backstage and behind the scenes...
Cha-chug. Cha-chug. Cha chug.
That's the sound of the train car... is this the opening scene?
Cha-chug, cha-chug, cha chug. Like streams of subliminal television shorts, the stone underpass choked by vines followed by lights in the dark tunnel fly past my window. For a moment all I see is the chide reflection of my face in the darkness. I look miserable. I try to imagine credits for the opening of a movie, and an underscore to boot. It would make for a fitting exposition.
There's no air conditioning on the car and it's record breaking heat. The global warming kind. The seats are packed, and some guy from Soho is talking to me about gardening. He kept asking my why I drew all over my arms and said, "Because I wanted to see what it would look like." He didn't seem to get it and I don't know why I did it... I just did.
Fwoosh! The train emerges from the tunnel revealing a vast expanse. Is this the opening scene? Is my life about to finally start?
Just abandoned buildings and the back porches of the people who put up with the sound of the passing trains in their yard, or the ones who love it or who just couldn't care any less. You always wonder what kinds of people are living in those houses, the ones with the plastic toys dribbled in the back yard, with chipping paint flaking in the wind and trailing onto the unkept grass and soggy singular acres of the forgotten people. But don't they realize people like me notice? People on the train who can't help but see every moment flashing down the tracks as precious yet fleeting. I catch a glimpse here and there of some kid's suburban dreamplay, or some spousal abuse, or two people fucking with the windows open thinking nobody on the train will notice. But all this is backstage and its more raw and uncooked than anything you'd put out to the real audience, and that's a shame because this stuff tastes great.
Flash forward. I'm sulking and full from supper on the Vineyard, and I take a walk down one of Chappy's dirt roads. There are no streetlights where I am, so I just keep walking in the darkness, following the hushed whisper of the ocean waves crashing on the distant shore.
I feel shitty. I feel so uncertain and restless because this isn't where I thought I'd be right now. I continue down the path through the woods and I see the lights of people's huge windows. Everything is black and in silhouette, and there are these windows, like suspended paintings, or television screens floating in the woods. A couple is sitting down having dinner and they look happy. She cuddles close and puts a napkin on his thigh. Another family with a girl who is painting and her Daddy's looking on, and she's laughing. Everywhere I can here the haunting sounds of other people's lives, because when you're in the woods on an island the sound really carries. Another woman is having a gossipy conversation on her phone, and I can tell by the tone of her voice. And just beyond the hedges, a young group of friends are partying. Would they think it strange if I knocked on the door and asked them if they wanted some more company? God, I wish the world was like that nowadays: where people are more inviting and could trust a stranger to become a new friend. Just like that.
When I finally make it to the water, I realize the gushing waves of the open ocean are beyond this small inlet of water and there's no way around it unless I decide to drench myself and enter the water, merman like, and emerge like swampthing to the other shore. Big let down. I just wanted to see the waves at night. I make the defiled trek back on the lonely dirt road, living vicariously through the gallery of living-rooms strolling beside me in the dark.
That's the sound of the train car... is this the opening scene?
Cha-chug, cha-chug, cha chug. Like streams of subliminal television shorts, the stone underpass choked by vines followed by lights in the dark tunnel fly past my window. For a moment all I see is the chide reflection of my face in the darkness. I look miserable. I try to imagine credits for the opening of a movie, and an underscore to boot. It would make for a fitting exposition.
There's no air conditioning on the car and it's record breaking heat. The global warming kind. The seats are packed, and some guy from Soho is talking to me about gardening. He kept asking my why I drew all over my arms and said, "Because I wanted to see what it would look like." He didn't seem to get it and I don't know why I did it... I just did.
Fwoosh! The train emerges from the tunnel revealing a vast expanse. Is this the opening scene? Is my life about to finally start?
Just abandoned buildings and the back porches of the people who put up with the sound of the passing trains in their yard, or the ones who love it or who just couldn't care any less. You always wonder what kinds of people are living in those houses, the ones with the plastic toys dribbled in the back yard, with chipping paint flaking in the wind and trailing onto the unkept grass and soggy singular acres of the forgotten people. But don't they realize people like me notice? People on the train who can't help but see every moment flashing down the tracks as precious yet fleeting. I catch a glimpse here and there of some kid's suburban dreamplay, or some spousal abuse, or two people fucking with the windows open thinking nobody on the train will notice. But all this is backstage and its more raw and uncooked than anything you'd put out to the real audience, and that's a shame because this stuff tastes great.
Flash forward. I'm sulking and full from supper on the Vineyard, and I take a walk down one of Chappy's dirt roads. There are no streetlights where I am, so I just keep walking in the darkness, following the hushed whisper of the ocean waves crashing on the distant shore.
I feel shitty. I feel so uncertain and restless because this isn't where I thought I'd be right now. I continue down the path through the woods and I see the lights of people's huge windows. Everything is black and in silhouette, and there are these windows, like suspended paintings, or television screens floating in the woods. A couple is sitting down having dinner and they look happy. She cuddles close and puts a napkin on his thigh. Another family with a girl who is painting and her Daddy's looking on, and she's laughing. Everywhere I can here the haunting sounds of other people's lives, because when you're in the woods on an island the sound really carries. Another woman is having a gossipy conversation on her phone, and I can tell by the tone of her voice. And just beyond the hedges, a young group of friends are partying. Would they think it strange if I knocked on the door and asked them if they wanted some more company? God, I wish the world was like that nowadays: where people are more inviting and could trust a stranger to become a new friend. Just like that.
When I finally make it to the water, I realize the gushing waves of the open ocean are beyond this small inlet of water and there's no way around it unless I decide to drench myself and enter the water, merman like, and emerge like swampthing to the other shore. Big let down. I just wanted to see the waves at night. I make the defiled trek back on the lonely dirt road, living vicariously through the gallery of living-rooms strolling beside me in the dark.