baggage's Diaryland Diary

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Wet hair and backpacks

So I've taken to writing on the train-filling up portions of my commute with a one-sided conversation; a spiral bound note pad and blue papermate my allies in privacy.

To my left, a girl in her 20s brushes her hair repeatedly-wrestlng with knots unseen while staring out the window at the sun, avoiding imagined glances on the train. Around me, strangers sit in various states of distress-flickering through newsprint, glossy-paged magazines and laptops.

At some point, I traded in my 20s for 30s, and started this path into middle age. There were no signatures signed nor formal declarations. You wake up and the scenery has changed-like closing your eyes at Union Station and waking up in Lancaster-your home 20 or so minutes back the opposing way.

The train stops and can't continue-forcing all these disparate bodies to share air for longer than deemed comfortable. Cell phones emerge, headphones fumble, voices rise in a unified chant against the gods-slowing our rat race down to crawl-a forced idle of sorts.

Stillness breed reflection. With the rush of the day cancelled indefinitely, the mind widens its focus, pulls itself back, and gathers the view in bunches:

There's the house-recently refinanced at 6%--a nice drop from the previous 7.875. There's the truck with the engine light; itself aging against too many trips into the County of Oranges. There's the vet bills, the dust bunnies, the groceries, the lawn, the untrimmed hedge that looks to be nursing a newfound love for the warmest of earth tones, dog shit in the yard, a leaky faucet; the epitome of mundane--the weaves of a fabric made from comfortable living--all there on a train stuck somewhere in Southern California.

The pages of this pad are filling up. There's plenty of time for reflection, and writing, when you're stuck.

5:52 p.m. - 2003-02-09

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