I like them the Sundays. I think it’s my favorite day. I usually keep the phone off and my entertainment consists in taking coffee, eat and be reading two or three books at once. I open the pages of one and leave the other pending, to resume it a few minutes or hours later.
Job pencil in hand underlining the paragraphs or sections that interest me and I write —an immediate writing— in the marginsbetween the lines or any blank space that I find available within the page or other parts of the body of the book: the front pagethe legal sheetthe inside of the front pagethe back coveretc.
It is common to also use a couple of feathers of different inks —one blue and one red— and White sheets in which I am outlining a kind of silent conversation with what is exposed within that territory —cosmos itself— that is all text.
This is for me a full sunday and satisfying to excess. I assume that all satisfaction must be excessive. Of course, I don’t know if what I say is true. I just woke up and not quite fresh. He air conditioningor it stopped working around four o’clock in the early morning. I guess because lack of maintenance. You will have to call technical for me to repair it.
For now, I have hunger. I fancy some biscuits spread with butter and blueberry jam; and some eggs with mushrooms and gouda cheese; Also, corn tortillas and wheat bread with piloncillo or stuffed with pumpkin candy that my grandmother used to make.
I get up from my chair and go to the kitchen to find that I can’t cook anything if I don’t go out and buy what I need first. The refrigerator and cupboard are empty. The only thing available is a packet of pasta and a bag of rice. I don’t want either one or the other. I have to go to the supermarket, but not before I continue basting —unraveling— and put an end to this that I write or I think write.
It may interest you:
#write #sunday