four fiftytwo

17 July 2014

        light.

        Dim grey.

        get up, bathroom, ten to five, tentative awakening. back to bed, eight minutes.

        at five, shower. It is going to be a warm day.

leave the building, just as the half hourly martins bells pound. Past the building site, admire the plywood lying around everywhere.

   Admiring plywood at five thirty. Woodwormish. 

good morning at the bus stop the daily good morning. And nothing else. The woman who used to be so unkempt, w depressed, looks better now,. Maybe no longer  depressed.

        The bus driver, A stranger man who has difficulty recognising and counting his money. The cafe has the name guests, as always. Anastasia is on holidays, or maybe she has gone. She will be missed.

        The train is late, the platform is occupied by people bemoaning the delay.

Too bad.

And when it does come in, it waits. The struggle to get on board quickly appears futile now.

        The smoker with the hair is in the carriage. He talks incessantly on none technical subject to his companion who answers. Talk about machinery, its care and adjustment.

        Technician talk. No mention of beauty, or culture, song or dance. Just discussions on the optimization of mechanical structures.

        Each to his own.

        The joyous feelings a technician has one the sight of mechanical perfection are lost on his or her surroundings due to an inability to communicate an appropriate description of the emotions and feelings involved. So they just resort to blunt generalization, simple definition, and fail to describe the value of their experience... Nobody knows what they want, because they cannot express their desire.  It is to be assumed that they will take what they want someday. Or buy it. 
If they are financially well situated.