Saturday Marcel and I worked hard on cleaning out more closets. Box after box went into the attic. And after all the work we had Thea and Jose over for diner. I have known Jose since I was thirteen. Sweet memories. We sent eachother free mail. Of course there was no email then, so we just sent Postgiro cheques (free envelopes, no stamps necessary) and wrote our messages on the back side of the cheque. Went on for years, but in the end some overambitious manager from the Postgiro started chalking out our messages with a black marker. At the end of puberty we started with real letters. Most of them I burned when Jose returned them. Teenage drama. And I remember I even knew it then while writing. But I just wanted to be someone with real problems; sounded so romantic. David Bowie, he sounded wounded and therefore creative. Nothing bad ever happened to me, I must say. Sunday child? Perhaps. Have mockingly complained to my parents about it later: "just because you gave me such a solid childhood, I still haven't written a book! All succesful writers have trauma's! I have nothing! It's all your fault." Always blame your parents, they say, for your own failure. Luckily mine have a great sense of humor.
But see what happens. Have found inspiration after all..
Great, cosy evening. And the girls have invited Marcel for diner when I'm gone. They're the best of friends.