Saturday, February 8, 2014

Every Day Is Monday

Sometimes on my commute home I catch "Writers Almanac", which is about a five minute segment Garrison Keillor does on NPR.

He celebrates birthdays of the creative, things they wrote, maybe tells a quick story. He always reads something, usually from authors or poets I have never heard of.

I love it.

The way Keillor talks drives me right up a wall. Is it affectation, something practiced over a lifetime for specific effect? Or has he always talked that way?

If he talked that way as a kid I guarantee he got beat up a lot.

I have to overlook the voice, though, because he brings me beauty and wonder.

He read "Roustabout", a poem written by Jack Ridl the other night.

Had a line in there that resonated with my soul-ache for the plight of all of us who work endlessly at meaningless and spirit sucking jobs.

"It's a bed. Can't gripe. Plenty of coffee. Have my mug. Been here with the show ten years. Once took off to try some factory work. Hated it. Every day was Monday."

Every day was Monday. Man, that is painful and true. We rationalize our way through the week.

Get through Monday and Tuesday. "Survived another one." Wednesday is hump day. Thursday is almost Friday. Friday is thank God.

Those are just words.

The truth is that every day is Monday.

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