NOTES FROM A TRAIN
A few years ago I went through a difficult but rewarding period in my life.
I was working hard, battling through ill health and family tragedy and most importantly travelling on the train almost every day.
I struggled on public transport, often exhausted and just wanting to be home, I struggled to read, I struggled to play games, I needed a release.
So I decided to write...to process the day.
Each day I got on the train in the evening, I would start writing into Facebook on my phone. At the end on each journey i would post what I had. No editing, warts and all.
It got me through a tough time and eventually I made peace with my train trip and found other ways to survive the journey.
I would love to say that this was all big ideas and important thoughts.
I would love to say that the spelling and grammar was perfect.
I wish that some of this wasn't as potentially offensive as it is.
I would love to say that there isn't an inordinate amount of writing about flatulence but all of that would be a lie.
You wont like all of it. You won't agree with all of it. You may laugh. You may cry. You will find a cynical but hopeful voice that even at its most bitter is still looking for the light to balance the darkness.
So here it is.
A collection of notes from a train.
Notes From a Train.
A man and his daughter. He is drunk and she supports him to his seat. He mutters abuse at anyone in range and she tries her best to apologize to each person as they pass. He could be anywhere between 30 and 50. She could be anywhere from 12 to 16. An old lady briefly holds out her hand as they pass and the young girl smiles at her and gives a furtive wave.
The conductor knows they haven't validated a ticket, but he just stays back and watches with a sad frown.
"Stand clear, doors closing" The journey home begins.
I open my book and drop down into a different world.
Notes From a Train.
Hat backwards, sunglasses on. He talks loudly to his posse of one in a loud commanding voice. Every time I think it is English they are speaking, their voices morph into some other language...hiphoplish maybe? They plan their week which apparently consists of dirty gardening tools and female canines.
His friend gets off, a minute passes and then he reaches into his expensive looking backpack and pulls out a dogeared book. A book by my favorite author... Hard science fiction, big ideas.
Connections... where you least expect it.
Still, I will always wear my cap with the peak facing forward... it shades your eyes that way don'tcha know.
Notes From a Train.
Small and angry. FEET OFF SEATS. Red and sweaty. TURN DOWN THE MUSIC. Torch, keys and whistle. VALIDATE YOUR TICKETS. Badly scuffed kicker boots. VALIDATE MY EXISTENCE!
The crowd watches, some with admiration, some with disdain.
In another time he might have been a respected sergeant leading men into battle.
In this time he leads an angry teenager to the door and saves us all from dubstep and body odour.
Small and angry man I salute you... just this once.
Notes From a Train.
The train hurtles down the track. It cuts through the air and leaves turbulence in its wake.
Imagine yourself as a tiny creature when suddenly your world is torn apart by a force beyond comprehension.
You tumble through the stench of diesel and the clatter of steel on steel.
It all passes and you continue on your way, eating, breeding... a survivor.
Snap back now... back to our scale and then think. How would you react. Do you stop and try to rebuild your life or do you just travel on the same path you were on and leave it behind? Do you question or do you accept?
Notes From a Train.
How many tracks must a man ride down before you can call him a man. On the North line I would answer "Just once...twice maybe if you were a particularly innocent soul".
It is hard to block out the lessons of life heard over the grind of the steel wheels. You can't get preggas the first time you have sex. Ex boyfriends are all scum. Ex girlfriends are all sluts. Smacking your kid is the only way they'll get the point of your petty demands... Justin Beiber is soooo talented.
The lesson for today however is that "Elmo could definitely beat up The Cookie Monster because Elmo is skinny and fast and The Cookie Monster is a fatty because of all of the cookies and would get tired and fall down." Damned hard logic to argue with...especially when delivered with the passion only pigtails and a Big Bird shirt can endower. Have a good weekend. Learn something new...and then fact check it.
Notes From a Train. (Morning train...standing room only)
We are made of star stuff, but we are shaped by split seconds and small decisions.
Around me are people who have reached this point in time and space because of their actions, the actions of others and the impact of the universe around them.
Whether you believe in fate, physics or a spiritual force, you must surely also believe in your ability to change your situation and the situation of others…if not why even go on?
Blaming our woes on a malevolent force or bad luck discounts all of those tiny moments and decisions that led us to where we are and attributing good luck and a benevolent force to your triumphs seems, to me, to discount our own role in our lives.
So I look around me and I try to imagine how my fellow passengers have reached this point in time and space and I realise that if it was that easy to trace someone’s journey our lives would be a lot simpler than I would want them to be. The universe is a complex place and looking for easy answers is a recipe for madness.
Split seconds and small decisions…a lot of them…that is what we are made of.
Notes From a Train.
One hyena braying into her phone. Two old vultures feeding off her pain.
A tiny church mouse frightened out of her wits, her schoolbag held in front of her like a shield.
Two lions that are house cats inside, each mane no more than a popped collar.
A snake peers left and right, eyes flowing over phones and handbags, fingers twitching into claws.
A shark in orange floats past and the snake finds something more interesting through the scratched window.
The hyena brays again and the menagerie looks toward her for no more than a second before returning to their own lives.
The cage moves onward only stopping to release us into an unsuspecting world.
Notes From a Train.
The guy two seats down from me was abducted by aliens... I know because he is telling the lady next to him, who looks like she is hoping to be abducted by aliens... as soon as possible.
I look around the train and do some calculations. By my reckoning ninety percent of my fellow passengers would be a better abductee if aliens really wanted some truly valuable data. I mean, yes, our hero is quite a few steps up from an unfortunate bovine but compared to the university professor sitting three seats down, or the nurse sitting across the aisle, surely he is a less interesting specimen.
What is the criteria that these aliens are using to choose their research subjects? More importantly what the hell are they finding out that they can't find in a book, or Google? Why would they come light years just to slice up cattle and probe the backsides of the general public?
Yes, I believe. There surely can't be any chance the we are the only beings in a vast universe. However I don't believe that my fellow traveler was abducted by anything more than a bottle, drugs or a traumatic event.
In a flash of light the terrified lady disappears. As the train pulls away from the station I see her walking quickly away... not looking back.
I really hope that in my lifetime we do meet some extraterrestrial beings, but in the words of a wise man "The best proof that intelligent life is out there is the fact that they haven't contacted us".
Notes From a Train.
Hurtling through space and time in a massive chunk of metal. Screeching, whining, sparks and flashing lights. Travelling on a train must be only second to travelling on a plane in terms of violence.
This trip and every other is a gamble based on stopping distances and luck. We are told to slow down on the roads and to keep minimum safe distances between us and the car in front but
I've done the calculations and there is no way this train would stop on a dime if the worst was to happen. Screeching, whining, tearing metal, broken bodies.
So we gamble... slightly but significantly.
My stop... lucky seven, not snake eyes.
Notes From a Train.
The Friday train…or as I like to call it “The Party Train”.
No, there is no all you can eat buffet. The passengers are not drunk (well no higher percentage than normally are). There is no dancing…except for the lady down the end who is obviously dancing to the music in her head.
In fact, there is no real difference at all, just a slightly lighter atmosphere and a few more smiles than usual.
It is Friday and that is the difference. People are going home to a weekend and leaving the city behind. They are going home to less stress, less responsibility and more fun. A gross generalisation I know. The guy next to me has set up a small office on top of a briefcase precariously balanced on his knees…he has a weekend of stress ahead of him, I can see the signs. A nurse two seats down is probably still up for a shift or two across the weekend.
On the whole though, they are a relieved bunch. Relieved that the weekday part of the week is done, they sit up a little straighter and laugh a little easier. They need a little less personal space as they stow some mental baggage from the week just passed.
In every week there is a point that the work ends…or at least slows down.
In every week there is a light at the end of the tunnel…it’s The Party Train.
Notes From a Train.
Personal space, how much do you need? I need a bubble that has elbow room, and enough room to scratch my bum if I need to.
I need to have my own air.
I need to be able to slouch.
So apparently the elderly gentleman who just sat next to me needs a whole lot less than that. I'm kind of worried that at some stage during the journey he will need to scratch his butt and will instead scratch mine.
He seems like a nice old chap and I'm sure that he is a hit with the ladies with his sar' major mustache and shiny shoes, but their withered olfactory systems probably don't detect the odor of burnt cabbage and wet dog that has now invaded my personal space bubble.
I need to ask him why he sat next to me instead of the five empty seats within three metres of where we now sit, but he really looks like he wants to talk...about elderly gentleman stuff...about winning wars and the problems with today's youth. It may be an excellent conversation full of revelations and wit...but I'm not willing to take the risk.
Dammit... my butt is itchy but I dare not scratch it.
Notes From a Train.
Why are we here?
No, not on the train...think bigger...why do we exist.
Are we just playthings of the gods? Are we just random amalgamations of star stuff?
Do we have self will or are we just following a predetermined path...are we a car or are we a train?
The train is the easy way through life. We hop on board and the train follows its predetermined path stopping along the way before depositing us at our destination. With very little variation comes very few options. Steel on steel, wheels on tracks.
Predetermined, safe...easy. Someone else controls our destiny, but we have a fair idea of our journey...and our destination.
Now hop in a car. The ending of the journey is still pretty sure, but there are a lot more twists and turns along the way. You can stop, and you can even take a different path home if you want to. You are the driver. You have more control.
Of course you need to contend with idiot drivers, traffic jams, flat tires and petrol prices.
More control...not so easy.
Now start walking. Take your time. Dawdle. Smell the roses. You get to your destination...eventually.
It may take a long time but is that necessarily a bad thing. You'll be tired and hungry but you will have seen more of your journey at a pace that allows you to comprehend it.
Sometimes I wish I had more time to dawdle.
Notes From a Train.
Is there any greater crime against humanity than flatulence in an enclosed space?
In a train that already smells like wet jackets and broken dreams, a high school aged child is "surreptitiously" trying to hide his crime with a simple butt roll.
The fact that each time he lifts one buttcheek a hideous smell one step off a sentient being seeps throughout the carriage. It is enough for anyone in close proximity to know that he is the epicenter...and yet he wears a mask of innocence reserved for young children and puppies.
Buttroll...stench...
The lady right next to him is doing a perfect impression of Samantha from Bewitched. Her nose twitches back and forth, but unfortunately, as this is the real world, her wicken powers are not enough to slay the demon.
Buttroll...stench...
A young girl stands up and casually moves to the other end of the carriage. Eyes watch her as if she is a prisoner pardoned by the governor...walking from the gas chamber with another chance at life.
Buttroll...stench...
A lady reaches into her purse and removes some perfume. It looks expensive, but that doesn't stop her from spraying it like a damned soul with a fire extinguisher.
Buttroll...stench...
A small child innocently turns to her mother and in an earnest and sincere voice says "That stinky fluff smell isn't me you know mum".
The mother looks her in the eye and responds with "I know love, it's smellier than anything that has ever come from your bottom".
Her statement is punctuated by the nearly audible snap of a pair of butt cheeks clenching together.
The honesty of a child and the casual cynicism of her mother have saved us all.
I'm tempted to stay on past my stop to see if young mister miasma manages to get off the train before his bowel explodes.
The fresh air calls to me though and so I prepare to leave.
For a split second I entertain the thought of leaving a parting gift as I squeeze past him...I just can't do it though...too much collateral damage to people who have suffered with me.
Flatulent friendly fire...
