Sunday Night

By Eugene Thomason, art student at work, c.1959

Trying to beat the blood beating heart, to calm the frantic whispers, and stave off the wave of fear that creeps in with Sunday's setting sun. The trials of the week await, and a rest of time won't be long enough. I am putting finishing touches on paintings, slogging through plaster experiments and checking the washer and dryer for the sheets. Tomorrow will be another story.
The truth is that I love my own time. I love my own company. There is not enough time to do all that I want to do on my own. I have so much painting to try. So many ideas to work out. I am never bored. So it feels like an infringement to have to answer the alarm bells of another calling, to rush to employment and tie my time into service of commerce, the paying the bills. That is the warning of the Sunday setting sun... getting in place my clothes and lesson plans, packing my bags and slipping into hard shoes. I must pay bills. For that I must work full time every week.

At least I get paid for doing what I love. It is a pretty goog gig being an art teacher. Who am I to complain?