[[A few jottings from the wee hours, saved in November and forgotten until now.]]
Shameless procrastination has reduced me to browsing the NaNoWriMo forums at two in the morning, skimming pointlessly-opened threads in lieu of wrestling with the contents of that first draft document that I would really rather pretend does not exist at this point in time. While I intended the forums to serve as a quick break before unwinding and going to bed, my plan were derailed as I clicked thread after thread, and by the time I opened "You know you're a writer when..." I was experiencing full-blown denial. All one needs to do in order to comprehend the truth of the accusation that writing has become a social fad is read through the NaNo boards, an act which can only lead to the crushing conclusion that the art of writing has indeed been reduced to a level so trivial that it can no longer be called an art, and must be categorised either as psychiatric therapy or happy-go-lucky dumping of word and fantasy for the purpose of impressing the world with self-perceived personal genius. At last I understand the state to which the role of writer has been diminished.
While many posts proved riling, none raised ire quite so much as the flippant comments on the "You know you're a writer when..." thread, and it is in response to some of the statements made there that I am rambling at this hour of the night.
•You talk about your novel constantly.
•You are angry when the people you talk to do not listen to you blabber about said novel.
~ brambleclaw33
...when you tell everyone about your writings, not caring if they care or not.
~ carmensakura07
To insist that writers speak incessantly of what they are writing, or have written, or plan to write, is to keep alive a significant misconception. If writing a novel is simply a platform for having one more thing regarding which to gab to the world at large, it is unlikely that writing is actually being done, or, if it is occurring, that it is producing anything of worth. "When you’re socially awkward," writes Criss Jami, "you’re isolated more than usual, and when you’re isolated more than usual, your creativity is less compromised by what has already been said and done. All your hope in life starts to depend on your craft, so you try to perfect it. One reason I stay isolated more than the average person is to keep my creativity as fierce as possible. Being the odd one out may have its temporary disadvantages, but more importantly, it has its permanent advantages." Novels are not found in an excess of chatter, but in the silent occupation of writing, and the dedication of revision.
Art as a whole involves a rich internal life, which is not fed by continual logorrhea; one may be guilty of prolixity, but it is unlikely that incessant rambling regarding a current project, to anyone and everyone who will listen and even to those who won't, is going to promote the inner environment necessary for truly artistic writing. For a writer, perhaps even more so than those less introspectively inclined, it is essential to have a life rich with experience. I do not care to ramble incessantly about my writing projects to those around me; instead, I watch them, learning from their habits and thought patterns and manners of speech in order to better know how to write of humanity. Instead of making my observations on life continually known to anyone within earshot, I live life, and retire in secrecy to put my findings onto paper. Writing is cathartic, self-developing, at once a way of coping with and understanding the world around me and the thoughts within me. Prattling to random friends and acquaintances about an intensely personal and occasionally even embarrassing process is more likely to freeze my pen than loosen it. I draw from life to write, and do not subtract from my writing in order to use it to create for myself a life.
•you ask your friends if they mind being in a book.
~ SciWri
While the concept of being able to wreak vengeance on insulting persons by writing them into your novels and subsequently killing them is a charming one, this is not necessarily a trademark of the guild. As a joke, it works. As a reality, not so much. Writers will indubitably glean from their experiences, but just because they are crafting stories does not mean everyone and their mother's uncle is going to feature in the plot as a prominent and idiosyncratic character.
•you put all homeowkr on all to browse the nanowrimo forums.
~ SciWri
Aha, nice try; NO. This is called a predilection for social networking. While an internet social life can be satisfyingly scintillant and intellectually beneficial, and a writer's main source of empathetic friendship, there is nothing regarding internet activity or message boards that has inherently to do with being a writer. In fact, it is likely that, the more time engaged online, the less time will be devoted towards the act of writing itself, which means that forums are actually detracting from "being a writer".
There is also such a thing — the awareness of which is generally promoted among writers, even more so than within the general public — called spelling.
you can't work with an empty coffee cup.