Notes From a Train.
Ten people in my carriage. Ten people with ten different stories.
How much can we tell about them if all we have is outward appearance?
Just a few tantalising clues into their inner selves. Not an easy task, despite the many incarnations of Sherlock telling us how easy it is to use logic to unwrap illogical beings.
Sure... there are some "No shit Sherlock" cases.
The teenager who thinks the he is the next Eminem is as transparent as a pane of glass. His hoody pulled up and muffled music creeping from his headphones is a shield thrown up against the world.
A grumpy elderly lady who is obviously not a regular train passenger sits in the middle of a two person seat... even though the train is nearly empty she makes sure that no one will sit next to her. She hugs her handbag to her chest and glares at anyone who makes eye contact. The battle she had with the ticket validating machine showed that she was not a seasoned traveller.
So two people down, but from there it gets tough.
There's an old guy with a perfectly cut suit and shoes that are split and worn. A crow feather sticks out of his rakishly angled fedora.
A young woman dressed like a 50's pinup swipes up and down on an iPad while she listens to music on an iPod... I can hear enough to know that she is listening to death metal, not rockabilly.
A guy wearing a Spiderman shirt and carrying a Star Trek backpack talks loudly to his friend who looks like a confused but angry ferret. They are debating football results... as if the future of the world balances on the outcome of their argument.
Paradoxes everywhere... Mysteries wrapped in enigmas. Sherlock may be able to figure them out, but I like the mystery.
Better to keep some mystery than have a good story ruined by the truth.
Notes From a Train.
There is a man two seats down who is ranting.
He has quite a head of steam up and seems to have a captive audience of three or four avid followers.
There are small pools of foam building up at the corners of his mouth and he is starting to go an alarming shade of purple.
His main theory is that "learning is a waste of time and it would be better if humans just went through life picking up what they can, rather than actively seeking out knowledge".
I'd love to tell you that I am cynically paraphrasing his actual thoughts but I'm sorry to say that I'm not. I have however given his argument a slightly more eloquent feel... just to save space.
Schools are useless, he rants...
I learnt everything I need to know from my parents, he rants. Why would people want to gain knowledge that isn't actually practical, he rants.
Actually I am paraphrasing now because he is really saying things like...
"My son doesn't need to hear shit from someone else. He just needs to listen to me"
and...
"Why would I need to know science... how will that help me?"
The fact that he even thinks you can "know science" just makes me sad.
That he thinks that knowledge can't enrich your life without having an immediate practical outcome makes me sadder. The fact that he wants to pass his uninformed and apathetic views on the world to another generation makes me furious.
RANT
Politics... "Why do I care, I'll be voting liberal because my father did... if it was good enough for him it's good enough for me".
RANT
Religion... "Everything I need to know is in the bible. These new churches need to just teach that. God doesn't have time for their shitty new ideas."
RANT
Science... "Global warming is crap. I'm cold that's all I need to know".
RANT... FRICKEN... RANT
He doesn't stop... he isn't even slowing down. He now looks like he has rabies and there is a vein pulsing on the side of his head that looks like it is about to pop.
His willing crowd no longer looks so willing but as my stop approaches I feel my spirits rise.
Times like this make me sad, and sometimes, angry. I often fear that the world is full of people like Mr Rantypants but then I think of my friends and family and realise that there is still hope for the world.
Do me a favour and learn something new this weekend.
Seek knowledge.
Try something new.
Fight the uninformed apathy.
Notes From a Train.
I wonder how many people on this train have secrets?
Real secrets... deal breakers, not just stuff that can be explained away over coffee and Tim Tams.
How many of my fellow travelers are having affairs, how many are hiding drug habits, thieves, conmen... are there any killers among us?
A quick look down the carriage throws up a multitude of possibilities.
Some people look like they might get a tick in more than one column.
Some of my train buddies look like you would have to start an excel spreadsheet to keep track of their transgressions.
One guy is screaming at his kids, who are screaming at everything. A lady is talking loudly to her friend... she is talking about fashion and the fashionless and apparently thinks it's fine to use a poorly dressed lady three seats down as an example.
The poor woman sits in stony silence.
Two teenage boys talk loudly about their sexual conquests, guaranteed lies but still delivered with the confidence of someone with little respect for their fellow humans.
But it probably isn't even the obvious ones who have the most to hide.
How many times have we heard "It's always the quiet ones" or "He seemed so normal".
I look again and I can see some "quiet" folks. Some look sad, some look angry, some look worried... some look like me.
There are quite a few of us sprinkled throughout the carriage. The meek with one big secret... we really want to inherit the earth... BY KILLING ALL OF THESE LOUD BASTARDS!
Ahem...
Have a great night.
Be one of the quiet ones.
Notes From a Train.
Ships passing in the night.
We drop in and out of each others' lives and never connect.
We are strangers on a train and even though I see some of you more often than I see my friends and family, it is the context in which we meet that leaves a gulf between us.
Sometimes there might be a quick nod of the head or an “excuse me” as you make your way to a seat, but on the whole we are a series of individuals grouped within the steel skin of our transport.
The train isn’t the only place that this happens.
Groups of disparate people brought together by a single, sometimes tenuous link.
Maybe it is a sporting team that binds the group together…or a car club…or a group of high school friends who still catch up in monthly mini reunions…maybe it is a Christian youth group.
Different backgrounds, different pathways entwined sporadically.
People brought together with a single goal, sometimes major, sometimes minor. At the end of their time together, they go their separate ways and often don’t meet again until the next time they actually need to.
Sometimes the link is so tenuous that it isn't strong enough to transcend the boundaries between the individuals within the greater whole.
Sometimes the group explodes, sometimes it implodes... sometimes it just slowly dissipates like early morning fog.
Sometimes the link is as strong as tempered steel and binds us together, filling the voids between us with purpose. Driving us to call on each other to strengthen our resolve.
But as I look around I know that the only thing that binds us is the desire to go from A to B and the vehicle that facilitates our goal.
I'm sure that, given a different context, we might possibly be friends. Maybe that is what a nod of the head, a smile and an "excuse me" leads to... I doubt it though.
The train is the only thing that binds us all together and the gaps between us are not filled with enough purpose.
Ships passing in the night... on a train.
Excuse the mixed metaphor.
Notes From a Train.
A lady is loudly proclaiming that she is OFFENDED.
Her strident cries and flinty voice echo through the train and she now has an audience of interested but confused fellow travelers.
She seems really upset about something but I recognise RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION when I see it.
The truly upset person in this situation is the teenage boy who is sitting across from her.
He is her target and he looks like he would rather be anywhere else in space and time than where he is now.
He wants to move... I can tell. His eyes dart everywhere she isn't. He is gripping his backpack tightly to his chest. As far as shields go it is flimsy and already her eyes are burning a hole through to the reason for her anger.
The conductor tries to break her gaze but she continues to make her complaint while stoically refusing to actually register his presence.
"Offensive" she cries.
"He shouldn't be allowed to wear that in public" she bellows.
"Make him get off at the next station, he shouldn't be allowed on the train wearing offensive clothing" she rants.
The poor kid looks physically sick... David vs a Goliath made up of equal parts rage, contempt and privilege.
The kid looks at the conductor with fear in his eyes and the conductor gives him a wink. "What is the problem madam?" He asks in a calm voice.
"That!" she says while pointing a bejewelled finger at the poor kid's chest. In the back of my mind I hear the combined voices of the Monty Python crew cry out "The salmon mousse".
The conductor waves his hand in a downward motion that Obi Wan would be proud of. The kid slowly drops his backpack and the combined psyche of the train waits with bated breath as we are going to see the abomination that has so offended HER.
Tendons creak as necks crane and we finally see...
A Mambo shirt... the silhouette of a dog with a musical note coming from its backside. She is still pointing and the kid looks mortified... they both slowly look toward the conductor.
He looks into the eyes of the frightened kid and then turns toward his accuser.
Her arm drops and a smug look replaces her rage.
The conductor leans over and calmly says "Are you kidding me lady... if you are so offended maybe you better get off at the next stop, because this guy is going nowhere".
Smug turns to astonishment and SHE opens her mouth to say something. Before she can though a lady across from her starts to clap... I'd love to lie and say that this starts a wave of good feeling and applause that spreads throughout the carriage but really all that happens are a few good natured laughs and a relieved look from the kid.
A young girl stands up and wanders over. "Swap, seats" she says to the kid. He smiles, embarrassed but thankful and stands up.
The conductor gives her a wink and the tension almost immediately dissipates.
If looks could kill he would drop dead as soon as he turns around, but looks can't so he survives the walk to the other end of carriage.
As I leave I slip the conductor my business card. I let him know that if he gets any complaints to give me a call and I'll back him. He laughs, but put the card into his pocket anyway.
The universe balances, good claws back some ground on evil and a train conductor becomes a hero in the eyes of a frightened teenage boy.
Notes From a Train.
Sit back and really think about the universe for a minute...
Go on, have a really good think... maybe make it longer than a minute.
Are you back?
Let's try and define the universe we live in.
1. It is big. Really big. Bigger than we will ever be able to truly comprehend. The old adage "bigger than a bread box, smaller than a horse" isn't really much help here.
2. It's bloody old. Not just incontinence pads old, not just "I fought in two world wars so you can drive a Australian made car!" old.
Really, honestly just fricken OLD.
3. It's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma and then inserted in the bum of a really confusing riddle.
4. It is amazingly well balanced considering how many variables need to flow together for it to exist at all.
5. The space between things is far bigger than the things themselves. There's a lot of stuff surrounded by a lot of nonstuff.
6. No one will ever truly know how it started. Whether there was a big bang, a word from a deity or a shift in dimensions... it will be pretty hard to nail down.
7. The universe is built on chaos, chance and mutation. There may be a plan, but it is so complicated that we probably shouldn't even try to understand it... kinda like a flatworm trying to do calculus... entertaining, but ultimately not very useful.
8. The universe is not evil.
9. The universe is not good.
10. Every time someone watches "The Sound of Music" the universe sacrifices a kitten.
The universe is worth more than a minute of thought a day. Just think though... No need to try too hard to understand it.
...and don't watch The Sound of Music...the universe needs kittens.
Notes From a Train. Ep 4000.
The train cuts through the wasteland, the cracked lunar panels generating just enough power for locomotion but not for conditioning the foul air within the cabin.
I adjust my mask and take a sip from my backpack. I really don't care what the studies say, it still tastes like urine.
The fact that the local Macromart was down to second hand filters probably doesn't help.
The lights flicker, twenty heads lift and fear fills the carriage. I've only been in a stopped Sliptrain once and it was only stopped for five minutes while the driver called in backup to clear a flaming barrier from the tracks.
Longest five minutes of my life. Every shadow outside the windows was death and every click or creak stopped my heart. I still fear the dark and have spent every trip since in a cold sweat.
The lights kick back in and I notice that the lady across from me now has a very old and dangerous looking weapon on her lap.
As I look from the gun to her eyes she smiles and winks.
I smile back and she says "Say hello to my little friend".
"Hello" I say with a wave and a smile and she laughs.
With a deft flick of her skinny wrist she Houdinis the gun just before the conductor arrives.
The Sliptrain conductor clicks past on insectile limbs and I look down to the filthy floor of the carriage hoping that it will just continue on its way.
