(Sometimes, people who visit my blog will read old posts. If an old post gets a lot of hits, I always go back and read it again. Often, I've totally forgotten the old post and read it like a new customer. Some of these posts have a kernel of goodness in them and deserve another view. This post was from December 2010.)
I had to leave my house and go up island and it took me three days to force myself out of the front door and onto the train. I packed my bag on Friday but I left on Monday. I'm not sure if I made up being agoraphobic or whether I am really agoraphobic. Or maybe I made it up and it came true. I always think the house will blow up when I'm not there because of something I failed to do. I've only ever heard of three houses blowing up and two of them were blown up on purpose by the government.
The train station is at the end of my block so I only cross one street to get on the train. The modernized Long Island Railroad is a very weird customer with many levels of different sizes. I always sit on the entry level in the nearest seat. I realize this is for disabled people but no one ever makes me get up.
My branch of the Long Island Railroad in December is what I perceive purgatory will look and feel like. It is solitary and cold. The view out of the window is of desolate tangled flora, deserted industrial buildings or contiguous backyards with abandoned above ground pools and utility sheds. I try to read on the train but if you don't sit up straight, you tend to slide off the seats. I tried to read "The Girl Who Played With Fire" by the swedish author Stieg Larsson. This is noir, noir fiction and perfect for the train. I've always loved Sweden because they always bought foreign rights to my books and kept them in print for a long time.
The good thing about traveling on this train is that it makes you review your life. Okay that's not the good thing. I'm writing this blog from my destination.