Yesterday the bus never showed up. A drag but not a huge problem. At the train station the conductor opened the doors early so I got in my favorite seat and curled up for my nap. Then he announced that we had to get off the train and get on another. Once we were moving they made an announcement that we would be running slow and may be late because of some track issues. We arrived ten minutes late. The shuttle didn't come so I took a cab. Going home was worse.

Fran Lebowitz said that to be in public was to be annoyed. I've wondered if she meant public transportation specifically.

For the first time in over two years of taking the train I slept through my stop this morning. It wasn't a big deal because I got off at the next stop and made my way back. I'm pathologically early so I had plenty of time. It was just weird.
And then the train at night almost didn't stop at the station. There must have a been some kind of space out zone in San Carlos today.

On the other hand. My commute is an endless source of tales to tell. Most of which would reveal me to me a cranky ol' somebody. But there are those moments.
I caught the bus I like the best tonight. I always take two buses but one route is two short rides and the one I caught tonight is one long ride and one short one. I can settle in and read. Tonight I was immersed in a short story but it was a restless immersion. The driver was a cowboy and we lurched and rocked. I looked up when a woman exited with three helium balloons in primary colors. At just that moment, on the street, a young man walked by playing a ukulele. It was a blink of a circus.
The light changed and as we passed the young man I noticed he had switched to a cell phone.
Back the mundane.

A writer I knew once told me that she started by 'writing off the dross'. She just started writing about anything without editing or concern for the quality of the writing. At some point she'd settle in and begin working more seriously. Sometimes she'd keep the first writing and sometimes she'd dump it.
I want to think that's what I'm doing now. If I think about it too much I begin to tense up. There's no certainty that I'll ever gear up. All day yesterday I thought about posting but I was too busy. When I finally got home I was too tired.
And this has been the story of the last year plus of silence. Bits of ideas for writing drift through me but never find their way to the page. I barely write email. I barely talk out loud.
One more bite of peach and I must begin to work.

I love my apartment on Monday mornings. All the surfaces are clear. By Friday they're filled with dishes drying, mail unprocessed and the general detritus of day to day life. Three days felt like quite a lot but still not enough.
This is the first time I have written at work. I'm always here early. I drink my tea and eat my fruit and muffin. Get the new data. Read the news. I ought to be able to write a post.
This morning I learned that a bunch of tedious and time consuming work that I did last week got clobbered and needs to be redone. I'm not upset. I like having work to do. And this task will fill up the day.
I used to hate when people I read went silent. I look at my blog every day and feel wrong. But I don't want to keep writing about why I'm not writing. Blogging can be very meta if you don't have a specific intention. I've spent hours thinking about why I do (did) it and if it matters. I always come back to wanting it.

Laundry folded and put away. Mostly. Got over the irritation caused by a pair of socks that somehow escaped the process. Glass of tea filled and emptied. Might need more. Cookie eaten. Half before the laundry and half after. The pile for the backpack is beginning to build. Book, mail, bag of almonds, wallet. Some stuff packed for breakfast and lunch. I'll be eating salads this week so I'll want to make them fresh in the morning.
This is how I started. Just a stream of consciousness, observational, journaling. I was listening to Katha Pollitt earlier. She likes blogs but isn't fond of first thought best thought writing. I could argue for and against. Depends on who is doing the thinking, I suppose.
It would be disingenuous to imply that I don't want this to be read. It's foolish to write on line if you don't want to be read. But I'm too embarrassed, or something, about the time that has gone by. I twisted myself into too many shapes trying to be a BLOGGER. Right now I just need to get it on the page. And then do it again.
Pollitt also mentioned that she thought daily column writing might be good until she started a blog. That made me laugh. Of course, she is a professional. I'm just trying to write some stuff down.
I might take a shower so my body is as clean as my pajamas and my sheets.
Dishes clean. Errant piece of lettuce picked up from the floor.
It's time to wind down.

I am eating a salad. Bright red tomatoes that Debbie brought me from the farmer's market. Yellow bells and mixed romaine. Pieces of cold chicken. Crusty Italian bread with butter. It's very good. Joni is on. Laundry is done but not folded and put away. The kitchen floor will have to wait till next week.
I was talking to a neighbor about my site and lack of will to write and my need to simplify the process by which I publish. He mentioned Blogger and I remembered this blog. This long sleeping blog. This blog that I set up so I could blog when I was away. This blog on which I wrote a loopy rant because a man I -- I'm resisting the urge to say loved -- a man I discovered in the blog world and had strong feelings for, which I thought might be love, wrote something.
Geez.
I remembered Blogger with big banner ads unless you paid. But there is no banner ad.
I am thinking that maybe I can write here and regain some momentum. I don't think anyone checks in here. I'm not sure how many people check in on my other blog. I know I feel a mix of gratitude and guilt when I look at the comments from the lovely people who wrote to let me know they were still checking. If I could prove to myself that I could write daily, or even often again I could just use this blog as my blog. Point to it. Commit.
Did I mention honey mustard dressing?
I was reading Aaron's book. He writes about his habit of internally narrating his experience as he lives it. I had that habit for years and years. Sometimes still do. It was that narration that I used as fodder for posting. But. I lost some intention. Some will. Something.
Salad is gone. Glass of tea is empty. I want more. Maybe I'll eat the chocolate, cherry, almond cookie that Debbie made.
And I need to fold the laundry.