Where You Go When You Want to Think

This site has excerpts of my novel-in-progress, Hot Love on the Wing, as well as thoughts on post postmodernism, avant garde art, literature, music, and the community of artists in Bushwick and New York.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Sunday, Sunday

It is Sunday, and people are playing cards in the street, their chairs arranged in circles. They laugh and smile in the hot afternoon sun, wiping their foreheads. At restaurants, bottles of water sit in sweaty ice buckets, and crowds wear sunglasses. The tables are full and there are waits. Everyone is happy that they do not have to work. They drink their coffee and live in the moment.
   But when the light grows softer, and the shadows lengthened, then that feeling, that five day creep would filter into our minds, and we would think about the long week ahead.
    That is what these crowds are doing now that the streets are emptier, emptying, as it quiets and people make dinner. And it gets quieter and quieter as the evening proceeds and everyone embraces Sunday to the last of it, the very end, as they remember their responsibilities and work up the courage to make the work week work.
Or, it is gray and cloudy with the sky's impending rain. You eat brunch, and get hungry before dinnertime so you snack and sit idly, not knowing how to spend the rest of the day. Ennui sets in, and you try to watch tv, but nothing's on, so you find a family member, only to leave their presence out of frustrated exhaustion of things to talk about. They're doing Sunday things, like tidying rooms, or sketching, or other solitary activities. And when night comes, you're ready for the week to begin, anything for Sunday to just be over already. This is the wrong way to live a Sunday. 

Try Sunday Funday.

-Daniel Adler (in case you forgot)

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