A Train of Consciousness

He’s so pretty. Small but pretty. Every day I see him on the train and wonder if he feels bad about being small.

Leonardo DiCaprio, but far more handsome. That’s what he looks like. Glasses, black rimmed, and relatively introverted.

I have yet been able to tell if he has a ring on his left hand. Probably. He’s sitting across from me, a little off to the right, beyond a metal and air barrier.

He’s got a wonderful blue suit on. Classy snazzy. Someone dresses him well. Maybe him?

The gentleman on my right flips through papers, stapled together in the upper left, and with lines double spaced. The papers sit in an open brief case on his lap. His hair is receding. Professor. English Professor? That’s my guess. Very long lines, his fingers. Looks like a distant cousin of John Cleese.

My right finger hurts. I’m getting old. I can see it curve further towards my middle finger over the months. My real aging, meaning the noticeable kind, started when I was 34. Pretty certain it’s down hill after this. Can we reverse the hill?

The deaf people are below me. They used to throw me off. Because, you see, they make sounds, which they can not hear, while they “talk”. And by talk of course I mean sign. They sign with the greatest animation; they are the same as you and me! A life filled with vibrancy, but no audio. They are all African American.

The wheels squeak. Train stops. I’m supposed to be writing my questions for the new doc I meet tomorrow. A new doc. Never thought I’d say those words. Why do I see so many docs? They just take my money and make me cry and the pain I came in the door with I leave with.

I can see my sneakers stick out over the railing; I’m in the upstairs of the double-decker train, last car, end of a long day at work, the gym, the night is here.

I’m going to go write my questions for the doc. Maybe she will heal me! A far younger version of myself would have thrown a wad of paper at the blue-suited man of perfection. Maybe another day.

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For Connie

My thoughts in general are too large to fit into one little blog post, but this will have to do. Supposedly I’m finding a career for myself. This turns out to be the undertaking of a lifetime. How does one know what to with oneself before you get into it? I don’t think anyone knows whether they like a job until they start. Perhaps we shoot too high? Perhaps we shouldn’t expect to find jobs that are our fulfillment? Maybe I should be happy with the roof over my head and food in my kitchen and the general prosperity which is 21st century America. It is pretty nice. Amazing actually. Has society been asking too much of itself? 80% of people dislike their job/career. Man I’m normal! As a woman, I should probably be glad to be treated as an equal, to have options other than wife/mother/homemaker, to be able to vote, and to participate in sports. As a human, I should probably be happy not to live in a war-torn area, to have had a functional family growing up, to have food/shelter/clothing everyday, and amazingly enough to have education. I’m quite educated! Got me an MBA, and an undergrad degree.

With all that, I still think I should be able to find a career which isn’t traumatizing and which is generally enjoyable. What would that be? How do I know when I’ve shot too high? I googled “what to do with my life” today and the first link was TinyBuddha or something like that. That site, and all others, said what I already knew. Ask yourself – what do you love, what gives you life, what are you good at, and where do you want to be in 5 years. Ok, done that before. Fortunately, one or two sites were honest enough to say There is no formula but here are some ideas. Awesome! I believe that. If there were a formula, I would have executed it by now. There ain’t none. I like reading, writing, study, presenting, discussing, explaining, teaching, planning, communicating, and learning. Mostly I seem built for academia. Does that seem right? That’s what I’m currently leaning towards. I don’t need money. That’s for sure.

My window to my left shows nothing but snow, a mildly oppressive lack of light (it’s evening), and the stark outline of two trees. And part of a conifer.

Fortunately, while I can’t find a career or wish to play in the snow (I prefer looking at it), I can read Sherlock Holmes. And this stuff is the best! I promise! I swear. Good good stuff. Sherlock, the character, is entertaining, inspirational, and hilarious. Also, the best part of these stories? They are playful. This is crime not like our current crime shows do it – intense, urgent, everyone talks in the same cadence/rhythm (really, when will they learn to act?!), and taking themselves far too seriously. But these original Sherlock stories are whimsical, safe, relaxing, and even cozy, even with references to cocaine, death, and crime. What got me started? The recent BBC Sherlock TV series – I must say both are as good as each other (which is saying a lot!) and the TV series truly honors and does justice to the books, despite being a modern reincarnation.

Sunday ends my insane diet – avoiding all foods except fruit, vegetables, and meat. That is restricted! I will introduce dairy first, see what sort of my reaction that produces. Three days later, I will introduce sugar. And three days after that my first grain: corn, because I want to have popcorn at one of my movie nights. I’m doing this to find out what medical practitioners can’t tell me, which is, exactly what foods I am sensitive too. It is amazing what medicine doesn’t know. I think they don’t know most things. Anyway, I am currently gluten free but have the suspicion other food sensitivities may be floating around my system. We shall find out.

This post is long enough! Way too long! I am meeting the challenge of my sweet friend Connie, to whom I dedicate this post, to demonstrate that you can write about your complete lack of a career, snow, Sherlock Holmes, and health… all in one post.