BLUE FRIDAY

Dreamt of this strange temple of sorrow. I was in a line with people I know, or have known through out my life. We were in a long line that stretched back as far as the eye could see, in front of what looked like, or rather felt like in that way things feel in dreams, a church or temple. I was at the front of the line, over to the side. As each person from my life got to the front of the line, a person in some kind of pain would be brought out of the temple and placed in front of those in line. Then a voice would ring out, telling everyone what was ailing the person in pain. "Brain tumor". "AIDS". "The Virus". And so on. 

This went on for a while. Then a kid, a boy of about 12, was brought out. He was clearly in great pain, and it looked like he had been through several operations. His parents were on either side, weeping. It reminded me of The Pieta by Michelangelo. Only sadder. The voice spoke.

"He is racked with pain. He has many afflictions. It has not been detected yet, but a cancer will slowly kill him in the coming months and years".

His parents lost it.

I had that weird thing where, overcome with sorrow, I try not to cry, which only makes it worse. It's like clinging to the last shred of sanity before giving over to complete and utter dismay. My friends in the line, a couple who divorced many years ago but in the dream were the age they were when I met them, turned to me and told me I had to tell the parents of the sick child what was going on, because in their grief they couldn't hear what the voice had said.

I couldn't. I just held on by a thread, so very sad.

Then the alarm went off and I awoke to a chilly Friday morning.

I do come across a lot of sorrow, and have my whole life. I think that is true to greater and lesser degrees for all of us. Am I telling myself to stop holding the sadness in? Am I telling myself that when I let it out, which I do in my writing probably most of all, to address the truth of our pain and suffering? Was it a reflection of what I have seen of late, people angry and lost and scared, feeling powerless as day after day and moment after moment, strangers tell us of another tragedy while we stand in line, waiting for our own particular pain to be presented to us?

I don't know. "Dreams are toys," as Shakespeare wrote in The Winter's Tale, "And they can fuck with you". 

Whatever the reason, it resonated with me and I feel more connected to reality after experiencing it. And I still find life magical and amazing and joyous, even with all the pain and suffering. Indeed, I think the pain and suffering necessitates our need to revel, to eat, drink and be merry- for tomorrow we die and today is probably going to have a lot of rough patches. 

So let's put on some music that elevates our mood. Let's hug the ones we love. And let's be honest about what is going on out there and inside our souls, about our sadnesses and about our joys. Let us relish this life while we can.

Wow. Deep thoughts. A Blue Friday. 

Maybe this song, a cover of New Order's Blue Monday by Orkestra Obsolete, will cheer us all up.

BLUE MONDAY TRUE MONDAY THAT'S MY FUN DAY MY I DON'T HAVE TO RUN DAY

I had a ton of vivid dreams last night. One of them took place in the 1980s, when I was in high school. The song Blue Monday featured prominently. Sadly, I can't tell you much more, because I had so many dreams, and they were all so vivid, they kind of cancelled each other out, and I am left with this strange mish-mash memory of them all. It didn't help that my dog Padfoot kept waking me up and needing to go out. Usually, he has one trip outside a night. Last night he went out four times. I kid you not. Four damn times. And just to pee. And each time he woke me up, I was in the middle of yet another vivid dream. And all of them were positive. I do remember that. They were those dreams that when you start to awaken you wish could keep on going. 

Still, the dreams put me in a good mood. And so, in honor of Blue Monday and songs of the 1980s, on my way to get tested for Covid, I put on U2's War, and listened to the whole thing. It was one of the first albums that I listened to over and over and over, and it always brings me back to those days, that time when the world was classes and friends and music and the Impala and driving over the hill to Santa Cruz and the Dollar Movie and Young Life and Swim Team and Scouts and no clue about where I was heading and not really caring all that much. A time when most nights I'd end up at Carrow's with Tom and Brian, going over the events of the day. 

Those vivid times are jumbled up in my mind now too. And they have an excellent soundtrack. 

One thing I can't stand about movies set in any section of the past that I have lived in is how often they get the songs wrong. They play top ten hits, but no deep cuts. No rarities. Just the hits. Not that some of the hits don't belong. If I was going to make a movie about my high school years it would certainly feature Blue Monday, I Will Follow, and Video Killed the Radio Star. But it would also include a ton of Dead Kennedys, Angry Samoans, and songs by Madness beside Our House. 

I do wish I had all my old records. LPs, EPs, and 45s. I think most of them are long gone. The few that are left are sitting in a storage unit in San Jose, and once my mom's house sells, I'll go get them. Not that I want to be one of those who only play the songs from their past. That is out. In fact, in my first play, Last Call, I had a group of friends who would only go to this one bar, and only play the songs from high school on the juke box. Over and over. To the point where the songs lost all meaning and resonance and became barriers to thought and expression and joy. 

So I don't want to do that. 

But I do like to listen to the old stuff now and then. 

And I did  back when I was in high school, too. I think if you limit yourself to any one thing, type of music, kind of film, and so on, you limit way too much. 

Sometimes, you need to expose yourself to the unexpected. To things that aren't part of your past, or determined to be something you might like by some algorithm. 

As Beckett wrote, habit is a great deadener. 

So here's to trying new things, to listening to old things, and to things in general. 

Here's a song. It's a cover of Blue Monday by Orkestra Obsolete.