~ cygwriter
Since when did caffeine addiction become a defining characteristic of a life? Medical students and professionals on rotation in the harsh environment of hospitals and their murderously-long shifts often consume copious amounts of coffee. Any number of people rely upon coffee to stimulate their brains in the morning, before they head to work, and there are plenty of talented, successful writers, even professionals, who do not need caffeine to function.
Fortunately, not all of the posts on that thread reflected the same trivial perspective of writing and art as the above comments. The following, between themselves, reflect both the humourous aspects of the craft and the fundamental reality of what it means to be a writer.
When you are 50 years old and you go off to write, and your 75 year old mother smiles and says, "Going off to be with your invisible friends, eh."
~ EmSaidSo
You mix up your love life with your protagonist's.
"How was your date on Friday?"
"Oh, awesome! My brother decapitated my boyfriend and now I'm betrothed to a wealthy count's son."
"Um...I thought you went to the mall."
~ Caterpillarstar
As ever, there's a simple rule to measure writers, no matter how many amusing and odd eccentricities a given example may exhibit:
Writers write.
Writers who want to be published write to completion and then edit the suck out of the story.
Really, that's it.
~ Kassil
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Trivialities...
...because I can. The questions are taken from an image I encountered on WeHeartIt while browsing in search of a particular picture.
You sit in your towel after a shower because you are too lazy to get dressed.
I see no point in hogging the bathroom merely to be able to sit on the floor in nothing but my own skin, and there is no way I will be wandering around the house wrapped in a bath towel; there is not enough coverage in most towels for a person of my length, and flashing people has never been on my agenda. Also, showering is generally one task sandwiched between others. Once I am clean, it is time to cross it off and move on to the next thing on the list.
You and your best friend say just one word before cracking up.
There are those words, yes. Pie would be one of them.
You hate it when one string on your hoodie is longer than the other.
It drives my brain nuts. Like a dog trying to chase his tail and never catching it, because no matter how much I tug they will not stay even, and I despise unintentionally uneven clothing items.
You hate when people think you like someone who you clearly don't.
People are crush-happy and altogether too ready to pair couples, and a girl learns early that her best weapon against that tendency is diffidence. So, unless that misunderstanding means they attempt to interfere with my life in order to compel me to interact pointlessly with that person, or assume that taking liberties with my schedule in order to put me in company with that person is an awesome idea, I experience nothing but mild annoyance at the foolishness of popular opinion.
You hate when your favourite song comes on as you pull into the driveway.
Only if I have to get out of the vehicle immediately without finishing it; otherwise, it is not a big deal.
You feel as if turning on the lights will keep you safe.
Not at all. I prefer to turn them off and curl up in a corner; if the lights are on at two in the morning and I am not curled in a corner or lying on the floor behind something, I feel exposed.
You push the little buttons on the lids of fast food drinks.
Every time, until some time last year. Now I only do it when my hands want to fiddle, and when I have a lid handy.
You hate it when your parents get serious about something funny you said.
There are certainly more appropriate times to attempt to verbally convey a life lesson.
You pretend to sleep when your parents come in.
Who, me? Never. However, I have no ability to do so at this point, so the sarcasm of that answer is rendered rather otiose...
You hate when you're going somewhere and are stuck behind a slow walker.
It makes things awkward, admittedly. "Should I speed up and go around you, or should I wait patiently and not call attention to the fact that you're just so stinkin' slow? Oh, it's a narrow hallway? Well, um, till the next open space... Oh, right. I hasten my step and you speed up too. This is working so well." Cue sweat drop. "Hang it all; I'll jog. See you later!"
You are always tired no matter how much sleep you get.
You mean there are other options? Like feeling rejuvenated when you wake? Wow, I couldn't have guessed.
You are obsessed with a certain celebrity or several celebrities.
Nope. Sorry. They bore me, taking themselves as seriously as they do and parading their lives before the world as if every foolish detail merited publishing to an idol-starved audience. Granted, the culture has created the problem, but the blame will still appear to fall first on the shoulders of those who allow the flaunting of even their intimacies for the greedy eyes of those who are too consumed with watching others to make decent effort at living their own lives.