A buzzing sound fills my head and my eyes defocus for a few seconds. Such a small symptom of such a great loss.
I realise with horror that the conductor has chosen me as the fare for this trip, every trip a lottery and this time I have lost.
It seems like the Sliptrain is requiring more and more fares for the chance to travel the wasteland in relative safety and I have lost far too often lately.
Another month of memories gone... I know they are gone, but I'm not yet sure what has been taken.
I know that I will see a holo some time in the future and will not be able remember the event its pale green light has recorded.
I'll meet someone, who will realise quickly that they will need to reintroduce themselves. We all know the signs, and all but the most cruel help their fellow humans through their embarrassment and sorrow.
I'll look at a painting on my wall and I won't remember the joy of creation.
One month... gone.
Sorrow, joy, fear and anger swept away in the buzz of an effector field.
I look up at the lady across from me. She smiles at me, but there is sorrow in her eyes.
"I remember your little friend" I whisper.
Some of the sorrow leaves her eyes and she winks.
The lights flicker again. I look up in fear.
I've never been on a stopped Sliptrain...a small positive in a sea of negatives. I can't imagine the fear of waiting in the dark while the denizens of the wasteland come for your soul.
I ready myself for my stop and as the Sliptrain reaches the safe zone it slows to a crawl. I leap for the Slipnet and manage to regain my feet after only two rolls.
Home.
Notes From a Train.
What is creativity?
I've made a lot of art in my time. I've sculpted, painted, animated, I've even done some writing.
I made stuff as a kid and I've continued to make stuff as an adult.
I even create art as a job.
So what is creativity?
Is it a refillable pool that never runs dry, or a finite resource that we drain throughout our years until one day we reach for an idea and find nothing but dust?
Or even worse, can the pool become tainted by our sometimes poisonous world... ideas never growing beyond conception, or being birthed as a mutated and twisted shadow of our initial intention?
I actually think it is probably all of the above and I think this may be the primary reason for the joyful but tortured lives many artists endure.
I have a pool of my own.
I drink from it often and even though the level seems to get low sometimes, it has never completely dried out.
Some days it seems as pure as newly melted snow and it fills my brain with original ideas ready to be vomited out into the world.
On other days there is a slight tang and an after taste that lets me know that I need to filter a little more carefully before committing time and effort to the concepts contained within.
Refilling my pool is as easy as drinking in the work of other creatives. Movies, video games, books, art forums... I'm at my most creative after spending time with some inspiration.
I think everyone has a pool.
Many people visit it often, some don't visit often enough... some don't even know it exists until they stumble on it later in life.
Try and take a dip every now and then... you might even surprise yourself.
Notes From a Train.
Time is a relative concept.
Just ask Einstein, or a kid who is sitting through the last hour of school before four weeks of holidays.
Each year seems to speed by faster than the year before (I have a theory that it is because my memory is getting worse and so I'm just remembering less about each year).
Time is not the constant we think it is.
My train journey usually takes about half an hour but that half an hour could be anything from an eye blink to an eternity.
If I sit and watch the trees fly past in the dark I'm in for a long trip.
If I occupy my brain time speeds up.
I used to try to read but I would usually get a page or so in before a singularity would form in the middle of my brain.
Every inane conversation within earshot would be instantly dragged into my head and eventually even the best of writing became a soap opera of cheating boyfriends, misinformed advice and testosterone fuelled bragging.
I tried napping, but my paranoid brain would wake me as soon as I even slightly dropped below full consciousness.
IT'S YOUR STOP.
No... it isn't...
SORRY, I THOUGHT IT WAS YOUR STOP.
Stop yelling, brain.
STOP TRYING TO SLEEP. I DON'T WANT TO WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE MISSING A KIDNEY.
Sigh... Ok, deal.
Listening to music helped to kill time but because I usually listen to music as background atmosphere while I do something else, I still felt like I wasn't doing anything at all.
The journey still dragged.
I played games on my phone but there are only so much grumpy avian pork hating I can take.
So, this is what triggered Notes From a Train. The need to make my trip less of a drag.
So now I start writing as the train leaves and I post as soon as I get home.
Probably a good amount of time to throw some ideas out there without overstaying my welcome.
My stop is coming up fast.
Coincidentally a group of other passengers just behind me have just started to discuss the grandfather paradox as a barrier to time travel.
Thanks universe... I'll take that as a sign.
(a sign that people still think and discuss mysteries without answers... Not a sign that I should head back in time for some grandpatricide)
Notes From a Train.
Back on the North Line after an extended period of car travel. Believe it or not, I've actually missed it.
The slight tang of urine in the air. The scream of a small ferrety child that isn't getting their own way.
The whining complaint of a weasely adult who isn't getting their own way.
The screeching of metal on metal as the thundering capsule of steel we are travelling in doesn't get its own way.
It is far less frustrating than the horde of other drivers out there who seem to be in a perpetual fog of disdain and rage.
These are the drivers that make me wish for the relative calm of my fellow train passengers.
The vulture, who waits for the slightest gap in traffic before swooping in.
The meercat, who pops half in and out of their lane checking for a chance to get one car ahead.
The eighteen wheeler who stalks the slow moving minnow ahead like a great white shark.
The caravan wandering along like a lost elephant... so lost that they rumble along in the fast lane, clueless of the conga line forming behind them.
The tortoise that slowly moves a full four seconds after the light has changed to green.
The farting bovine that trails a cloud of gas behind its lumbering carcass.
The hummingbird that flits between lanes, surging ahead and then falling behind... in my windscreen one second and then in my rear view mirror the next.
The canine that sits sniffing my butt with its nose, so close that I feel violated.
And of course my favourite, the greyhound who makes a dash up the inside lane hoping to beat the merging lane ahead.
The train... my half hour of sanity at the end of the day.
My chance to know that every other vehicle is going to show some respect...
GET OUT OF OUR WAY!
Notes From a Train.
A couple behind me is discussing that eternal question "If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?"
I missed the beginning of their conversation so I'm unsure of exactly where the three wishes have come from... perhaps the thankful genie released from a lamp, perhaps a beneficent deity, maybe a less beneficent denizen of the bowels of hell, or perhaps just a spell cast by a bored wizard out for a bit of entertainment.
It doesn't really matter though, they have three wishes each.
They have set the rules of course, as we all do with this game. You can't wish for more wishes. Well... actually, that is their one rule. I would usually throw some more provisos into this mental challenge, but today we play by their rules.
She wishes for total and complete happiness for the rest of her life.
Hmmmm... Sounds good in theory. "Total and complete" sounds a bit too locked in for me though. In a continuum of happiness "total and complete" would need to be at the far right of the scale.
You would need to live out your life always 100% happy.
No challenges to overcome, no chance to lose any game you play, no room for fear or sadness at all.
No chance to think about the sad things or challenges from your past that have helped you to become the person you are today. A lobotomy might be a better option.
I'm not saying that we need to thrive on angst, but "total" happiness leaves no room for anything else.
To make matters worse the "for the rest of my life" line leaves the way open for a "monkey's paw" style twist where she waves goodbye to her boyfriend before being killed instantly by a train coming in the other direction.
He wishes for a wallet that spawns money every time he opens it. Pffffftttt... amateur.
What if the economy crashes and money becomes useless?
What if he develops a terminal disease that money can't cure. What if he is mugged?
What if he goes to a bar and drinks himself to oblivion with his ill gotten gains and wakes up to the realisation that he has lost his wallet?
Amateur.
She wishes for world peace... Christian America rises up, expands its empire and crushes all other countries, ideologies and religions under its boot heels. There is world peace because there is no conflict, there is no conflict because there is longer any choice.
He wishes for a never ending keg. Face... Palm.
She wishes for immortality and then gives the proviso that she doesn't want that "vampire" style immortality where you can still be killed... she wants to literally live forever.
How can that possibly go wrong. Watching your loved ones whither and die as you never age. Never evolving beyond the human you are now while the rest of humanity moves to utter destruction or a higher state of being. Floating in a universe of entropic decay, alone... with no chance for release.
He wishes the train trip home didn't take so long.
Maybe small wishes are safer than big ones. Small changes to the fabric of reality rather than a massive shift in what can often be a precarious balance.
I wish...
Notes From a Train.
Argument on a train.
"Go back to your own country" he yells.
"I was born in Ballarat" she quietly responds.
"No... you are Asian" he yells... slurring and spitting more than just vile words.
"My parents are from Japan but I was born here" she answers... her face starts to go red.
"Asian bitch" he spits.
I move my bag and give her a quick wave.
She wanders over and sits down, obviously uncomfortable.
"Are you alright" I ask.
"I am" she says looking straight ahead.
I want to apologise.
I want to make it better for her.
All I can do is give her a place to sit clear of the poison.
She seems to relax in the seat and so I glance sideways at her.
She smiles... just a bit.
He leaves at the next stop.
"Thank you" she says.
"I didn't want to get you in trouble" she says.
"He would have just gone after you" she says.
"I'm from New Zealand. No one ever tells me to go back to my country" I say with a smile.
We both laugh.
Five minutes of my journey have passed and I have seen the best and worst of humanity.
Moral of the story. Don't be a racist piece of crap. You don't have to like everyone in the world but think of a better reason to dislike them beyond the colour of their skin or their country of origin.
Notes From a Train.
It is nearly a week since my Mum died.
She went to sleep with a puzzle in one hand and a pencil in the other and never woke up. Her brain was firing right till the end.
She was at home, surrounded by her things not in a hospital surrounded by machines that go 'ping'.
My Mum fought ill health for many years. She was consistently failed by doctors, who misdiagnosed her Parkinson's disease and instead put her through invasive surgeries and filled her body with drugs that she didn't need.
It wasn't until late in her life that a small group of health professionals finally got it right, began to help not hinder.
If anyone had reason to complain, it was my Mum and don't get me wrong, she had her grumpy days, but she just got on with her life... every time she got knocked down she got back up again.
She never allocated blame, she didn't scour her records to see who she should sue... she just accepted that a lot of mistakes were made and that it was too late to right those wrongs.
She tried not to waste the precious time she had left and always said to me that even though she sometimes struggled to 'think positively' she always did her best to not 'think negatively'.
My dad fought alongside her every day. He punched with her and was sometimes a punching bag for her. He literally saved her life to allow her to be with us for a few extra months... time that I know she cherished and so did I.
My mum helped and respected her fellow humans. She looked for the best in people and brought out the best in people.
She cheered for her family and friends at a million games of bowls and hockey.
She supported us all through births, deaths, marriages and breakups.
She cheered as we took different paths through life, because they were our paths not her's.
She always offered advice but rarely offered opinions.
She was, simply put, a good human being.
I miss her, but I will never miss the impact both of my parents have had on my life.
Life goes on and though I will continue to march to the beat of a different drummer, I will always remember that it was Mum that helped to set the tempo.
Notes From a Train.
Questions and experiments... some rhetorical, some already have answers.
If I had a box with an interior lined with perfect mirrors and I opened it in the sun and then closed it, took it to a dark room and opened it...would I see a flash of light, however fleeting?
If I created a set of periscope style glasses that redirected each eye ninety degrees sideways, would my brain be able to process the view in some meaningful way... or would I end up drooling into my breakfast?
What kind of fool or sadistic bastard named a speech impediment that has people struggling with S's a 'lisp'?
If Pluto is a dog, then what the hell is Goofy?
