Monday Morning : Part 3,397

Oddly enough, Mondays really are not my worst days.  Garfield was a fucking cat.  So all you whiners out there, suck it up Buttercup.

Mondays are a return to that which puts bread on the table.  Lots of folks see this as a problem.  To be honest for years I thought the same.  But now that I am old, I tend to look at it differently.  Work is the price we pay for the world chosen for us by our culture and our forebears.  We accepted that world and became a part of it through the indoctrination of the school system and the machinations of Madison Avenue.

Now, you might be thinking that this is going to be a tirade, a rage against the injustice of the machine and how it stifled my inner creativity and prevented me from becoming the sensitive artist that I am deep inside.  Nope, that dog don't hunt.  I think that overall the system allowed me to do something greater than I would have been able to accomplish on my own.  It rewarded me well past my contribution.  It took something away from me, but it gave me something in return.

For some odd reason, my mental wanderings have landed me in France.  René Girard was the first stop, an excellent divertissement for Mike and I to chew on for a couple of weeks and thousands of words.  Then Jeanna led me down a somewhat convoluted path to Serge Gainsbourg, and this morning I woke up to the words of Camus from forty-some-odd years ago

“I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

But don't think for a minute that I am going to ever, ever watch another Truffaut film