It’s Thursday, you say? Well, that just seems to be the way things are going right now. My absence this past week has been not just from a crazy commute, but also from a well-deserved (I think, anyway) get-away to Boston to visit friends. There’s nothing like a few rousing games of ping pong with 12 and 13 year olds, followed by much food and a few gin and tonics, to get your mind off your troubles.I even got to have lunch with my favorite Suburban Lesbian Housewife.
Here’s a poem that is apropos of nothing, but I read it and I liked it.
All the Difficult Hours and Minutes
All the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.
Wrinkled, turn steeply into themselves,
they mutter something the color of sharkfins to the glass.
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.
First the jar holds the umeboshi, then the rice does.
— Jane Hirshfield
I emphasize that this is not a description of my life. Difficult hours and minutes? Please. I ride several trains, and often include my bike. But yesterday on the train we waited all impatiently to offload at the final station, griping about what could be the hold-up here, and then we saw that a woman in a wheel chair was getting off the train too. Yeah, it really could be a much, much harder commute.
Plus, I kinda like public transportation because I’m such a people-watcher. And it’s so international here that I often sit and listen to people gabbing away in other languages. It’s fun to pretend I remember much more than rudimentary French or Spanish. The truth is, I hear words that link the conversation, but it takes a while for me to know what people are talking about. I mean, I listened to a trio of professionals speaking in elegant Spanish yesterday and picked up words like “because,” “but,” “also,” “boss,” “I know,” “only,” “milk.” Wait — milk? That can’t be right. Oh well. perhaps this commuting experience will help me improve my language skills ….