However, when it comes to enjoying the screen presence and off-script wit of Tom Hiddleston... Obsessed, no. Fangirl? Unquestionably. He's good, very good, and I have yet to be disappointed by him.
Yes, this is a random post. No, I was not bored; I am never bored. This was merely a case of a whelming urge to answer idiotic questions in public and ramble a bit on meaningless topics, and now that I have satisfied the urge, I retire to pursue more beneficial occupation. If you actually took the time to read this post, then I do hope that it entertained you; if you did not, I applaud you for filtering your reading material so stringently. The rest of the world would benefit from your discipline and intellectual elitism.
~*~
You sit in your towel after a shower because you are too lazy to get dressed.
I see no point in hogging the bathroom merely to be able to sit on the floor in nothing but my own skin, and there is no way I will be wandering around the house wrapped in a bath towel; there is not enough coverage in most towels for a person of my length, and flashing people has never been on my agenda. Also, showering is generally one task sandwiched between others. Once I am clean, it is time to cross it off and move on to the next thing on the list.
You and your best friend say just one word before cracking up.
There are those words, yes. Pie would be one of them.
You hate it when one string on your hoodie is longer than the other.
It drives my brain nuts. Like a dog trying to chase his tail and never catching it, because no matter how much I tug they will not stay even, and I despise unintentionally uneven clothing items.
You hate when people think you like someone who you clearly don't.
People are crush-happy and altogether too ready to pair couples, and a girl learns early that her best weapon against that tendency is diffidence. So, unless that misunderstanding means they attempt to interfere with my life in order to compel me to interact pointlessly with that person, or assume that taking liberties with my schedule in order to put me in company with that person is an awesome idea, I experience nothing but mild annoyance at the foolishness of popular opinion.
You hate when your favourite song comes on as you pull into the driveway.
Only if I have to get out of the vehicle immediately without finishing it; otherwise, it is not a big deal.
You feel as if turning on the lights will keep you safe.
Not at all. I prefer to turn them off and curl up in a corner; if the lights are on at two in the morning and I am not curled in a corner or lying on the floor behind something, I feel exposed.
You push the little buttons on the lids of fast food drinks.
Every time, until some time last year. Now I only do it when my hands want to fiddle, and when I have a lid handy.
You hate it when your parents get serious about something funny you said.
There are certainly more appropriate times to attempt to verbally convey a life lesson.
You pretend to sleep when your parents come in.
Who, me? Never. However, I have no ability to do so at this point, so the sarcasm of that answer is rendered rather otiose...
You hate when you're going somewhere and are stuck behind a slow walker.
It makes things awkward, admittedly. "Should I speed up and go around you, or should I wait patiently and not call attention to the fact that you're just so stinkin' slow? Oh, it's a narrow hallway? Well, um, till the next open space... Oh, right. I hasten my step and you speed up too. This is working so well." Cue sweat drop. "Hang it all; I'll jog. See you later!"
You are always tired no matter how much sleep you get.
You mean there are other options? Like feeling rejuvenated when you wake? Wow, I couldn't have guessed.
You are obsessed with a certain celebrity or several celebrities.
Nope. Sorry. They bore me, taking themselves as seriously as they do and parading their lives before the world as if every foolish detail merited publishing to an idol-starved audience. Granted, the culture has created the problem, but the blame will still appear to fall first on the shoulders of those who allow the flaunting of even their intimacies for the greedy eyes of those who are too consumed with watching others to make decent effort at living their own lives.
However, when it comes to enjoying the screen presence and off-script wit of Tom Hiddleston... Obsessed, no. Fangirl? Unquestionably. He's good, very good, and I have yet to be disappointed by him.
~*~
Yes, this is a random post. No, I was not bored; I am never bored. This was merely a case of a whelming urge to answer idiotic questions in public and ramble a bit on meaningless topics, and now that I have satisfied the urge, I retire to pursue more beneficial occupation. If you actually took the time to read this post, then I do hope that it entertained you; if you did not, I applaud you for filtering your reading material so stringently. The rest of the world would benefit from your discipline and intellectual elitism.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Pre-holiday Travel Notes
Written while waiting for my train on the afternoon of November twenty-sixth.
