ‘maybe no one will like them, I shouldn’t bother, who do I think I am anyway???’

I don’t like wasting time whining. I’d rather be working. I’d rather be living. My pouts took on a different light last week learning about the sudden death of a high school friend. Yes, I know I’m 40 and my comrades will be passing but my class lost 2 great guys this year way too soon. Such events would throw anyone into a dark place. Mine was a bluesy tailspin and for a few moments on Wednesday morning I wondered if the Muses had abandoned me. If the right words would continue to find my page. If pain might over-ride the creative flow that had been coursing so fervently…if those nasty inklings held any merit…

Pain, I have learned, is mandatory in this life. It’s Suffering that is optional. My lost classmates had one major attribute in common; the lives they lived were to the fullest. The loved they bestowed was the greatest of legacies.

There is a difference between whining and mourning. There is a difference between perfectionism and fear. For now it is November 14, 2010. It is a magnificent morning. The leaves are burning orange against the bluest of So Cal skies. And my hands itch to get back to work.

God bless Dal Jones. God bless Victor Spirov. Now it’s back to my bad grammar, gray shreds of linoleum and blogs that don't exceed 500 words.

501 words, to be exact.