It’s been a while since my last post. Many things have been happening. The most consuming development has been my company’s move to a new office, from the humble 140 sq ft. room in my Queens apartment to a larger (but still smallish) office space in midtown Manhattan. We’re taking baby steps, but this one was especially a big one for us.
I’m still adjusting to the new conditions of my working life. The most apparent one is the commute. What was once a 5-second trip from bed to desk has turned into a 25-minute subway ride shared with other Astorians heading for the city. And although I miss the convenience of the old arrangement, the commute affords me some reading time on the subway. I’ve been breezing through J.M. Coetzee’s lesser-known book Youth, and one passage had me breaking into a big (and somewhat nervous) smile the other day:
He carries a book of poetry around with him in his pocket, sometimes Rilke, sometimes Vallejo. In the trains he ostentatiously brings forth his book and absorbs himself in it. It is a test. Only an exceptional girl will appreciate what he is reading and recognize in him an exceptional spirit too. But none of the girls on the trains pay him any attention. That seems to be one of the first things girls learn when they arrive in England: to pay no attention to signals from men.