Thursday, September 30, 2004, 4:10pm
Thursday, September 30, 2004, 4:10pm
“This’s the foh-ten Wista Train making station stops at Back Bay, West Natick, Framin’ham, Ashl’nd, Southb’ro, Westb’ro, Graft’n, and Wista” Yup that’s about what the announcement sounds like as we slow-motion drag-race the 4:10pm Franklin Forge Park Local running side-by-side southwest of South Station.
The Worcester Train takes the lead as we round the bend under I-93. Soon the overhead gray concrete yields to an open sky where fair weather clouds have recently yielded to a thicker variety – disappearing altogether as the Back Bay Tunnel paints a mordant tomb of darkness. At this juncture – if all goes according to plan – the Forge Park Train will veer south past Ruggles Street and parts beyond while our train takes a westbound tack parallel to the Pike.
Inside this “blue seat” caboose carriage several Back Bay passengers choose to stand even though empty seats remain. The seats are wider than most two-seaters so if I’m going to be jammed it may as will be here where I have a little more elbowroom and space for my knees against an unusually soft seatback.
This afternoon I’m feeling distracted by the original reason for this journal. If I scraped my spare time together and stopped all other hobby projects, I might have my Thief campaign ready for beta testing in six months. Instead I have done nothing in nearly two months with no end in sight. The feeling is like camping high on Mount Everest a ¼ mile below the summit. The remaining distance is not very far in total yardage, but the effort already used to reach the present height has taken far more energy than I can tolerate. So now the choice is to burn the entirety of my reserves for the summit or leave the project unfinished. From my current perspective some people might be annoyed if I dropped this campaign, but it’s not likely to really matter within the greater picture of my life. In all honesty I make these mission designs for myself, and the players are there mainly to enhance my own experience. That may sound selfish, but in the end I design what I want to design according to my own muse.
With this settled I am aware of peppermint drifting through the cabin. That is much better than some of the odors that could swirl in the confines of this space. There are easily over a hundred people riding aboard this one car and a lot more chemistry and physics are available to disturb the peace beyond the occasional smell of chewing gum breath.
At ‘group’ tonight I could talk about all sorts of things. But it’s easier to simply convey feedback to others in my role as amateur shrink. I’m paying money for this, and I should work more completely within the process. But after many years in therapy I’ve found the outer limits of restructuring and re-polishing something that is fundamentally busted. At least that’s how I feel right now – which is not a good sign.
The train rumbles and rattles its suspension and bowels as we pour cross the poorly structured and unpolished tracks at Natick Station. Soon thereafter Route 135 comes into view parallel to the rails until low buildings block my view – a mixture of car dealerships, warehouses, strip malls, and two-story office buildings.
After West Natick I have this blue seat to myself again, decorated with the fallen chad of tickets long ago punched and sold to paying customers. A keyhole shape would indicate that Frank had worked the car at some point today, but I see only lumpy star-shapes on the seat and floor as we roll to a stop at Framingham Station, and I have no idea whose paper punch makes those shapes.
This afternoon I really have an endgame feeling and it conjures the image of Ulysses S. Grant writing his Civil War memoirs after a tumultuous presidency. Officially he wrote these memoirs to pay off old debts and set his family onto a financially sound footing before the cancer in his throat finished him off for good. I suspect he also wanted to get this written for personal posterity and perhaps also as a gift to future historians who would gobble the material like kids devouring cotton candy. Whatever the specific motivations, he wrote his memoirs at that point because he was dying and his time for anything worthwhile was quickly coming to an end.
When it comes to finishing my Thief campaign I really understand that feeling way down in my guts – except for the ‘worthwhile’ part which, in regards to a video game, has to be the most preposterous notion imaginable.