Here I am in the train station, sitting cross-legged on the marbled floor with my backpack (Daisuke) and my laptop (Kokuyoku) to my left and a great support column at my back. To my right rests a folded-down Wendy's bag, in which are the nonedible remnants of my breakfast, consumed at four p.m.: a junior bacon cheeseburger and a small chocolate frosty. The frosty was an unpleasant indulgence, and its consumption inappropriately timed, and the cheeseburger had, upon my unwrapping of it, little to recommend itself beyond the two and a half sandwich length strips of bacon and its lingering warmth; the bun had been smushed by greasy fingers, and there was a large depression in the center of it, not to mention that the sandwich had been sloppily packaged and was falling apart before I even began eating it. Beside the bag rests my tiny Penguin 60s edition of four of Montaigne's essays; the Rabbit is presently located between pages sixty and sixty-one, marking my place. If I could obtain an internet connexion, I would most likely be catching up on emails that have been neglected for months, interspersing that task with the pointless browsing and rebrowsing of various social media sits; as it is, I cannot, at least not without relocating to another pillar, and as a result have been reading.
It is drafty here; the doors at the end of the station keep opening and closing, sending gusts of cool air my way. I am considering obtaining coffee, more of it, simply for the warmth and the excuse to settle myself at a corner table in a quieter side shop. The main station is like a gong, constantly reverberating with its own noise. Sounds become larger here — they grow, warble, expand into the cavernous room and return muffled to the undiscerning ears of its occupants. My watch tells me I have three hours and nine minutes remaining to spend in this place, but my head aches from the four hours and seven minutes I have already passed within its walls. There is a book store here, a little pseudo-convenience shop shoved up against a few shelves of erotica and cheap novels. Of course, cheap in this context means lame: when it comes to money, the store is primed for extortion; barring the classics shelf wedged in the back left corner between sports and biography and the children's shelf lining the right wall, it is primarily filled with outrageously priced trash. However, I was sorely tempted by two particular volumes in the classics collection, and a third in the biographies: a lovely gilt-edged hard cover edition of War and Peace first caught my eye, and after that, a hefty blue tome — paperback, but still attractive: Gone With the Wind, followed by Eric Metaxas's Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy. For some time I vacillated between the three, but could not justify spending twenty-five dollars for a single book, for myself, without having entered the store intending to anything of the sort. The resulting resolution involved withdrawing my familiar little Montaigne from Daisuke and cracking its cover. Had I anticipated such a delay I certainly would have selected a few titles to carry along with me for perusal over the course of the afternoon; however, I am not without either reading or writing material and am thus without legitimate grounds for complaint.
My desire to read Gone With the Wind is whetted, though, and I am sleepy and uncomfortable enough that Montaigne is not entirely making sense. Hence the blog post, drafted first in the Logbook because I happen to like writing that way. Pens are at times more conducive to blogging than keyboards.
From the opposite wall a sultry blonde is looking up with a surprised expression and an open mouth from her oversized burger; she is clad in a sleeveless purple dress and is adorned with gaudy earings and a partial forearm's length of bangles. "Swarovski", the letters on the bottom of the right corner of the banner proclaim. The jewelry is presumably intended to look appealing. I think it looks like she was trying far too hard.
There are two hours and thirty-two minutes yet until departure time; I am still considering coffee, but have not ventured from my spot. Despite the people milling about and the obviously public nature of the station, something about the height of the ceiling and the quality of the ambient sound makes me feel acutely the sense of being small, alone, and overlooked. It is an interesting sensation, and every time I am here I savour it. The besetting loneliness (and, at the same time, liberty) of solitary travel is to be sometimes loathed, sometimes endured, and sometimes treasured; today I am doing all three at once.