What is a group of zombies called... a shamble?
Some scientists are trying to work out whether our existence is actually just a simulation running in the computers of an advanced civilisation... is this any more or less likely than a universe created by an omnipotent being or pure chance and chaos?
Why is abbreviation such a long word?
Is the fact that we have never seen a time traveller proof that time travel is impossible or proof that our future selves are smart enough not to mess with the universe or clever enough to do it without us knowing?
How do so many people manage to get famous for being famous?
Why is it fine to lie to our children about supernatural beings who take teeth, leave eggs, break into our houses while we sleep and break into our minds to manipulate our dreams while we sleep?
Why is it fine for a man to parade around with his nipples to the wind, but if a woman shows her nipples it brings the wrath of god?
Where do the flies go in winter?
For your consideration... choose at least one and give it a few moments thought.
Notes From a Train.
The six forty train.
The most civilised on the North Line. The peak hour crowds have already sprinted to catch earlier trains.
They've crammed themselves into the carriage like well dressed sardines.
Out of breath, they either stand precariously balanced trying to counter the unpredictable sway of the train or they sit side by side on seats made for one and a half humans.
Those sitting usually have some sort of pelvis or buttock in close proximity to their face and I've seen many a screwed up nose and despairing look.
The next train is not as full, however it is filled with angst. Angst at missing the earlier train. Angst at having to stay for an extra ten minutes at work... long enough to end up on the angst train.
Angst at having to run for the train, lungs heaving... sweat stains growing.
Travellers on the angst train have their joy of homeward direction tainted by the miasma that spreads throughout the carriage.
There are probably two more trains before the true sweet spot of North Line travel, the six forty. Relaxed people in no great hurry. Plenty of room to spread out.
A happy security guard who knows that this is the high point of his day.
No kids.
Well dressed, and behaved, professionals quietly reading or tapping on technology.
People smile at each other, no one actually chats, but there is acknowledgement of our fellow humans without fear of offence.
Hell, the train even goes express for half my trip. The six forty... the sweet spot.
Eight o'clock onwards the North Line becomes a different beast... but that is a story for another night.
Notes From a Train.
A is for "apathetic teenager" who is burning more energy that a marathon runner trying to look as apathetic as possible.
B is for "bike" precariously balanced on an outstretched kickstand. The owner leans forward every time it wobbles.
C is for "chef" who digs in his nose without any sort of embarrassment. His checkered outfit smeared with random bits of animal.
D is for "dumbarse" who is advertising the fact to the whole train by talking loudly about how climate change won't really be a problem until after he is dead so "why should I give a stuff?".
E is for "even bigger dumbarse" who thinks that his mate should be worried because "the surface of the earth will be as hot as the sun in ten years".
F is for "fine" being given to the idiot who has been caught three nights running without a ticket.
G is for "Grandma" who smiles at anyone who makes eye contact... while knitting at one jumper an hour. Her knitting needles make the stereotypical "click clack" that cartoon trains make.
H is for "hieroglyphics". One of the more impressive tattoos I've seen on the North Line. Not sure what it says, but it sure is saying it in style.
I is for "icicle"... coming from the eyes of a teenage girl who has just been told something by her boyfriend. Also for "ignoramus" which is what he now feels like.
To be continued...
Notes From a Train.
Friends are the best people.
Closely followed by cats.
The end.
Notes From a Train.
J is for "jock". Tracksuit pants, white sneakers, disapproving look as his eyes roam across to the kid eating a particularly nasty looking burger.
K is for "kangaroo", carried by a happy looking tourist. Dacron filled, glass eyes... the kangaroo, not the tourist. Her host has just begun to explain how to avoid the dreaded drop bear.
L is for "love". Of the five couples in the carriage I am only fairly confident that two are in love.
I can only judge this through careful observation of body language as I can't see their true hearts so I will claim only a seventy percent possibility of being one hundred percent correct.
M is for "mostly harmless"... the classification of most of my fellow travellers.
N is for "nautical", the style of music that is being jauntily whistled by the old man sitting two seats down. He has all limbs and nary a patch in sight so I am going to presume that he has never gone toe to tentacle with a kraken.
If I close my eyes though, the sway of the train becomes the sway of a very different vehicle.
O is for "ouch", said by a small child as he falls forward and bops his oversized head on the back of my seat. A strange word when you think about it... maybe onomatopoeic, maybe not.
P is for "pedantic", the nature of the ticket inspector who is grilling one of my fellow passengers. She is answering a million question because she has forgotten her student card. If she is an adult who is wearing the school uniform just to get cheaper bus tickets, I say reward her miserly efforts.
... to be continued.
Notes From a Train.
Q is for "quantum entanglement". I'm looking forward to seeing my entangled particle when I get home.
R is for "redundant". The only description I can give to the handle that hangs down directly over the ticket machine.
S is for "Scotsmen", three seats down and speaking in an accent that only they are fully understanding. Loud and proud, they converse as if the tide of battle will turn on their discussion. I understand the word "fook" and "bastid" but the rest of the conversation is just a blur... a beautiful poetic blur.
T is for "triumphant". A businessman is obviously happy with the outcome of whatever he has just done on his tablet. A hostile takeover? Only if it is birds vs pigs... I recognise that music anywhere.
U is for "untidy", the way my brain feels at the moment. Over the last year a lot of stuff has been left out and it feels good to slowly put some things away.
V is for "variation". The variation of people on the train ranges between three percent and ninety eight percent. The average is brought down by the gaggle of clones who look like they may have just stepped off the set of Jersey Shore and is thankfully raised by the awesome lady down the back who has somehow managed to carve her own niche somewhere between Goth, rockabilly and bikie.
W is for "warning", issued in a stern voice by a grumpy conductor.
X is for "xylophone"... I wish that there was a xylophone player on the train, but alas the universe decides to keep crazy coincidence for another time.
Y is for "yawn", that just travelled from one end of the carriage to the other via a mechanism that scientists still don't fully understand.
Z is for "Zaphod Beeblebrox", second only to "Slartibartfast" in the "best names in literature" awards. Coincidentally both in the same series of books and happily being read by a smirking teen who is discovering the humour of one of my favourite authors.
Notes From a Train.
It's all in a title...
Ode to Zombies.
Swaying, grunting, gnashing jaws.
They push against the metal doors.
Putrefaction fills the air with stench.
I long for the heft of a trusty wrench.
Their blood red eyes look through my soul.
My very brain their likely goal.
They shamble at me, shadows long.
I hold my ground, I will be strong.
The coffin rocks from side to side.
I know my fate once they're inside.
Trapped for some time or for forever.
I will survive if I am clever.
I slowly move toward the door
And as they part I try to soar.
I roll and stop below a sign
And realise that my life is mine.
I watch to see them whisked away, And live to see another day.
Ode to Public Transport.
Swaying, grunting, gnashing jaws.
They push against the metal doors.
Putrefaction fills the air with stench.
I long for the heft of a trusty wrench.
Their blood red eyes look through my soul.
My very brain their likely goal.
They shamble at me, shadows long.
I hold my ground, I will be strong.
The coffin rocks from side to side.
I know my fate once they're inside.
Trapped for some time or for forever.
I will survive if I am clever.
I slowly move toward the door
And as they part I try to soar.
I roll and stop below a sign
And realise that my life is mine.
I watch to see them whisked away, And live to see another day.
Notes From a Train.
The Melbourne Cup drunk train.
I remember this from last year.
Facinators askew, laddered stockings, loosened ties and red cheeks.
Class without class. Fashion without fashion.
A lady hobbles by with one stilletoed leg about four inches shorter than the other.
She brays like a donkey as the train takes a corner and she falls onto a, thankfully, empty seat.
Her friend apologises to all of us in a slurred voice.
The conductor asks them which stop they'll be getting off, cleverly mixing concern for them, and for himself.
I very much doubt he wants them to miss their stop and end up crying in a corner for plans brought undone by alcohol fuelled stupidity.
When they tell him they are going all the way to the end of the line a single eyebrow raises about a centimeter and his right eyelid flickers for a second.
The second woman now looks a little green and I severely doubt that she will make it home with her lunch intact.
A businessman who probably had the same liquid lunch openly leers at her and when she looks back there is a momentary flash of flirtation before his eyes drop in an attempt to focus on her ample cleavage.
She acts offended while still managing to bat her eyelashes at him and then turns to her friend, who is now softly snoring.
The businessman looks for new prey and the conductor walks away with a roll of his eyes.
The Melbourne Cup... class without class, fashion without fashion... at least on the North Line.
Notes From a Train.
A hypothetical...
Tomorrow, a scientist looking for a cure for Alzhiemers instead happens upon a way to stop aging. After a decade her colleagues have used her original research to stamp out all diseases related to aging including almost every form of cancer.
Humans can now technically live forever and a new stage of civilisation begins.
Mortality is now based on accidental death, murders, suicide and starvation. Many countries see very little change in their mortality rates and in fact see a disturbing rise due to a lack of resources.
The rich get richer. The poor get poorer.
You can see where this is going...
There would need to be a serious shift in the way our world works as the earth slowly fills with humans and the infrastructure to keep us happy.
Food, water, land...fossil fuels... all would dry up if consumed the way we do now.
Our fellow creatures become secondary as their habitats are destroyed in the search for land and resources.
As people live beyond one hundred years old we see the race that was once for longevity of individuals become the race to ensure the longevity of the human species.
Is there a way out of the downward spiral that our nearly immortal species finds itself?
Escape the planet... not likely in the short term.
Use the available resources more carefully... a possibility, but once again not as likely as I hope.
Cut down on population growth...it would never be enough when such a small percentage of old humans make way for the new.
Dwindling supplies for a growing population. An equation that leads to one conclusion.
A hypothetical... the average age of a human lifts by ten years and population growth continues at the rate it already is. This is not science fiction, it is reality. A reality that will soon lead to the same unwinnable battle.
We need a whole new paradigm, we need to change a million little things because there is no one big thing that will save us.
It is possible that we can find a balance.
It is possible that we will start to look beyond our own lifetime.
It will take a shift in attitude from all of us.
Most of all though is the need to remove our collective craniums from our collective rectums and at least acknowledge that we are all in trouble.
We are all in this together... unless someone has perfected a warp drive in the time it has taken me to write this.
Good luck!
Notes From a Train.
A new year on the North Line begins with an old train that is struggling to simultaneously sustain both momentum and air conditioning.
Every stop we reach gives us a few seconds of fresh air, and I thank the locomotive gods that I chose a seat near the door.
It isn't really that hot outside, but the carriage is full of tepid, stale air that feels like it may have been trapped since last year, the smell of the joy at a Christmas release not yet overtaken by the tangy angst of a return to work.
No one seems particularly bothered, though, as the train finally builds up a head of steam (I hope you will excuse the romantic turn of phrase that transforms the stench of diesel into white, billowing water).
I nod and smile at a couple of familiar faces. No one needs to talk as they take stock of who has returned for the nightly ritual that delivers us to our loved ones. Acknowledgement comes in slight head movements and subtle signs of recognition.
I peer through to the next carriage and lock eyes with a lady who is wearing some plush reindeer antlers as a headband.
She is either late to the party, or is trying desperately to hold on to joy just past. She smiles broadly and as I smile back I realise that she is smiling at her own reflection framed in the windows between carriages.
Today it is good to be her.
