You know, it's really interesting to be out and in contact with people again. For the last few days, I've been working, through a temp agency, at a bar & grill not a short distance from home. The siblings are still in school, so transportation's something of an inconvenience; I've been dropped off and picked up by one parent or the other all week. So, there's a little bit of time between when I finish working and when I go home. Of course, it is strange (to me) to be in the office and not working, so I hang out for a while in the bar. In past days this has been around five or six o'clock, which is when the evening's bartender arrives for work, and the place turns from the grill it is at lunch into the bar it is at night - or, at least, begins to make the transition. It's an interesting environment. The patrons of Friday night (which is the busiest night I've been around for) - something just stuck me: I'm writing in my journal, now. Really writing - //lunch is here, finish later, and besides my pen is going// -, as opposed to typing. It's funny, really. I remember hearing others' comments about writing vs. typing this sort of thing, and being perfectly comfortable with my preference of typing. Yet, here I am. A laptop would be nice.
Editor (future, copying-down me) note: The pen really was running out of ink. I didn't finish putting the thought down, because of it. Chalk another one up for the typers.
The thought I was going to finish was something along the general observations I'd made of people at the bar. Mainly it centered around the fact that I felt out of place there and that they didn't - and it wasn't because this was their bar and I'd never really been to a bar before. It would take me a much longer time to be that comfortable in a place that I perceived to be a "public place". I pondered rapid cathexis.