A trip to the water closet and a delay in the line at Wendy's have shaved away approximately twenty minutes from the wait. My coffee is warm, not hot, and tastes unusually despicable — the cup was filled with the dregs of two pots, and the employees were so hassled by the customer volume that I had not the heart to demand fresh liquid and properly heated coffee. So now I am sitting by the window, enjoying the diminished noise and the table claimed all to myself, and enjoying equally my lack of enjoyment of the nauseating brew in front of me. It is the stuff of which small adventures are made, and it has me thinking again of travel, of the appeal of setting out with a bag and a notebook and a rolling ball pen, along with the requisite laptop, and running. Placelessness is addictive. The din of train stations, the loneliness of airports at three a.m., the rocking and clanking of train wheels and the sense of falling that accompanies the tilting of the plane after take-off, the sunrise viewed through bleary eyes and the filth-flecked window of a fast food joint and from over a parfait, collapsing on a station bench after three sleepless nights and a megadose of caffeine on an empty stomach, buying a hamburger to satiate rampant hunger and sitting on a low stone wall to eat, bite by satisfying bite, in the company of strangers, walking along a city street as dusk falls and realising that all direction has been lost...
Just now a heavyset black woman wearing a long quilted coat approached my table, pushing a wire grocery basket of candy bars, and asked if I would by one — "for a dollar," she said, without meeting my eyes, "cuz I'm tryin' to get somethin to eat." I hesitated, then traded a dollar bill for a bar; she laid her three varieties out on the table for me to choose from: caramel, almond, and rice crispy; I chose caramel. She left the restaurant as soon as the transaction had been made, rising from the chair opposite me and calling a thank you over her shoulder as she wheeled her basket out into the main station. I laid the candy bar on top of my bag and picked up my pen once again, contemplating all the while how that would make a delightful strategy for terrorists, selling explosives as candy bars to unsuspecting passengers, and debating whether I ought to check the contents of the wrapper just to be certain. The idea is nothing short of ridiculous, I know, but I would be distinctly amused — were I still alive to see the humour — if my bag exploded. However, it is likely that anything so extraordinary will happen, especially since she has returned to Wendy's holding a sandwich in a takeout container. I admit to some surprise, as I did not think she actually wanted the money for food.
In exactly one hour my train is scheduled to depart. My coffee is now cool; my back has joined my head in aching and is making breathing painful; the scruffy young man sitting several tables away is speaking loudly of vomit. I am thinking of baking projects and mulling over what will happen when I arrive at my family's housel when I look up, pressing my fingertips against the bridge of my nose in an attempt to relieve the headache, I see an overflowing waste can, and the coinciding of image and thought seems absurdly appropriate. It will be late when I arrive tonight, but I assume that some people will be awake all the same. Depending on what is in the pantry I may start a cooking enterprise in consideration of the following morning — they will have a proper breakfast when they wake, and not a one will have to lift a finger to work for it. I review my options: muffins, omelet, pancakes, cake, quiche, muesli. There are others, of course, but an assessment of the kitchen's contents must necessarily precede plans for action.
My train is not yet on the board in the main station; it is still displaying trains scheduled from the hour of five p.m. It is seven twenty-nine now. I hope my train is not late.
Alex Goot's cover of Taylor Swift's "22" is alternating in my head with Against the Current's cover of The 1975's "Chocolate". There are so many interesting people here, demanding observation, and there is something about the noisy and impersonal air of travel that makes me wish to impulsively strike up conversations with various strangers happening by. That boy is cute and looks reasonably intelligent, and his hat suits his face; those girls — what private joke has amused them so, that they are giggling together like that?; the older gentleman in the trench coat is short enough and dignified enough to set me wondering whether he is either a disguised leader who has been deposed from his position and become a wicked villain or if he is a respectable businessman who would make a worthy acquaintance; her sense of style is impeccable. Everyone is fair game in this crowded loneliness. People here are unknown factors, an afternoon's entertainment, subjects for social experimentation, or personalities with whom transient acquaintance might be made; they are books from which to learn lessons. There are no rules in this place but those a person imposes upon himself, no social standard, nothing but people, people, people, all thrust from their familiar bubble into one massive arena, and at times one has the feeling that anything is possible with anyone.