It's not a bad day to be any of us.
A few years ago I went through a difficult but rewarding period in my life.
I was working hard, battling through ill health and family tragedy and most importantly travelling on the train almost every day.
I struggled on public transport, often exhausted and just wanting to be home, I struggled to read, I struggled to play games, I needed a release.
So I decided to write...to process the day.
Each day I got on the train in the evening, I would start writing into Facebook on my phone. At the end on each journey i would post what I had. No editing, warts and all.
It got me through a tough time and eventually I made peace with my train trip and found other ways to survive the journey.
I would love to say that this was all big ideas and important thoughts.
I would love to say that the spelling and grammar was perfect.
I wish that some of this wasn't as potentially offensive as it is.
I would love to say that there isn't an inordinate amount of writing about flatulence but all of that would be a lie.
You wont like all of it. You won't agree with all of it. You may laugh. You may cry. You will find a cynical but hopeful voice that even at its most bitter is still looking for the light to balance the darkness.
So here it is.
A collection of notes from a train.
Notes From a Train.
A man and his daughter. He is drunk and she supports him to his seat. He mutters abuse at anyone in range and she tries her best to apologize to each person as they pass. He could be anywhere between 30 and 50. She could be anywhere from 12 to 16. An old lady briefly holds out her hand as they pass and the young girl smiles at her and gives a furtive wave.
The conductor knows they haven't validated a ticket, but he just stays back and watches with a sad frown.
"Stand clear, doors closing" The journey home begins.
I open my book and drop down into a different world.
Notes From a Train.
Hat backwards, sunglasses on. He talks loudly to his posse of one in a loud commanding voice. Every time I think it is English they are speaking, their voices morph into some other language...hiphoplish maybe? They plan their week which apparently consists of dirty gardening tools and female canines.
His friend gets off, a minute passes and then he reaches into his expensive looking backpack and pulls out a dogeared book. A book by my favorite author... Hard science fiction, big ideas.
Connections... where you least expect it.
Still, I will always wear my cap with the peak facing forward... it shades your eyes that way don'tcha know.
Notes From a Train.
Small and angry. FEET OFF SEATS. Red and sweaty. TURN DOWN THE MUSIC. Torch, keys and whistle. VALIDATE YOUR TICKETS. Badly scuffed kicker boots. VALIDATE MY EXISTENCE!
The crowd watches, some with admiration, some with disdain.
In another time he might have been a respected sergeant leading men into battle.
In this time he leads an angry teenager to the door and saves us all from dubstep and body odour.
Small and angry man I salute you... just this once.
Notes From a Train.
The train hurtles down the track. It cuts through the air and leaves turbulence in its wake.
Imagine yourself as a tiny creature when suddenly your world is torn apart by a force beyond comprehension.
You tumble through the stench of diesel and the clatter of steel on steel.
It all passes and you continue on your way, eating, breeding... a survivor.
Snap back now... back to our scale and then think. How would you react. Do you stop and try to rebuild your life or do you just travel on the same path you were on and leave it behind? Do you question or do you accept?
Notes From a Train.
How many tracks must a man ride down before you can call him a man. On the North line I would answer "Just once...twice maybe if you were a particularly innocent soul".
It is hard to block out the lessons of life heard over the grind of the steel wheels. You can't get preggas the first time you have sex. Ex boyfriends are all scum. Ex girlfriends are all sluts. Smacking your kid is the only way they'll get the point of your petty demands... Justin Beiber is soooo talented.
The lesson for today however is that "Elmo could definitely beat up The Cookie Monster because Elmo is skinny and fast and The Cookie Monster is a fatty because of all of the cookies and would get tired and fall down." Damned hard logic to argue with...especially when delivered with the passion only pigtails and a Big Bird shirt can endower. Have a good weekend. Learn something new...and then fact check it.
Notes From a Train. (Morning train...standing room only)
We are made of star stuff, but we are shaped by split seconds and small decisions.
Around me are people who have reached this point in time and space because of their actions, the actions of others and the impact of the universe around them.
Whether you believe in fate, physics or a spiritual force, you must surely also believe in your ability to change your situation and the situation of others…if not why even go on?
Blaming our woes on a malevolent force or bad luck discounts all of those tiny moments and decisions that led us to where we are and attributing good luck and a benevolent force to your triumphs seems, to me, to discount our own role in our lives.
So I look around me and I try to imagine how my fellow passengers have reached this point in time and space and I realise that if it was that easy to trace someone’s journey our lives would be a lot simpler than I would want them to be. The universe is a complex place and looking for easy answers is a recipe for madness.
Split seconds and small decisions…a lot of them…that is what we are made of.
Notes From a Train.
One hyena braying into her phone. Two old vultures feeding off her pain.
A tiny church mouse frightened out of her wits, her schoolbag held in front of her like a shield.
Two lions that are house cats inside, each mane no more than a popped collar.
A snake peers left and right, eyes flowing over phones and handbags, fingers twitching into claws.
A shark in orange floats past and the snake finds something more interesting through the scratched window.
The hyena brays again and the menagerie looks toward her for no more than a second before returning to their own lives.
The cage moves onward only stopping to release us into an unsuspecting world.
Notes From a Train.
The guy two seats down from me was abducted by aliens... I know because he is telling the lady next to him, who looks like she is hoping to be abducted by aliens... as soon as possible.
I look around the train and do some calculations. By my reckoning ninety percent of my fellow passengers would be a better abductee if aliens really wanted some truly valuable data. I mean, yes, our hero is quite a few steps up from an unfortunate bovine but compared to the university professor sitting three seats down, or the nurse sitting across the aisle, surely he is a less interesting specimen.
What is the criteria that these aliens are using to choose their research subjects? More importantly what the hell are they finding out that they can't find in a book, or Google? Why would they come light years just to slice up cattle and probe the backsides of the general public?
Yes, I believe. There surely can't be any chance the we are the only beings in a vast universe. However I don't believe that my fellow traveler was abducted by anything more than a bottle, drugs or a traumatic event.
In a flash of light the terrified lady disappears. As the train pulls away from the station I see her walking quickly away... not looking back.
I really hope that in my lifetime we do meet some extraterrestrial beings, but in the words of a wise man "The best proof that intelligent life is out there is the fact that they haven't contacted us".
Notes From a Train.
Hurtling through space and time in a massive chunk of metal. Screeching, whining, sparks and flashing lights. Travelling on a train must be only second to travelling on a plane in terms of violence.
This trip and every other is a gamble based on stopping distances and luck. We are told to slow down on the roads and to keep minimum safe distances between us and the car in front but
I've done the calculations and there is no way this train would stop on a dime if the worst was to happen. Screeching, whining, tearing metal, broken bodies.
So we gamble... slightly but significantly.
My stop... lucky seven, not snake eyes.
Notes From a Train.
The Friday train…or as I like to call it “The Party Train”.
No, there is no all you can eat buffet. The passengers are not drunk (well no higher percentage than normally are). There is no dancing…except for the lady down the end who is obviously dancing to the music in her head.
In fact, there is no real difference at all, just a slightly lighter atmosphere and a few more smiles than usual.
It is Friday and that is the difference. People are going home to a weekend and leaving the city behind. They are going home to less stress, less responsibility and more fun. A gross generalisation I know. The guy next to me has set up a small office on top of a briefcase precariously balanced on his knees…he has a weekend of stress ahead of him, I can see the signs. A nurse two seats down is probably still up for a shift or two across the weekend.
On the whole though, they are a relieved bunch. Relieved that the weekday part of the week is done, they sit up a little straighter and laugh a little easier. They need a little less personal space as they stow some mental baggage from the week just passed.
In every week there is a point that the work ends…or at least slows down.
In every week there is a light at the end of the tunnel…it’s The Party Train.
Notes From a Train.
Personal space, how much do you need? I need a bubble that has elbow room, and enough room to scratch my bum if I need to.
I need to have my own air.
I need to be able to slouch.
So apparently the elderly gentleman who just sat next to me needs a whole lot less than that. I'm kind of worried that at some stage during the journey he will need to scratch his butt and will instead scratch mine.
He seems like a nice old chap and I'm sure that he is a hit with the ladies with his sar' major mustache and shiny shoes, but their withered olfactory systems probably don't detect the odor of burnt cabbage and wet dog that has now invaded my personal space bubble.
I need to ask him why he sat next to me instead of the five empty seats within three metres of where we now sit, but he really looks like he wants to talk...about elderly gentleman stuff...about winning wars and the problems with today's youth. It may be an excellent conversation full of revelations and wit...but I'm not willing to take the risk.
Dammit... my butt is itchy but I dare not scratch it.
Notes From a Train.
Why are we here?
No, not on the train...think bigger...why do we exist.
Are we just playthings of the gods? Are we just random amalgamations of star stuff?
Do we have self will or are we just following a predetermined path...are we a car or are we a train?
The train is the easy way through life. We hop on board and the train follows its predetermined path stopping along the way before depositing us at our destination. With very little variation comes very few options. Steel on steel, wheels on tracks.
Predetermined, safe...easy. Someone else controls our destiny, but we have a fair idea of our journey...and our destination.
Now hop in a car. The ending of the journey is still pretty sure, but there are a lot more twists and turns along the way. You can stop, and you can even take a different path home if you want to. You are the driver. You have more control.
Of course you need to contend with idiot drivers, traffic jams, flat tires and petrol prices.
More control...not so easy.
Now start walking. Take your time. Dawdle. Smell the roses. You get to your destination...eventually.
It may take a long time but is that necessarily a bad thing. You'll be tired and hungry but you will have seen more of your journey at a pace that allows you to comprehend it.
Sometimes I wish I had more time to dawdle.
Notes From a Train.
Is there any greater crime against humanity than flatulence in an enclosed space?
In a train that already smells like wet jackets and broken dreams, a high school aged child is "surreptitiously" trying to hide his crime with a simple butt roll.
The fact that each time he lifts one buttcheek a hideous smell one step off a sentient being seeps throughout the carriage. It is enough for anyone in close proximity to know that he is the epicenter...and yet he wears a mask of innocence reserved for young children and puppies.
Buttroll...stench...
The lady right next to him is doing a perfect impression of Samantha from Bewitched. Her nose twitches back and forth, but unfortunately, as this is the real world, her wicken powers are not enough to slay the demon.
Buttroll...stench...
A young girl stands up and casually moves to the other end of the carriage. Eyes watch her as if she is a prisoner pardoned by the governor...walking from the gas chamber with another chance at life.
Buttroll...stench...
A lady reaches into her purse and removes some perfume. It looks expensive, but that doesn't stop her from spraying it like a damned soul with a fire extinguisher.
Buttroll...stench...
A small child innocently turns to her mother and in an earnest and sincere voice says "That stinky fluff smell isn't me you know mum".
The mother looks her in the eye and responds with "I know love, it's smellier than anything that has ever come from your bottom".
Her statement is punctuated by the nearly audible snap of a pair of butt cheeks clenching together.
The honesty of a child and the casual cynicism of her mother have saved us all.
I'm tempted to stay on past my stop to see if young mister miasma manages to get off the train before his bowel explodes.
The fresh air calls to me though and so I prepare to leave.
For a split second I entertain the thought of leaving a parting gift as I squeeze past him...I just can't do it though...too much collateral damage to people who have suffered with me.
Flatulent friendly fire...
Notes From a Train.
