Tuesday, March 15, 2005, 6:00pm
Tuesday, March 15, 2005, 6:00pm
Across the 1899 Bridge this afternoon early twilight lit my walk. From inside this well lit coach all twilight is gone as far as I can see.
Still at South Station we are experiencing one of those ancient time-honored safety procedures – otherwise known as paperwork gumming up the works. Yet tonight I have no stomach for another tirade and it would be pointless anyway since this journal will never see the light of day soon enough to affect present-day events. I am not writing a “blog” – those web journals written and delivered in real-time that mostly resemble the cell phone chatter aboard these trains. I’m interested in recording this for future reference – perhaps as a digital time capsule, if such could be possible.
This evening I have a dinner to cook and a movie to watch – “The Day after Tomorrow” about the unlikely possibility for climate change where the Earth descends disastrously into a deep freeze almost overnight. I hope I’m entertained enough to tolerate the preposterous ‘science.’
Speaking of disasters, I’m also close to finishing my Thief campaign design. This journal was started to help me work out the details. Mostly, I’ve worked this out elsewhere. Once I have the campaign roughed together, I’ll grind and polish as time allows (to borrow from the mirror-making process). The ‘roughing’ will require two uninterrupted days to push my beta version over the finish line.
When assembling credit text, so far it’s looking like four dozen people have helped in one way or another – voice acting being the most obvious along with all sorts of design elements including textures, clocks, monster models, and a host of beta testing volunteers. If what I’m doing as a hobby can wind up with four dozen volunteers I’m beginning to see why there are so many names in commercial game and movie credits.
In pantomime, tonight’s conductor collects from me assuming I can’t hear him. Most likely I could hear him just fine even with these noise-canceling headphones. They tend not to filter human voices as well as railroad noise, and as a result I can hear people a bit better, though tonight I do not educate the conductor on such fine points and instead pantomime in return.
Through Back Bay and deep into our express run we drift with many design details coming to mind requiring action rather than contemplation. Perhaps this is why I no longer work out loose ends in this journal. It’s simply easier to pick these off while inside the editor.
Evidenced by the number of passengers heading for the vestibules — West Natick Station approaches. Our speed is unabated. The scene beyond these windows is mostly black. Clues have been laid down somewhere. Those ready to exchange these rails for asphalt and concrete have already exited their butt-numbing seats.
Still sitting, I contemplate decent seats — leather covered and heated. When will I tire of these trains? I suppose this will happen once the minor miseries ad up enough to push me over the edge. More likely, though, I will adapt in equal measure from shear necessity. It is still a handy way to commute, and avoiding a hellish drive into Boston along the Pike each workday is enough to balance the equation for now.
“West Natick. West Natick”
With the train hauling to a fast rolling stop I struggle to reach laptop keys pulling away from me. As the brakes finally lock, the whole train lurches and settles onto its spring thrusting my hands to where just moments ago I’d been hard-pressed to reach. In the process I’ve made an ungodly mess of previously crafted text.
In the best of times my typing method has never been a thing of beauty. When pecking aboard a train I’m lucky to emplace one correct letter for every two laid down. All these months I’ve had no pain in my wrists or anywhere else as a result and I must be doing something right — even when crossing my hands to type on the wrong ends of the keyboard for lack of elbowroom.
“Framingham. Station is Framingham”
After this — a fast ride to Ashland, a slow walk home, and another evening closer to the day I will die.
I’m not depressed. I’m worn out.