It is eight oh six, and in nine minutes my train boards.
Here I am in the train station, sitting cross-legged on the marbled floor with my backpack (Daisuke) and my laptop (Kokuyoku) to my left and a great support column at my back. To my right rests a folded-down Wendy's bag, in which are the nonedible remnants of my breakfast, consumed at four p.m.: a junior bacon cheeseburger and a small chocolate frosty. The frosty was an unpleasant indulgence, and its consumption inappropriately timed, and the cheeseburger had, upon my unwrapping of it, little to recommend itself beyond the two and a half sandwich length strips of bacon and its lingering warmth; the bun had been smushed by greasy fingers, and there was a large depression in the center of it, not to mention that the sandwich had been sloppily packaged and was falling apart before I even began eating it. Beside the bag rests my tiny Penguin 60s edition of four of Montaigne's essays; the Rabbit is presently located between pages sixty and sixty-one, marking my place. If I could obtain an internet connexion, I would most likely be catching up on emails that have been neglected for months, interspersing that task with the pointless browsing and rebrowsing of various social media sits; as it is, I cannot, at least not without relocating to another pillar, and as a result have been reading.
It is drafty here; the doors at the end of the station keep opening and closing, sending gusts of cool air my way. I am considering obtaining coffee, more of it, simply for the warmth and the excuse to settle myself at a corner table in a quieter side shop. The main station is like a gong, constantly reverberating with its own noise. Sounds become larger here — they grow, warble, expand into the cavernous room and return muffled to the undiscerning ears of its occupants. My watch tells me I have three hours and nine minutes remaining to spend in this place, but my head aches from the four hours and seven minutes I have already passed within its walls. There is a book store here, a little pseudo-convenience shop shoved up against a few shelves of erotica and cheap novels. Of course, cheap in this context means lame: when it comes to money, the store is primed for extortion; barring the classics shelf wedged in the back left corner between sports and biography and the children's shelf lining the right wall, it is primarily filled with outrageously priced trash. However, I was sorely tempted by two particular volumes in the classics collection, and a third in the biographies: a lovely gilt-edged hard cover edition of War and Peace first caught my eye, and after that, a hefty blue tome — paperback, but still attractive: Gone With the Wind, followed by Eric Metaxas's Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy. For some time I vacillated between the three, but could not justify spending twenty-five dollars for a single book, for myself, without having entered the store intending to anything of the sort. The resulting resolution involved withdrawing my familiar little Montaigne from Daisuke and cracking its cover. Had I anticipated such a delay I certainly would have selected a few titles to carry along with me for perusal over the course of the afternoon; however, I am not without either reading or writing material and am thus without legitimate grounds for complaint.
My desire to read Gone With the Wind is whetted, though, and I am sleepy and uncomfortable enough that Montaigne is not entirely making sense. Hence the blog post, drafted first in the Logbook because I happen to like writing that way. Pens are at times more conducive to blogging than keyboards.
From the opposite wall a sultry blonde is looking up with a surprised expression and an open mouth from her oversized burger; she is clad in a sleeveless purple dress and is adorned with gaudy earings and a partial forearm's length of bangles. "Swarovski", the letters on the bottom of the right corner of the banner proclaim. The jewelry is presumably intended to look appealing. I think it looks like she was trying far too hard.
~*~
There are two hours and thirty-two minutes yet until departure time; I am still considering coffee, but have not ventured from my spot. Despite the people milling about and the obviously public nature of the station, something about the height of the ceiling and the quality of the ambient sound makes me feel acutely the sense of being small, alone, and overlooked. It is an interesting sensation, and every time I am here I savour it. The besetting loneliness (and, at the same time, liberty) of solitary travel is to be sometimes loathed, sometimes endured, and sometimes treasured; today I am doing all three at once.
