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I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves. — Wittgenstein
On a Q train to some remote part of Brooklyn to give a talk to a high school class about Shakespeare, how presumptuous of me. Today is diamond-hard, clear-bright. I only slept a few hours because I was up til 7am — doing what I will not disclose. I don’t have many thoughts in my head — just the habitual imperative to write something in my subway diary. My working assumption is that if I start to write, something interesting will come out — though this is more hubris, or delusion, than fact; it is pure wish-fulfillment.
I like taking above ground trains, especially on days like this, however. It’s so much more acceptable if the train is slow or delayed if you get natural sunlight coming through the windows.
A man just shook a paper cup in front of my face: I suppose because I have my laptop on my lap, I look like I’m affluent, or capable of giving; of course I’m capable, but I’m wracked by concerns about money. I withhold my dollar or whatever, not just for whatever bullshit philosophical reasons I’ve come up with, or could come up with, but out of some deep resentment towards the person reminding me of the existence, and unfairness, of money itself.
I should probably put my laptop away and read a book.
