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Friday, March 14, 2008

Writers On Rainy Days

It doesn't feel the same, blogging here. It seems that I don't have as much to say as when I am at Clearblogs. It's like confiding to a different friend. Like listening to Sondre Lerche instead of Bright Eyes. Like eating a $2 sponge cake instead of cheese cake. Like reading Jewel instead of Sylvia Plath.

Like fitting into my red teenage sneakers.

Yesterday, when the chill of rain weakened the spines of my books, I wandered through the dimness in buses. The downpour deafened and made me forget. I let it. There was a man with soft skin who was writing on his pad. A fellow chronicler. He sat in front of me and hung his head scribbling, like a dying man.

To my horror, I found myself tapping his shoulder. When he turned around, I looked at him and parted my lips to say something but couldn't think of anything. He looked back, quizzically. Then he smiled and went back to his writing.

How utterly embarrassing.
Posted by NHJ 3/14/2008 07:43:00 am