Don’t pity me for my daily New Yorker commute: it is a blessing. I see people, very annoying aggressive people, and somehow I suspect this is a good thing. I am also glad for the time held hostage on an MTA car. I can’t paint, but this is the only time when I can read. So this time is sacrosanct. Without the trains and the buses, I would never read.
But there came an email. It was a one liner. It was enough to remind me of what’s been bugging me all weekend. I cling to the book, so battered from being jammed into my bag full of art supplies, so neglected while I tend to my insidious distractions that keep me from reading even on a train.
But I believe a painter will paint and a reader will read. I will find a way.
