This is sunday. And all of a sudden I understood why a day of rest was invented, for people working six days a week. Sunday used to be a day of visiting my grandparents, to see my grandfather listening to football on the radio, and after that visiting other family members. This was important for my parents in order to drink the homebrew dutch gin in great amounts. And after that my father drove us unsteadily to the local chinese restaurant. It took some time before our food arrived. My mother went to rest under the table. My father paid the bill without us touching the food. My father drove us home. I do not recall the atmosphere in the evening.
I do prefer to work on sundays. I do not have to. I think about death these days. When I was a student, a very long time ago, I lived solitary in a small apartment overlooking de ‘Centrale markthallen’ in Amsterdam-West. For heating I had a woodstove and I used all the unpainted wood I found on the street. Of course some pieces were too big and needed to be sawed. The neighbor on the second floor, a very lonely man without teeth and bitter about life, complained about the noise. I could understand that. I also played piano because I had to practice for my lessons. Sometimes, I layed stretched out on my bed and tried to stop breathing. I was very quiet and never wanted to stop. Stop.
It is easier to live this way, when you think about it. It probably happened on sundays.
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