I don't normally have feelings about the weather in New England, but I really feel we're earning the England part of the epithet this year. It is unremittingly grey out there. Most of May has been unremittingly grey, really, with an extendable option on perpetually drizzling rain. I'm sure it's good against eventual drought, but I can't believe I was walking around in a tank top three days ago. I only left the house in my three-season corduroy coat rather than my definitely winter leather jacket yesterday because it would have taken too much time to transfer everything between the pockets.
I have been thinking about a man I saw on the Red Line from Charles/MGH. There were no seats left in the car when I got on, so I ended up standing directly opposite him. He was wearing a greenish windbreaker, which caught my eye; he had one of those thin, long-lined faces with flat glasses and that sort of dusty-looking stone-brown hair that made it hard for me to tell how much older than me he was; he had both hands on the computer satchel laid over his lap and his eyes were closed and his head leaned back against the subway window and his lips were moving. I had earplugs in and subway cars are noisy, but I don't think he was vocalizing, just whispering. He was very definitely not on a phone. And the reason I keep thinking about him is not that it struck me as odd behavior, but that it didn't. Talking to oneself is classic eccentricity, if not active reason to edge quietly away from strangers, but I just figured he was overwhelmed by his environment. After sixth grade, I had to learn not to hum or sing the music which is always running in my head because it was considered disruptive by people around me, but I've noticed that I still use it as a kind of insulation in crowd situations (and I sing a lot around the house, like any reasonable human being). His entire body language was withdrawn in on itself; whatever he was speaking or reciting to himself, I just assumed he was doing the same. Naturally the first seat I could take was next to him, so I tried not to get squashed over into his space. He still had his eyes closed, still talking silently, when I got off at Davis. It is always possible that he was twenty-first-century Boston's answer to H.P. Lovecraft and was freaking out for reasons I would be appalled by, but in the name of the benefit of the doubt, I hope that once he was no longer on an overcrowded train his evening improved.
I would like to be writing about movies, or even writing, and instead I am working and watching the very grey light outside my window not actually change. Would it do so much damage if we had some sunlight this spring?
I have been thinking about a man I saw on the Red Line from Charles/MGH. There were no seats left in the car when I got on, so I ended up standing directly opposite him. He was wearing a greenish windbreaker, which caught my eye; he had one of those thin, long-lined faces with flat glasses and that sort of dusty-looking stone-brown hair that made it hard for me to tell how much older than me he was; he had both hands on the computer satchel laid over his lap and his eyes were closed and his head leaned back against the subway window and his lips were moving. I had earplugs in and subway cars are noisy, but I don't think he was vocalizing, just whispering. He was very definitely not on a phone. And the reason I keep thinking about him is not that it struck me as odd behavior, but that it didn't. Talking to oneself is classic eccentricity, if not active reason to edge quietly away from strangers, but I just figured he was overwhelmed by his environment. After sixth grade, I had to learn not to hum or sing the music which is always running in my head because it was considered disruptive by people around me, but I've noticed that I still use it as a kind of insulation in crowd situations (and I sing a lot around the house, like any reasonable human being). His entire body language was withdrawn in on itself; whatever he was speaking or reciting to himself, I just assumed he was doing the same. Naturally the first seat I could take was next to him, so I tried not to get squashed over into his space. He still had his eyes closed, still talking silently, when I got off at Davis. It is always possible that he was twenty-first-century Boston's answer to H.P. Lovecraft and was freaking out for reasons I would be appalled by, but in the name of the benefit of the doubt, I hope that once he was no longer on an overcrowded train his evening improved.
I would like to be writing about movies, or even writing, and instead I am working and watching the very grey light outside my window not actually change. Would it do so much damage if we had some sunlight this spring?
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