~*~
A trip to the water closet and a delay in the line at Wendy's have shaved away approximately twenty minutes from the wait. My coffee is warm, not hot, and tastes unusually despicable — the cup was filled with the dregs of two pots, and the employees were so hassled by the customer volume that I had not the heart to demand fresh liquid and properly heated coffee. So now I am sitting by the window, enjoying the diminished noise and the table claimed all to myself, and enjoying equally my lack of enjoyment of the nauseating brew in front of me. It is the stuff of which small adventures are made, and it has me thinking again of travel, of the appeal of setting out with a bag and a notebook and a rolling ball pen, along with the requisite laptop, and running. Placelessness is addictive. The din of train stations, the loneliness of airports at three a.m., the rocking and clanking of train wheels and the sense of falling that accompanies the tilting of the plane after take-off, the sunrise viewed through bleary eyes and the filth-flecked window of a fast food joint and from over a parfait, collapsing on a station bench after three sleepless nights and a megadose of caffeine on an empty stomach, buying a hamburger to satiate rampant hunger and sitting on a low stone wall to eat, bite by satisfying bite, in the company of strangers, walking along a city street as dusk falls and realising that all direction has been lost...
Just now a heavyset black woman wearing a long quilted coat approached my table, pushing a wire grocery basket of candy bars, and asked if I would by one — "for a dollar," she said, without meeting my eyes, "cuz I'm tryin' to get somethin to eat." I hesitated, then traded a dollar bill for a bar; she laid her three varieties out on the table for me to choose from: caramel, almond, and rice crispy; I chose caramel. She left the restaurant as soon as the transaction had been made, rising from the chair opposite me and calling a thank you over her shoulder as she wheeled her basket out into the main station. I laid the candy bar on top of my bag and picked up my pen once again, contemplating all the while how that would make a delightful strategy for terrorists, selling explosives as candy bars to unsuspecting passengers, and debating whether I ought to check the contents of the wrapper just to be certain. The idea is nothing short of ridiculous, I know, but I would be distinctly amused — were I still alive to see the humour — if my bag exploded. However, it is likely that anything so extraordinary will happen, especially since she has returned to Wendy's holding a sandwich in a takeout container. I admit to some surprise, as I did not think she actually wanted the money for food.
~*~
In exactly one hour my train is scheduled to depart. My coffee is now cool; my back has joined my head in aching and is making breathing painful; the scruffy young man sitting several tables away is speaking loudly of vomit. I am thinking of baking projects and mulling over what will happen when I arrive at my family's housel when I look up, pressing my fingertips against the bridge of my nose in an attempt to relieve the headache, I see an overflowing waste can, and the coinciding of image and thought seems absurdly appropriate. It will be late when I arrive tonight, but I assume that some people will be awake all the same. Depending on what is in the pantry I may start a cooking enterprise in consideration of the following morning — they will have a proper breakfast when they wake, and not a one will have to lift a finger to work for it. I review my options: muffins, omelet, pancakes, cake, quiche, muesli. There are others, of course, but an assessment of the kitchen's contents must necessarily precede plans for action.
My train is not yet on the board in the main station; it is still displaying trains scheduled from the hour of five p.m. It is seven twenty-nine now. I hope my train is not late.
Alex Goot's cover of Taylor Swift's "22" is alternating in my head with Against the Current's cover of The 1975's "Chocolate". There are so many interesting people here, demanding observation, and there is something about the noisy and impersonal air of travel that makes me wish to impulsively strike up conversations with various strangers happening by. That boy is cute and looks reasonably intelligent, and his hat suits his face; those girls — what private joke has amused them so, that they are giggling together like that?; the older gentleman in the trench coat is short enough and dignified enough to set me wondering whether he is either a disguised leader who has been deposed from his position and become a wicked villain or if he is a respectable businessman who would make a worthy acquaintance; her sense of style is impeccable. Everyone is fair game in this crowded loneliness. People here are unknown factors, an afternoon's entertainment, subjects for social experimentation, or personalities with whom transient acquaintance might be made; they are books from which to learn lessons. There are no rules in this place but those a person imposes upon himself, no social standard, nothing but people, people, people, all thrust from their familiar bubble into one massive arena, and at times one has the feeling that anything is possible with anyone.
It is eight oh six, and in nine minutes my train boards.
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