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December
13, 2005. I feel a little as though I am keeping a lot of stuff at bay. So, I obsess about my commute. It feels like the only thing I can write about right now, since it takes up such a significant part of my day. I look for hidden meaning in the gloves left on the seat next to the gruff professorial man. I try to make a correlation in ten seconds between the quality of the leather and the fleecey lining, and extrapolate that to whether the man is still working, if he likes to read, if he understands what phishing is, if he's a neocon or some other flavor of absolutist. I am reaching. Stretching. In all the wrong directions. I want to bring everything back into me and have it all be simple and clean and workable, just for a little while. The holidays approach deadly fast, and part of me feels sweet and small and vulnerable, hoping that I'll have a moment or two to make the last few months worth it. Most of me is rather stubbornly resigned to getting it over with, just to move on into the flat white of January, the flat grey of February. go
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