It is not yet dawn and as almost usually, I am already awake. Inn a literary sense, Sunday is often defined as tired. For our vision of minor literature artisans, to us, to me, it has never seemed so tired. Early Sunday may be tired, but it is not all that different from any other morning at dawn. Usual cleaning squad, usual distant noise of cars. But early morning is early morning, not tired, just less crowded. In fact, I have to be honest; the clamor of some “late wake-up” people gives Sunday morning an efficiency and vitality that the other days of the week do not have at that hour.
Despite Sunday, even my small world of reference is always active, not tired: there are always some friends or colleagues or clients who talk to me about work. And woe to God if it were different, he would mean that I have become useless. It is so useless saying that they bother even on Saturdays and Sundays: with a responsible and sincere attitude, I fear the moment when on Sundays no one will write to me to ask for an opinion. On Saturdays and Sundays the difference is that, they are usually friends and the closest ones.
Sweater, blanket on my legs, I check for the first time of the day my WhatsApp, which reveals me something: my social life is not, unlike my professional one, very complex. My family, very sparing writers; friends, they also do not exaggerate. The vitality of this vehicle is more in the “state” activity, which is that part of the social network where, for everyone’s benefit, everyone publishes photos or videos worthy of attention. And as I’m curious, I scrutinize what is posted by someone, not by everyone. One of the most followed is my brother-in-law, who has the nice habit of posting his weekend food excursions.
I do not know if he’s ever had tests to measure his cholesterol, but actually I think that maybe during the week he’s a monk, or some alarm bell somewhere should ring for him. But not only that, from time to time it also publishes videos or images of events. I open his latest creation: a hall where live music is being played. A band plays a song by David Bowie, “Rebel rebel”. At first I don’t pay much attention to the context, but in the background voice says “But how loud is this music!!”.
The sentence intrigues me, it didn’t seem like an unsustainable volume for a rave. I zoom in on the image and an audience of baldheads takes over, arriving at the band members, elderly 50-year-olds sniffing music, giving the image more of a slow motion than a “deadly shot”. So I say: big up to my 52-year-old brother-in-law and to all those like him. A terrible envy, because gentlemen, at the age of 20, 30, it is easy to eat, drink, smoke, make and live in a mess, 24 hours a day. At 52 it is what is called resilience. Without exaggerating, a beastly body. I envy him because I could not make it. I envy him? Yes sincerely, and as a sign of respect, in order: I look for my armchair, pull up the blanket and enjoy the day beginning through the windows. And I open my pinky Gazzetta.
