I'm writing this sitting on the train to Boston, the Acela, with The Green Mile playing in the upper corner of the screen, and the man almost just across from me is painting lightning-fast pictures of the water as we flash by.

The man in front of me is a massive, scary-looking blonde guy with a goatee and multiple tattoos on his arms who is playing cards with his sweet old mother. And mostly winning, by the sound of her sweet old swearing. The woman across is reading a magazine and had kicked one of her clogs. She's swinging her foot back and forth like a child.

I'm painting my nails to match my hair. I didn't plan it that way, that just was the next colour in line. I'm doing it pretty much one nail at a time, because the train is kind of jumpy, though I am still doing a piss-poor job of it. The conductor told me to stop taking the polish off, because of the smell, but I was almost done, so I didn't mind. Hopefully, he won't stop me from putting it on.

It's an intensely beautiful day. Blue blue blue. I'm sleepy as hell after only having three or four hours of sleep, but that's what always seems to happen on these early morning trips, and between washing my clothes and dying my hair and the cats, I didn't get to sleep until long after I had meant to.

There is something sort of restful about doing an entry this way, on the move, scenery flashing by, can't do some of my procrastination tricks, like checking my e-mail or reading other journals. And Snood is a drag without a proper mouse. So all there is to do is write.

Of course, I have three more entries to write, ones that belong before this one, but since I can't upload until tonight, what does it matter what order I write them in?

We keep going over bridges and seeing people sculling on the various rivers. I'm wondering what it's like to be the kind of person who voluntarily gets up before ten on a Sunday morning to go boating. Must be an interesting life.

Now we're passing through fields so stunningly beautiful that I cannot believe that I am only two hours outside of Manhattan. I think that we're somewhere in Connecticut. The last station that we passed was Stanford, and I've been writing and writing. The entry for the 14th is done. I feel so industrious!

Of course, I just started fucking around with my wallpaper changer again, so who knows whether I'll finish everything before I get to Boston, or before John Coffey fries. I hope I don't weep all over the keyboard. I mean, we all remember what happened when the milk hit it, I didn't have it for a month! Tears might just blow it up altogether.

I know I keep saying this, but the day is so lovely, I keep thinking that I wouldn't mind this as a regular commute. This is, of course, insane, as it's a four hour trip, (or five on the slow train), but it's just so comfortable, and the writing, and the movie, and the scenery. Bet it's not such a joy to look out of the train window in November, though.

I'm going to go into the bathroom and put on the second coat of my nailpolish. I cannot stand this one nail at a time routine anymore. And I'm back. Two nails need to be redone, my right thumb and my left middle finger, but it's not too messy, you know, if you don't look too closely, if you take your glasses off or something. Squint.

The bathrooms on the Acela are gorgeous. Gor-geous! Almost as lovely as the scenery. I could write a poem in praise of the bathrooms on the Acela. Huge, clean, shining. The paper is placed weirdly behind you, so that you have to twist yourself almost in two in order to wipe your ass, but other than that, they are a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

I got my first good look at my hair, too. It's not as purple as one would like, or as I would like, and there is an awful lot on my scalp, as though I put it on with a paintbrush, which of course, I did. In a way.

I'll put on some more next week, the rest of the jar, maybe that'll brighten it up a bit. It's pretty great, though. I don't know why I never did this before. Of course, were I in a show, it would be difficult, but otherwise there isn't a single reason. You know, except for the fact that I am 36 years old, but you know what? If I cared about that, I wouldn't have a ring in my nose or wear overalls with one strap undone, or my hair in bunches like a child. Purple hair don't really change much on me.

The conductor called me young lady, though. I was running for the train, scared of missing it, and I asked which track was the train to Boston, and he said "Right there, young lady." I haven't been called young lady in ages, I can't even remember the last time. But from now on, the last time will be on a Sunday morning in September, in the year 2000, in New York City, Pennsylvania Station, track 10, right outside the Acela to Boston.

I guess it's the purple hair! It gives the illusion of great youth.

The fact that he called the sweet old mother of the tattooed giant in the seat in front of me young lady as well, I am ignoring.

Okay, John Coffey just talked about how he's tired of never having a buddy to be with, "To tell me where we's going to, or coming from, or why," and I'm off. Weep weep weep, that's me. I'm like a faucet.

I wrote the entry from the 15th. Now I have to write yesterday's, and that's the longy. Of course, there's only half an hour before we land, so that might not happen, but hopefully they will all be done by the time I'm able to upload tonight.

What's your most recent trip?

And we're still talking about the most spontaneous thing we've done lately, how we feel about medication, the one right way to do things, self-knowledge, running out of time, new movie recommendations, what we need to be happy, our personal angels, our offices, vocal tics, and bad movies we love.

Today's horoscope:
Don't hold yourself back with demands of perfection. Do believe in yourself enough to act.

One year ago today:
Perhaps they would have banded together in a great show of brotherhood and pushed us to New Jersey.

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Last Updated Sun 18 September 22:26:09 2000