A good day. This is something I haven't had in quite a while. Even though it adds an additional hour to the existing hours journey, the decision to resume my commute from Alameda to Palo Alto by train, rather than auto, was an excellent choice today.
The nortriptyline is definitely helping me sleep these days. I also wonder if it's helping stabilize my moods as well. The doctor says it's not really used for that these days, especially not in the dosages I've been prescribed, but I suppose all manner of things are possible.
The morning began better than many, having successfully slept through the night I didn't wake up feeling like death warmed over I managed to get to the Fruitvale BART station awake and on time. When I reached the top of the platform my San Francisco train was just pulling in. This trend continued as I emerged from the Powell Street station at 4th and Market and the 30 Stockton was just pulling in, making its way to the Cal Train station. Arriving at 4th and King I was amazed to find that my train was boarding and getting ready to head out. This was by far the best commute I've had in a long time.
The trip to Palo Alto was uneventful, which left me with a little over an hour of uninterrupted reading, which I mightily enjoyed.
Like the commute my work day was surprisingly relaxed and uneventful, which also rewarded me with a very enlightening and somewhat provocative conversation with someone I have become somewhat enamoured with as of late... but I digress...
The trip home, while certainly smooth and effortless, it was anything but uneventful. While the train ride from Palo Alto to SF afforded me another hour to bury my nose in a book, something happened once we reached the end of the line. I mean to tell you that this isn't something of any earth shattering significance; however, it certainly left an impression upon my being that I find difficult to articulate.
To begin I was merely stepping from the train onto the platform when a small Asian woman of no more than five feet tall, walking just behind me and to the left, began laughing quietly to herself before breaking into some song sung in what I have to assume is her native language. It could have been anything to my ears, Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, Japanese, what have you. In any case I didn't understand a word of it. As we passed under the lights I noticed a few other passengers glance at the woman as she hurried toward the station. Some look bewildered or indifferent to the woman while others seems to glare at her, fueled by some hidden bigotry or disdain; whether that was due to her ethnicity or their perception of her mental state I couldn't say. What I can tell you is that I followed the woman out to the street as I made my way to the MUNI waiting at the corner. I followed her until she went her own way and I could no longer hear her song. As I lost sight of her in the darkness I simply smiled.
I carried the though of this woman singing some unknown song; or at least unknown to me, and I wondered what it might have been. Was it a lullabye or some traditional folk song? I thought about this and I smiled. I smiled as I walked down the steps into the Powell Street station and past the man sitting against the wall singing and playing his guitar. I smiled as I stopped and walked back to place a dollar in the open instrument case at his feet. I even smiled when I reached the bottom of the escalator and saw the Dublin/Pleasanton train, my train, just begin to pull away from the platform.
I smiled even wider when I heard that there had been a BART delay and the overhead display was not in sync with the arriving trains. This meant that the train that had just pulled away was actually the Pittsburg train and the one now arriving was the Dublin/Pleasanton and had I not paused ever so briefly I would have been on my way to a number of places I didn't want to be.
Of course, if that would have happened I could have simply got off at Montgomery and caught the correct train. This, however, assumes that I would have been paying attention to the drivers station calls and not drifting off to the reality contained within my book, oblivious to just about everything and everyone; at least until West Oakland.
When I finally arrived at Fruitvale, sitting behind the steering wheel of my car, I thought about the woman and her song and of the guitar player and his. I wondered if maybe they had both been singing the same song; I mused on this for a moment... and I smiled.
The nortriptyline is definitely helping me sleep these days. I also wonder if it's helping stabilize my moods as well. The doctor says it's not really used for that these days, especially not in the dosages I've been prescribed, but I suppose all manner of things are possible.
The morning began better than many, having successfully slept through the night I didn't wake up feeling like death warmed over I managed to get to the Fruitvale BART station awake and on time. When I reached the top of the platform my San Francisco train was just pulling in. This trend continued as I emerged from the Powell Street station at 4th and Market and the 30 Stockton was just pulling in, making its way to the Cal Train station. Arriving at 4th and King I was amazed to find that my train was boarding and getting ready to head out. This was by far the best commute I've had in a long time.
The trip to Palo Alto was uneventful, which left me with a little over an hour of uninterrupted reading, which I mightily enjoyed.
Like the commute my work day was surprisingly relaxed and uneventful, which also rewarded me with a very enlightening and somewhat provocative conversation with someone I have become somewhat enamoured with as of late... but I digress...
The trip home, while certainly smooth and effortless, it was anything but uneventful. While the train ride from Palo Alto to SF afforded me another hour to bury my nose in a book, something happened once we reached the end of the line. I mean to tell you that this isn't something of any earth shattering significance; however, it certainly left an impression upon my being that I find difficult to articulate.
To begin I was merely stepping from the train onto the platform when a small Asian woman of no more than five feet tall, walking just behind me and to the left, began laughing quietly to herself before breaking into some song sung in what I have to assume is her native language. It could have been anything to my ears, Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, Japanese, what have you. In any case I didn't understand a word of it. As we passed under the lights I noticed a few other passengers glance at the woman as she hurried toward the station. Some look bewildered or indifferent to the woman while others seems to glare at her, fueled by some hidden bigotry or disdain; whether that was due to her ethnicity or their perception of her mental state I couldn't say. What I can tell you is that I followed the woman out to the street as I made my way to the MUNI waiting at the corner. I followed her until she went her own way and I could no longer hear her song. As I lost sight of her in the darkness I simply smiled.
I carried the though of this woman singing some unknown song; or at least unknown to me, and I wondered what it might have been. Was it a lullabye or some traditional folk song? I thought about this and I smiled. I smiled as I walked down the steps into the Powell Street station and past the man sitting against the wall singing and playing his guitar. I smiled as I stopped and walked back to place a dollar in the open instrument case at his feet. I even smiled when I reached the bottom of the escalator and saw the Dublin/Pleasanton train, my train, just begin to pull away from the platform.
I smiled even wider when I heard that there had been a BART delay and the overhead display was not in sync with the arriving trains. This meant that the train that had just pulled away was actually the Pittsburg train and the one now arriving was the Dublin/Pleasanton and had I not paused ever so briefly I would have been on my way to a number of places I didn't want to be.
Of course, if that would have happened I could have simply got off at Montgomery and caught the correct train. This, however, assumes that I would have been paying attention to the drivers station calls and not drifting off to the reality contained within my book, oblivious to just about everything and everyone; at least until West Oakland.
When I finally arrived at Fruitvale, sitting behind the steering wheel of my car, I thought about the woman and her song and of the guitar player and his. I wondered if maybe they had both been singing the same song; I mused on this for a moment... and I smiled.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
and wow...I wish I could comment on it in some equaly articulate way instead of just ''CLAP CLAP. Maxx like journal.'' But alas, I can't. So:
CLAP CLAP. Maxx like journal.
I also get rashes...but I digress...