Saturday, January 6

The night-train to Venice.

I'm on the night again, but not to Sicily this time. Sicily would have taken me through a warm wet darkness, a ferry that would smell like oil, to a farmland smell of animals and damp pavement. No, not to Sicily. This time to Venice.

Venice will be a long ride in the dark, and it won't seem to change very much. Every now and then the train will stop and people will wake up or go to sleep and there will be white florescent lights for a moment, and then the voices and the lights will fade away into the darkness and the sound of the train with its rumbling path over the dark, and the whirring heater vents above us. And then the accents will change and the lights will get brighter, and Venice will open up before us with the blue waters and the black tiles of the station.

There's nobody else in the cabin, tonight; probably there won't be anyone until Rome or Florence. That's okay, though, because I want to work. Normally I'd be writing in my paper journal, but I'm out for the year. When I get back to Dublin, I'll find my overflow journal, and it will become my primary one.

When I get back to Dublin, I'll also have to buy some shampoo. I certainly won't make the same mistake I recently heard, of forgetting to buy milk . . . how could I drink my lovely Italian espresso with no milk?! My mistake has been something infinitely easier to fix: I left the key to my room sitting neatly on a piece of furniture in my room. By the time this gets online, I'll have mumbled about and found a replacement.

Another thing I like about being the only one in the cabin is that I may caterwaul to my iPod. Mwahahaha.

Now, how to get to work? Write an outline, write the shorter pieces of the outline, then find better examples to back myself up than the ones I jotted down to begin with. Then panic at the end, scribbling transitions and cobbling together some sort of bibliography and cover sheet to shove it under the door to the man in his office who has been comfortable for years with the weighty degrees balancing out his name on paper.

Have I mentioned that I've grown fond of The Smiths and The Cure and The Clash? And The Ramones? And that I need an infinite number of knitted hats? Because they are wonderful and awesome?

Alas, how shall I begin? And there are voices in the hall.

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