Ten people in my carriage. Ten people with ten different stories.
How much can we tell about them if all we have is outward appearance?
Just a few tantalising clues into their inner selves. Not an easy task, despite the many incarnations of Sherlock telling us how easy it is to use logic to unwrap illogical beings.
Sure... there are some "No shit Sherlock" cases.
The teenager who thinks the he is the next Eminem is as transparent as a pane of glass. His hoody pulled up and muffled music creeping from his headphones is a shield thrown up against the world.
A grumpy elderly lady who is obviously not a regular train passenger sits in the middle of a two person seat... even though the train is nearly empty she makes sure that no one will sit next to her. She hugs her handbag to her chest and glares at anyone who makes eye contact. The battle she had with the ticket validating machine showed that she was not a seasoned traveller.
So two people down, but from there it gets tough.
There's an old guy with a perfectly cut suit and shoes that are split and worn. A crow feather sticks out of his rakishly angled fedora.
A young woman dressed like a 50's pinup swipes up and down on an iPad while she listens to music on an iPod... I can hear enough to know that she is listening to death metal, not rockabilly.
A guy wearing a Spiderman shirt and carrying a Star Trek backpack talks loudly to his friend who looks like a confused but angry ferret. They are debating football results... as if the future of the world balances on the outcome of their argument.
Paradoxes everywhere... Mysteries wrapped in enigmas. Sherlock may be able to figure them out, but I like the mystery.
Better to keep some mystery than have a good story ruined by the truth.
Notes From a Train.
There is a man two seats down who is ranting.
He has quite a head of steam up and seems to have a captive audience of three or four avid followers.
There are small pools of foam building up at the corners of his mouth and he is starting to go an alarming shade of purple.
His main theory is that "learning is a waste of time and it would be better if humans just went through life picking up what they can, rather than actively seeking out knowledge".
I'd love to tell you that I am cynically paraphrasing his actual thoughts but I'm sorry to say that I'm not. I have however given his argument a slightly more eloquent feel... just to save space.
Schools are useless, he rants...
I learnt everything I need to know from my parents, he rants. Why would people want to gain knowledge that isn't actually practical, he rants.
Actually I am paraphrasing now because he is really saying things like...
"My son doesn't need to hear shit from someone else. He just needs to listen to me"
and...
"Why would I need to know science... how will that help me?"
The fact that he even thinks you can "know science" just makes me sad.
That he thinks that knowledge can't enrich your life without having an immediate practical outcome makes me sadder. The fact that he wants to pass his uninformed and apathetic views on the world to another generation makes me furious.
RANT
Politics... "Why do I care, I'll be voting liberal because my father did... if it was good enough for him it's good enough for me".
RANT
Religion... "Everything I need to know is in the bible. These new churches need to just teach that. God doesn't have time for their shitty new ideas."
RANT
Science... "Global warming is crap. I'm cold that's all I need to know".
RANT... FRICKEN... RANT
He doesn't stop... he isn't even slowing down. He now looks like he has rabies and there is a vein pulsing on the side of his head that looks like it is about to pop.
His willing crowd no longer looks so willing but as my stop approaches I feel my spirits rise.
Times like this make me sad, and sometimes, angry. I often fear that the world is full of people like Mr Rantypants but then I think of my friends and family and realise that there is still hope for the world.
Do me a favour and learn something new this weekend.
Seek knowledge.
Try something new.
Fight the uninformed apathy.
Notes From a Train.
I wonder how many people on this train have secrets?
Real secrets... deal breakers, not just stuff that can be explained away over coffee and Tim Tams.
How many of my fellow travelers are having affairs, how many are hiding drug habits, thieves, conmen... are there any killers among us?
A quick look down the carriage throws up a multitude of possibilities.
Some people look like they might get a tick in more than one column.
Some of my train buddies look like you would have to start an excel spreadsheet to keep track of their transgressions.
One guy is screaming at his kids, who are screaming at everything. A lady is talking loudly to her friend... she is talking about fashion and the fashionless and apparently thinks it's fine to use a poorly dressed lady three seats down as an example.
The poor woman sits in stony silence.
Two teenage boys talk loudly about their sexual conquests, guaranteed lies but still delivered with the confidence of someone with little respect for their fellow humans.
But it probably isn't even the obvious ones who have the most to hide.
How many times have we heard "It's always the quiet ones" or "He seemed so normal".
I look again and I can see some "quiet" folks. Some look sad, some look angry, some look worried... some look like me.
There are quite a few of us sprinkled throughout the carriage. The meek with one big secret... we really want to inherit the earth... BY KILLING ALL OF THESE LOUD BASTARDS!
Ahem...
Have a great night.
Be one of the quiet ones.
Notes From a Train.
Ships passing in the night.
We drop in and out of each others' lives and never connect.
We are strangers on a train and even though I see some of you more often than I see my friends and family, it is the context in which we meet that leaves a gulf between us.
Sometimes there might be a quick nod of the head or an “excuse me” as you make your way to a seat, but on the whole we are a series of individuals grouped within the steel skin of our transport.
The train isn’t the only place that this happens.
Groups of disparate people brought together by a single, sometimes tenuous link.
Maybe it is a sporting team that binds the group together…or a car club…or a group of high school friends who still catch up in monthly mini reunions…maybe it is a Christian youth group.
Different backgrounds, different pathways entwined sporadically.
People brought together with a single goal, sometimes major, sometimes minor. At the end of their time together, they go their separate ways and often don’t meet again until the next time they actually need to.
Sometimes the link is so tenuous that it isn't strong enough to transcend the boundaries between the individuals within the greater whole.
Sometimes the group explodes, sometimes it implodes... sometimes it just slowly dissipates like early morning fog.
Sometimes the link is as strong as tempered steel and binds us together, filling the voids between us with purpose. Driving us to call on each other to strengthen our resolve.
But as I look around I know that the only thing that binds us is the desire to go from A to B and the vehicle that facilitates our goal.
I'm sure that, given a different context, we might possibly be friends. Maybe that is what a nod of the head, a smile and an "excuse me" leads to... I doubt it though.
The train is the only thing that binds us all together and the gaps between us are not filled with enough purpose.
Ships passing in the night... on a train.
Excuse the mixed metaphor.
Notes From a Train.
A lady is loudly proclaiming that she is OFFENDED.
Her strident cries and flinty voice echo through the train and she now has an audience of interested but confused fellow travelers.
She seems really upset about something but I recognise RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION when I see it.
The truly upset person in this situation is the teenage boy who is sitting across from her.
He is her target and he looks like he would rather be anywhere else in space and time than where he is now.
He wants to move... I can tell. His eyes dart everywhere she isn't. He is gripping his backpack tightly to his chest. As far as shields go it is flimsy and already her eyes are burning a hole through to the reason for her anger.
The conductor tries to break her gaze but she continues to make her complaint while stoically refusing to actually register his presence.
"Offensive" she cries.
"He shouldn't be allowed to wear that in public" she bellows.
"Make him get off at the next station, he shouldn't be allowed on the train wearing offensive clothing" she rants.
The poor kid looks physically sick... David vs a Goliath made up of equal parts rage, contempt and privilege.
The kid looks at the conductor with fear in his eyes and the conductor gives him a wink. "What is the problem madam?" He asks in a calm voice.
"That!" she says while pointing a bejewelled finger at the poor kid's chest. In the back of my mind I hear the combined voices of the Monty Python crew cry out "The salmon mousse".
The conductor waves his hand in a downward motion that Obi Wan would be proud of. The kid slowly drops his backpack and the combined psyche of the train waits with bated breath as we are going to see the abomination that has so offended HER.
Tendons creak as necks crane and we finally see...
A Mambo shirt... the silhouette of a dog with a musical note coming from its backside. She is still pointing and the kid looks mortified... they both slowly look toward the conductor.
He looks into the eyes of the frightened kid and then turns toward his accuser.
Her arm drops and a smug look replaces her rage.
The conductor leans over and calmly says "Are you kidding me lady... if you are so offended maybe you better get off at the next stop, because this guy is going nowhere".
Smug turns to astonishment and SHE opens her mouth to say something. Before she can though a lady across from her starts to clap... I'd love to lie and say that this starts a wave of good feeling and applause that spreads throughout the carriage but really all that happens are a few good natured laughs and a relieved look from the kid.
A young girl stands up and wanders over. "Swap, seats" she says to the kid. He smiles, embarrassed but thankful and stands up.
The conductor gives her a wink and the tension almost immediately dissipates.
If looks could kill he would drop dead as soon as he turns around, but looks can't so he survives the walk to the other end of carriage.
As I leave I slip the conductor my business card. I let him know that if he gets any complaints to give me a call and I'll back him. He laughs, but put the card into his pocket anyway.
The universe balances, good claws back some ground on evil and a train conductor becomes a hero in the eyes of a frightened teenage boy.
Notes From a Train.
Sit back and really think about the universe for a minute...
Go on, have a really good think... maybe make it longer than a minute.
Are you back?
Let's try and define the universe we live in.
1. It is big. Really big. Bigger than we will ever be able to truly comprehend. The old adage "bigger than a bread box, smaller than a horse" isn't really much help here.
2. It's bloody old. Not just incontinence pads old, not just "I fought in two world wars so you can drive a Australian made car!" old.
Really, honestly just fricken OLD.
3. It's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma and then inserted in the bum of a really confusing riddle.
4. It is amazingly well balanced considering how many variables need to flow together for it to exist at all.
5. The space between things is far bigger than the things themselves. There's a lot of stuff surrounded by a lot of nonstuff.
6. No one will ever truly know how it started. Whether there was a big bang, a word from a deity or a shift in dimensions... it will be pretty hard to nail down.
7. The universe is built on chaos, chance and mutation. There may be a plan, but it is so complicated that we probably shouldn't even try to understand it... kinda like a flatworm trying to do calculus... entertaining, but ultimately not very useful.
8. The universe is not evil.
9. The universe is not good.
10. Every time someone watches "The Sound of Music" the universe sacrifices a kitten.
The universe is worth more than a minute of thought a day. Just think though... No need to try too hard to understand it.
...and don't watch The Sound of Music...the universe needs kittens.
Notes From a Train. Ep 4000.
The train cuts through the wasteland, the cracked lunar panels generating just enough power for locomotion but not for conditioning the foul air within the cabin.
I adjust my mask and take a sip from my backpack. I really don't care what the studies say, it still tastes like urine.
The fact that the local Macromart was down to second hand filters probably doesn't help.
The lights flicker, twenty heads lift and fear fills the carriage. I've only been in a stopped Sliptrain once and it was only stopped for five minutes while the driver called in backup to clear a flaming barrier from the tracks.
Longest five minutes of my life. Every shadow outside the windows was death and every click or creak stopped my heart. I still fear the dark and have spent every trip since in a cold sweat.
The lights kick back in and I notice that the lady across from me now has a very old and dangerous looking weapon on her lap.
As I look from the gun to her eyes she smiles and winks.
I smile back and she says "Say hello to my little friend".
"Hello" I say with a wave and a smile and she laughs.
With a deft flick of her skinny wrist she Houdinis the gun just before the conductor arrives.
The Sliptrain conductor clicks past on insectile limbs and I look down to the filthy floor of the carriage hoping that it will just continue on its way.
A buzzing sound fills my head and my eyes defocus for a few seconds. Such a small symptom of such a great loss.
