So that's it. We are on the descending slope now. Belgium worries me, UK is still climbing its own via crucis, but overall, as far as my space is implied, the pandemic is what we saw already. The question now is how to return to work.
Although it is not my religion, it is a strange coincidence, that my privately announced end of the pandemic coincides with Easter of Christians, also called the Resurrection Sunday. Anyway, people used to paint eggs this time of the year since I don't know when. Perhaps even the Palaeolithic. It must be one of the oldest rituals still in existence.
Pity I don't have any eggs. I've just finished eating up my pandemic provisions. I've just had the rest of instant soup mixed with the reminder of the brine from a can of sausages. Sort of ritualised crisis, celebrating the moment when the cosmetic jelly is just a little bit in the jar, and my clothes as if I came straight from Bissau. The beginning of a new life that I ritualistically confront as a naked woman, a pauper, and a refugee. Although it is of course my own Europe. But we are all, as the Christians say, nothing but pilgrims and refugees on the face of the earth.
Strange there is no such obvious music for Easter Sunday as St Mathew Passion is for the days before. But I listen to Bach's Easter Oratorio BWV 249, by Nederlands Bach Society. Even if it instantly cuts down my ascetic celebration and reinstates me as a solvent citizen in my own Europe.
I miss Netherlands. Meanwhile, Lisbon is something that I can only smell from the height of my window in the Avenida Almirante Reis. The weather is warm already, the vegetation in full blossom. It will be great to walk through the city again, taking pictures. Perhaps I could stay a month or even two, go to the National Library again. Before I come back to Leiden.