Myth Happens

I write from the aaagh o'clock train, outside of which is a lavender-grey morning misting with rain. Without snow on the ground, everything has the acid-browned look of late fall, not winter nearly at the year's turning. Parking lots are flat and grey as wet cement. The sea which is just now beginning to appear outside my window is the same frozen pewter color as the clouds. I like the ghost-palisade of birches we just passed, snowier than the rust-heaps of leaves they rise out of. Streetlights still on give the little tableaux of houses and warehouses and intersections a day-for-night atmosphere.

So far the Acela is very much faster than the Amtrak Regional, but their seats are less yielding and their quiet car is much more brightly lit, so as a train to sleep on it does not get a high rating from me. Which is a shame, because I slept about an hour last night and was counting on unconsciousness until at least New Haven. Plus for some reason it took me an hour to get on their wi-fi.

I had fantasies of writing about last night's movie while in transit, because it was seasonal and good and I had waited at least ten years to see it, but I think my analytical functions are still in bed in Somerville. Probably under a cat. Lucky analytical functions.

Well, I get to see queer Jewish metatheater tonight, so there.