I realise with horror that the conductor has chosen me as the fare for this trip, every trip a lottery and this time I have lost.
It seems like the Sliptrain is requiring more and more fares for the chance to travel the wasteland in relative safety and I have lost far too often lately.
Another month of memories gone... I know they are gone, but I'm not yet sure what has been taken.
I know that I will see a holo some time in the future and will not be able remember the event its pale green light has recorded.
I'll meet someone, who will realise quickly that they will need to reintroduce themselves. We all know the signs, and all but the most cruel help their fellow humans through their embarrassment and sorrow.
I'll look at a painting on my wall and I won't remember the joy of creation.
One month... gone.
Sorrow, joy, fear and anger swept away in the buzz of an effector field.
I look up at the lady across from me. She smiles at me, but there is sorrow in her eyes.
"I remember your little friend" I whisper.
Some of the sorrow leaves her eyes and she winks.
The lights flicker again. I look up in fear.
I've never been on a stopped Sliptrain...a small positive in a sea of negatives. I can't imagine the fear of waiting in the dark while the denizens of the wasteland come for your soul.
I ready myself for my stop and as the Sliptrain reaches the safe zone it slows to a crawl. I leap for the Slipnet and manage to regain my feet after only two rolls.
Home.
Notes From a Train.
What is creativity?
I've made a lot of art in my time. I've sculpted, painted, animated, I've even done some writing.
I made stuff as a kid and I've continued to make stuff as an adult.
I even create art as a job.
So what is creativity?
Is it a refillable pool that never runs dry, or a finite resource that we drain throughout our years until one day we reach for an idea and find nothing but dust?
Or even worse, can the pool become tainted by our sometimes poisonous world... ideas never growing beyond conception, or being birthed as a mutated and twisted shadow of our initial intention?
I actually think it is probably all of the above and I think this may be the primary reason for the joyful but tortured lives many artists endure.
I have a pool of my own.
I drink from it often and even though the level seems to get low sometimes, it has never completely dried out.
Some days it seems as pure as newly melted snow and it fills my brain with original ideas ready to be vomited out into the world.
On other days there is a slight tang and an after taste that lets me know that I need to filter a little more carefully before committing time and effort to the concepts contained within.
Refilling my pool is as easy as drinking in the work of other creatives. Movies, video games, books, art forums... I'm at my most creative after spending time with some inspiration.
I think everyone has a pool.
Many people visit it often, some don't visit often enough... some don't even know it exists until they stumble on it later in life.
Try and take a dip every now and then... you might even surprise yourself.
Notes From a Train.
Time is a relative concept.
Just ask Einstein, or a kid who is sitting through the last hour of school before four weeks of holidays.
Each year seems to speed by faster than the year before (I have a theory that it is because my memory is getting worse and so I'm just remembering less about each year).
Time is not the constant we think it is.
My train journey usually takes about half an hour but that half an hour could be anything from an eye blink to an eternity.
If I sit and watch the trees fly past in the dark I'm in for a long trip.
If I occupy my brain time speeds up.
I used to try to read but I would usually get a page or so in before a singularity would form in the middle of my brain.
Every inane conversation within earshot would be instantly dragged into my head and eventually even the best of writing became a soap opera of cheating boyfriends, misinformed advice and testosterone fuelled bragging.
I tried napping, but my paranoid brain would wake me as soon as I even slightly dropped below full consciousness.
IT'S YOUR STOP.
No... it isn't...
SORRY, I THOUGHT IT WAS YOUR STOP.
Stop yelling, brain.
STOP TRYING TO SLEEP. I DON'T WANT TO WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE MISSING A KIDNEY.
Sigh... Ok, deal.
Listening to music helped to kill time but because I usually listen to music as background atmosphere while I do something else, I still felt like I wasn't doing anything at all.
The journey still dragged.
I played games on my phone but there are only so much grumpy avian pork hating I can take.
So, this is what triggered Notes From a Train. The need to make my trip less of a drag.
So now I start writing as the train leaves and I post as soon as I get home.
Probably a good amount of time to throw some ideas out there without overstaying my welcome.
My stop is coming up fast.
Coincidentally a group of other passengers just behind me have just started to discuss the grandfather paradox as a barrier to time travel.
Thanks universe... I'll take that as a sign.
(a sign that people still think and discuss mysteries without answers... Not a sign that I should head back in time for some grandpatricide)
Notes From a Train.
Back on the North Line after an extended period of car travel. Believe it or not, I've actually missed it.
The slight tang of urine in the air. The scream of a small ferrety child that isn't getting their own way.
The whining complaint of a weasely adult who isn't getting their own way.
The screeching of metal on metal as the thundering capsule of steel we are travelling in doesn't get its own way.
It is far less frustrating than the horde of other drivers out there who seem to be in a perpetual fog of disdain and rage.
These are the drivers that make me wish for the relative calm of my fellow train passengers.
The vulture, who waits for the slightest gap in traffic before swooping in.
The meercat, who pops half in and out of their lane checking for a chance to get one car ahead.
The eighteen wheeler who stalks the slow moving minnow ahead like a great white shark.
The caravan wandering along like a lost elephant... so lost that they rumble along in the fast lane, clueless of the conga line forming behind them.
The tortoise that slowly moves a full four seconds after the light has changed to green.
The farting bovine that trails a cloud of gas behind its lumbering carcass.
The hummingbird that flits between lanes, surging ahead and then falling behind... in my windscreen one second and then in my rear view mirror the next.
The canine that sits sniffing my butt with its nose, so close that I feel violated.
And of course my favourite, the greyhound who makes a dash up the inside lane hoping to beat the merging lane ahead.
The train... my half hour of sanity at the end of the day.
My chance to know that every other vehicle is going to show some respect...
GET OUT OF OUR WAY!
Notes From a Train.
A couple behind me is discussing that eternal question "If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?"
I missed the beginning of their conversation so I'm unsure of exactly where the three wishes have come from... perhaps the thankful genie released from a lamp, perhaps a beneficent deity, maybe a less beneficent denizen of the bowels of hell, or perhaps just a spell cast by a bored wizard out for a bit of entertainment.
It doesn't really matter though, they have three wishes each.
They have set the rules of course, as we all do with this game. You can't wish for more wishes. Well... actually, that is their one rule. I would usually throw some more provisos into this mental challenge, but today we play by their rules.
She wishes for total and complete happiness for the rest of her life.
Hmmmm... Sounds good in theory. "Total and complete" sounds a bit too locked in for me though. In a continuum of happiness "total and complete" would need to be at the far right of the scale.
You would need to live out your life always 100% happy.
No challenges to overcome, no chance to lose any game you play, no room for fear or sadness at all.
No chance to think about the sad things or challenges from your past that have helped you to become the person you are today. A lobotomy might be a better option.
I'm not saying that we need to thrive on angst, but "total" happiness leaves no room for anything else.
To make matters worse the "for the rest of my life" line leaves the way open for a "monkey's paw" style twist where she waves goodbye to her boyfriend before being killed instantly by a train coming in the other direction.
He wishes for a wallet that spawns money every time he opens it. Pffffftttt... amateur.
What if the economy crashes and money becomes useless?
What if he develops a terminal disease that money can't cure. What if he is mugged?
What if he goes to a bar and drinks himself to oblivion with his ill gotten gains and wakes up to the realisation that he has lost his wallet?
Amateur.
She wishes for world peace... Christian America rises up, expands its empire and crushes all other countries, ideologies and religions under its boot heels. There is world peace because there is no conflict, there is no conflict because there is longer any choice.
He wishes for a never ending keg. Face... Palm.
She wishes for immortality and then gives the proviso that she doesn't want that "vampire" style immortality where you can still be killed... she wants to literally live forever.
How can that possibly go wrong. Watching your loved ones whither and die as you never age. Never evolving beyond the human you are now while the rest of humanity moves to utter destruction or a higher state of being. Floating in a universe of entropic decay, alone... with no chance for release.
He wishes the train trip home didn't take so long.
Maybe small wishes are safer than big ones. Small changes to the fabric of reality rather than a massive shift in what can often be a precarious balance.
I wish...
Notes From a Train.
Argument on a train.
"Go back to your own country" he yells.
"I was born in Ballarat" she quietly responds.
"No... you are Asian" he yells... slurring and spitting more than just vile words.
"My parents are from Japan but I was born here" she answers... her face starts to go red.
"Asian bitch" he spits.
I move my bag and give her a quick wave.
She wanders over and sits down, obviously uncomfortable.
"Are you alright" I ask.
"I am" she says looking straight ahead.
I want to apologise.
I want to make it better for her.
All I can do is give her a place to sit clear of the poison.
She seems to relax in the seat and so I glance sideways at her.
She smiles... just a bit.
He leaves at the next stop.
"Thank you" she says.
"I didn't want to get you in trouble" she says.
"He would have just gone after you" she says.
"I'm from New Zealand. No one ever tells me to go back to my country" I say with a smile.
We both laugh.
Five minutes of my journey have passed and I have seen the best and worst of humanity.
Moral of the story. Don't be a racist piece of crap. You don't have to like everyone in the world but think of a better reason to dislike them beyond the colour of their skin or their country of origin.
Notes From a Train.
It is nearly a week since my Mum died.
She went to sleep with a puzzle in one hand and a pencil in the other and never woke up. Her brain was firing right till the end.
She was at home, surrounded by her things not in a hospital surrounded by machines that go 'ping'.
My Mum fought ill health for many years. She was consistently failed by doctors, who misdiagnosed her Parkinson's disease and instead put her through invasive surgeries and filled her body with drugs that she didn't need.
It wasn't until late in her life that a small group of health professionals finally got it right, began to help not hinder.
If anyone had reason to complain, it was my Mum and don't get me wrong, she had her grumpy days, but she just got on with her life... every time she got knocked down she got back up again.
She never allocated blame, she didn't scour her records to see who she should sue... she just accepted that a lot of mistakes were made and that it was too late to right those wrongs.
She tried not to waste the precious time she had left and always said to me that even though she sometimes struggled to 'think positively' she always did her best to not 'think negatively'.
My dad fought alongside her every day. He punched with her and was sometimes a punching bag for her. He literally saved her life to allow her to be with us for a few extra months... time that I know she cherished and so did I.
My mum helped and respected her fellow humans. She looked for the best in people and brought out the best in people.
She cheered for her family and friends at a million games of bowls and hockey.
She supported us all through births, deaths, marriages and breakups.
She cheered as we took different paths through life, because they were our paths not her's.
She always offered advice but rarely offered opinions.
She was, simply put, a good human being.
I miss her, but I will never miss the impact both of my parents have had on my life.
Life goes on and though I will continue to march to the beat of a different drummer, I will always remember that it was Mum that helped to set the tempo.
Notes From a Train.
Questions and experiments... some rhetorical, some already have answers.
If I had a box with an interior lined with perfect mirrors and I opened it in the sun and then closed it, took it to a dark room and opened it...would I see a flash of light, however fleeting?
If I created a set of periscope style glasses that redirected each eye ninety degrees sideways, would my brain be able to process the view in some meaningful way... or would I end up drooling into my breakfast?
What kind of fool or sadistic bastard named a speech impediment that has people struggling with S's a 'lisp'?
If Pluto is a dog, then what the hell is Goofy?
What is a group of zombies called... a shamble?
