What I think about other than knitting.

New York is so romanticized--in books, in movies, in the American psyche in general.
I've spent the past two years here believing that life here is just that--life. You go to work, you come home, you eat and go out. The only differences being the cost, the amount of space, the varieties of food...and everything connected by a silver monster, the frustrating lifelines of the city, the subways.
Today on the train I felt a little of the romance again. It's hard to stay cynical with so many daffodils finally out, the spring air and clear skies. Realizing that life in the city IS different--if only because so much of it is packed together, so many people living their normal, everyday lives, but so much intersecting, so much time spent in intimate spaces, the train cars, with strangers. The sleepers, the readers, the headphones. Me, the sometimes knitter. Pumas, stilettos, flip-flops. The homeless, the businesspersons, the tough-guy city kids. The out-of-towners (me, too). But you still always see smiles when a cute baby comes into the car. That makes me feel a little love for them all.
For me, there's two ways to react to the world when you're in love with a single, specific person. Either your love for them spills over, maybe just a little, into the whole of humanity, or the outside world becomes unworthy of your attention.