Some scientists are trying to work out whether our existence is actually just a simulation running in the computers of an advanced civilisation... is this any more or less likely than a universe created by an omnipotent being or pure chance and chaos?
Why is abbreviation such a long word?
Is the fact that we have never seen a time traveller proof that time travel is impossible or proof that our future selves are smart enough not to mess with the universe or clever enough to do it without us knowing?
How do so many people manage to get famous for being famous?
Why is it fine to lie to our children about supernatural beings who take teeth, leave eggs, break into our houses while we sleep and break into our minds to manipulate our dreams while we sleep?
Why is it fine for a man to parade around with his nipples to the wind, but if a woman shows her nipples it brings the wrath of god?
Where do the flies go in winter?
For your consideration... choose at least one and give it a few moments thought.
Notes From a Train.
The six forty train.
The most civilised on the North Line. The peak hour crowds have already sprinted to catch earlier trains.
They've crammed themselves into the carriage like well dressed sardines.
Out of breath, they either stand precariously balanced trying to counter the unpredictable sway of the train or they sit side by side on seats made for one and a half humans.
Those sitting usually have some sort of pelvis or buttock in close proximity to their face and I've seen many a screwed up nose and despairing look.
The next train is not as full, however it is filled with angst. Angst at missing the earlier train. Angst at having to stay for an extra ten minutes at work... long enough to end up on the angst train.
Angst at having to run for the train, lungs heaving... sweat stains growing.
Travellers on the angst train have their joy of homeward direction tainted by the miasma that spreads throughout the carriage.
There are probably two more trains before the true sweet spot of North Line travel, the six forty. Relaxed people in no great hurry. Plenty of room to spread out.
A happy security guard who knows that this is the high point of his day.
No kids.
Well dressed, and behaved, professionals quietly reading or tapping on technology.
People smile at each other, no one actually chats, but there is acknowledgement of our fellow humans without fear of offence.
Hell, the train even goes express for half my trip. The six forty... the sweet spot.
Eight o'clock onwards the North Line becomes a different beast... but that is a story for another night.
Notes From a Train.
A is for "apathetic teenager" who is burning more energy that a marathon runner trying to look as apathetic as possible.
B is for "bike" precariously balanced on an outstretched kickstand. The owner leans forward every time it wobbles.
C is for "chef" who digs in his nose without any sort of embarrassment. His checkered outfit smeared with random bits of animal.
D is for "dumbarse" who is advertising the fact to the whole train by talking loudly about how climate change won't really be a problem until after he is dead so "why should I give a stuff?".
E is for "even bigger dumbarse" who thinks that his mate should be worried because "the surface of the earth will be as hot as the sun in ten years".
F is for "fine" being given to the idiot who has been caught three nights running without a ticket.
G is for "Grandma" who smiles at anyone who makes eye contact... while knitting at one jumper an hour. Her knitting needles make the stereotypical "click clack" that cartoon trains make.
H is for "hieroglyphics". One of the more impressive tattoos I've seen on the North Line. Not sure what it says, but it sure is saying it in style.
I is for "icicle"... coming from the eyes of a teenage girl who has just been told something by her boyfriend. Also for "ignoramus" which is what he now feels like.
To be continued...
Notes From a Train.
Friends are the best people.
Closely followed by cats.
The end.
Notes From a Train.
J is for "jock". Tracksuit pants, white sneakers, disapproving look as his eyes roam across to the kid eating a particularly nasty looking burger.
K is for "kangaroo", carried by a happy looking tourist. Dacron filled, glass eyes... the kangaroo, not the tourist. Her host has just begun to explain how to avoid the dreaded drop bear.
L is for "love". Of the five couples in the carriage I am only fairly confident that two are in love.
I can only judge this through careful observation of body language as I can't see their true hearts so I will claim only a seventy percent possibility of being one hundred percent correct.
M is for "mostly harmless"... the classification of most of my fellow travellers.
N is for "nautical", the style of music that is being jauntily whistled by the old man sitting two seats down. He has all limbs and nary a patch in sight so I am going to presume that he has never gone toe to tentacle with a kraken.
If I close my eyes though, the sway of the train becomes the sway of a very different vehicle.
O is for "ouch", said by a small child as he falls forward and bops his oversized head on the back of my seat. A strange word when you think about it... maybe onomatopoeic, maybe not.
P is for "pedantic", the nature of the ticket inspector who is grilling one of my fellow passengers. She is answering a million question because she has forgotten her student card. If she is an adult who is wearing the school uniform just to get cheaper bus tickets, I say reward her miserly efforts.
... to be continued.
Notes From a Train.
Q is for "quantum entanglement". I'm looking forward to seeing my entangled particle when I get home.
R is for "redundant". The only description I can give to the handle that hangs down directly over the ticket machine.
S is for "Scotsmen", three seats down and speaking in an accent that only they are fully understanding. Loud and proud, they converse as if the tide of battle will turn on their discussion. I understand the word "fook" and "bastid" but the rest of the conversation is just a blur... a beautiful poetic blur.
T is for "triumphant". A businessman is obviously happy with the outcome of whatever he has just done on his tablet. A hostile takeover? Only if it is birds vs pigs... I recognise that music anywhere.
U is for "untidy", the way my brain feels at the moment. Over the last year a lot of stuff has been left out and it feels good to slowly put some things away.
V is for "variation". The variation of people on the train ranges between three percent and ninety eight percent. The average is brought down by the gaggle of clones who look like they may have just stepped off the set of Jersey Shore and is thankfully raised by the awesome lady down the back who has somehow managed to carve her own niche somewhere between Goth, rockabilly and bikie.
W is for "warning", issued in a stern voice by a grumpy conductor.
X is for "xylophone"... I wish that there was a xylophone player on the train, but alas the universe decides to keep crazy coincidence for another time.
Y is for "yawn", that just travelled from one end of the carriage to the other via a mechanism that scientists still don't fully understand.
Z is for "Zaphod Beeblebrox", second only to "Slartibartfast" in the "best names in literature" awards. Coincidentally both in the same series of books and happily being read by a smirking teen who is discovering the humour of one of my favourite authors.
Notes From a Train.
It's all in a title...
Ode to Zombies.
Swaying, grunting, gnashing jaws.
They push against the metal doors.
Putrefaction fills the air with stench.
I long for the heft of a trusty wrench.
Their blood red eyes look through my soul.
My very brain their likely goal.
They shamble at me, shadows long.
I hold my ground, I will be strong.
The coffin rocks from side to side.
I know my fate once they're inside.
Trapped for some time or for forever.
I will survive if I am clever.
I slowly move toward the door
And as they part I try to soar.
I roll and stop below a sign
And realise that my life is mine.
I watch to see them whisked away, And live to see another day.
Ode to Public Transport.
Swaying, grunting, gnashing jaws.
They push against the metal doors.
Putrefaction fills the air with stench.
I long for the heft of a trusty wrench.
Their blood red eyes look through my soul.
My very brain their likely goal.
They shamble at me, shadows long.
I hold my ground, I will be strong.
The coffin rocks from side to side.
I know my fate once they're inside.
Trapped for some time or for forever.
I will survive if I am clever.
I slowly move toward the door
And as they part I try to soar.
I roll and stop below a sign
And realise that my life is mine.
I watch to see them whisked away, And live to see another day.
Notes From a Train.
The Melbourne Cup drunk train.
I remember this from last year.
Facinators askew, laddered stockings, loosened ties and red cheeks.
Class without class. Fashion without fashion.
A lady hobbles by with one stilletoed leg about four inches shorter than the other.
She brays like a donkey as the train takes a corner and she falls onto a, thankfully, empty seat.
Her friend apologises to all of us in a slurred voice.
The conductor asks them which stop they'll be getting off, cleverly mixing concern for them, and for himself.
I very much doubt he wants them to miss their stop and end up crying in a corner for plans brought undone by alcohol fuelled stupidity.
When they tell him they are going all the way to the end of the line a single eyebrow raises about a centimeter and his right eyelid flickers for a second.
The second woman now looks a little green and I severely doubt that she will make it home with her lunch intact.
A businessman who probably had the same liquid lunch openly leers at her and when she looks back there is a momentary flash of flirtation before his eyes drop in an attempt to focus on her ample cleavage.
She acts offended while still managing to bat her eyelashes at him and then turns to her friend, who is now softly snoring.
The businessman looks for new prey and the conductor walks away with a roll of his eyes.
The Melbourne Cup... class without class, fashion without fashion... at least on the North Line.
Notes From a Train.
A hypothetical...
Tomorrow, a scientist looking for a cure for Alzhiemers instead happens upon a way to stop aging. After a decade her colleagues have used her original research to stamp out all diseases related to aging including almost every form of cancer.
Humans can now technically live forever and a new stage of civilisation begins.
Mortality is now based on accidental death, murders, suicide and starvation. Many countries see very little change in their mortality rates and in fact see a disturbing rise due to a lack of resources.
The rich get richer. The poor get poorer.
You can see where this is going...
There would need to be a serious shift in the way our world works as the earth slowly fills with humans and the infrastructure to keep us happy.
Food, water, land...fossil fuels... all would dry up if consumed the way we do now.
Our fellow creatures become secondary as their habitats are destroyed in the search for land and resources.
As people live beyond one hundred years old we see the race that was once for longevity of individuals become the race to ensure the longevity of the human species.
Is there a way out of the downward spiral that our nearly immortal species finds itself?
Escape the planet... not likely in the short term.
Use the available resources more carefully... a possibility, but once again not as likely as I hope.
Cut down on population growth...it would never be enough when such a small percentage of old humans make way for the new.
Dwindling supplies for a growing population. An equation that leads to one conclusion.
A hypothetical... the average age of a human lifts by ten years and population growth continues at the rate it already is. This is not science fiction, it is reality. A reality that will soon lead to the same unwinnable battle.
We need a whole new paradigm, we need to change a million little things because there is no one big thing that will save us.
It is possible that we can find a balance.
It is possible that we will start to look beyond our own lifetime.
It will take a shift in attitude from all of us.
Most of all though is the need to remove our collective craniums from our collective rectums and at least acknowledge that we are all in trouble.
We are all in this together... unless someone has perfected a warp drive in the time it has taken me to write this.
Good luck!
Notes From a Train.
A new year on the North Line begins with an old train that is struggling to simultaneously sustain both momentum and air conditioning.
Every stop we reach gives us a few seconds of fresh air, and I thank the locomotive gods that I chose a seat near the door.
It isn't really that hot outside, but the carriage is full of tepid, stale air that feels like it may have been trapped since last year, the smell of the joy at a Christmas release not yet overtaken by the tangy angst of a return to work.
No one seems particularly bothered, though, as the train finally builds up a head of steam (I hope you will excuse the romantic turn of phrase that transforms the stench of diesel into white, billowing water).
I nod and smile at a couple of familiar faces. No one needs to talk as they take stock of who has returned for the nightly ritual that delivers us to our loved ones. Acknowledgement comes in slight head movements and subtle signs of recognition.
I peer through to the next carriage and lock eyes with a lady who is wearing some plush reindeer antlers as a headband.
She is either late to the party, or is trying desperately to hold on to joy just past. She smiles broadly and as I smile back I realise that she is smiling at her own reflection framed in the windows between carriages.
Today it is good to be her.
It's not a bad day to be any of us.