Dispatches: Morning on the Train
Dispatches continue - Jan. 9, 09
Image Poems
Sun just a melted blob of orange sherbert
In the eastern sky
Train mimics a Tilt-a-whirl
Rocketing out of Memphis
I’ve had little sleep but am up.
In lounge, coffee is not yet made
#
Fetid standing waters,
With stick-armed trees grasping the air
Could this be swamp land
Or are we still too far north?
#
Talking with friends about a favorite subject
Creates feeling of comfort; well-versed expert
Stand up to teach a class on the same subject
You realize how little you know
#
Did I really tell students they could sleep
comfortably in Coach on train?
I lied.
Bad teacher! No cookie!
#
Poor nicotine-addicted students
Staggering to lounge, sleep still in their eyes
Wanting coffee
Needing cigarette
Should I tell them they just slept through
The first smoke break in 12 hours?
Will they ever love Memphis again?
#
More teacher guilt -
Was “Cheap Ass Wine”
Really the best choice for the class singalong?
By musician’s standards it has a good tune, the best chorus and easy-to-remember words
On our third time through rehearsals last night,
(Loudly, and off-key)
In the lounge.
(Dining car crew was much amused)
The kids declared it the official theme song for the class
...and began choreographing it
(“Arms pumping, Jazz Hands, now sway...”)
Dwight could not possibly imagine
What I’ve done to his new song
He’ll find out though, tonight, on Bourbon Street
13 students and 1 intrepid instructor belting out his country blues
“Cheap ass wine, cheap ass wine, ain’t nothin’ better than cheap ass wine....”
(See? Good chorus, easy to remember words)
But what will their parents think?
Not to mention, the dean?
#
(Not so) Strange how fast the hours from 7 AM to 3 PM have gone, compared to the hours of 1-6 AM.
Note to self for next year: No matter how lovely the Amtrak coach seats are for napping (and they are), they are not conducive to overnight sleep - especially if you get your best sleep lying on your side. But this trip is meant to be a series of first time experiences: whether enjoyed or endured, they’re all cherished.
I had never before wandered with pillow and robe doubling as a blanket, to the dining car and stolen an hour or two of sleep stretched out on a bench, and then, when rousted and having tried my seat again, wandered down to the women’s lounge to sleep on the short bench in the dressing room. It appears I can sleep in nearly any sized space, so long as I can lie on my side without slipping off the chair. I got maybe an hour or so there, until the early-bird women came down to use the dressing room before the rest got up.
I discombobulated the first woman who came in. Discombobulated is one of the those “Cost ya a quarter” words that writers (as least the ones I know) mock each other for. (“Oh look! A thesaurus!”) Alan & Jude, if you’re reading this, I’ll ante up my quarter next time I bump into you in a bar...New Orleans, San Francisco... or is Toronto our next fiction convention?”
I”ll ante up willingly, because discombobulated is exactly the right word.
A woman (me) working on this little sleep is easily distracted, so let me just say, “Ooh, I KNOW that’s swamp land out the window now. And, hey we’re crossing over the long bridge across ???Lake Pontchatrain????. And those are some funky-ass fishing shacks made of tin and sitting on stilts. Is there a strategic or aesthetic reason they’re pink, or is it just the color that was on deep discount at the hardware? I think I like pink fishing shacks. I don’t write much fiction with fishing shacks, but from now on, when I do, they’ll all be pink.)
There are more sunken boats than I would have expected, ‘course, those make great beds for oysters, crabs, and catfish. So, yeah, I guess I’d sink my old boat out around my dock too, rather than trying to sell it cheap in the classifieds.
OK, stopped here on a side track, waiting for the freight train coming the other way; ‘little more than half an hour outside N’awlins, so... back to the discombobulated women. They did exactly what they should have done - marched on in and started using the mirror. But they were at a loss as to what to say or do when I sat up and did my minimal morning ablutions (okay, make that 50 cents I owe) rather than fleeing the lounge. I wasn’t going to do a hobo bath in front of them, and makeup was going to have to wait for coffee. I’m not going to risk poking a stick in my eye until I’m at least awake enough to pronounce mascara. I don’t speak English in the morning. We’ve no idea what language comes out in that halting gibberish, but we’re fairly certain the language has been dead at least 1 aeon.
(Ooh, look, an orange sherbert fishing shack. I want an orange sherbert fishing shack, and I don’t even like to fish. And what IS it about orange sherbert today, anyway?)
The discombobulated ladies didn’t want to disrobe (75 cents) in front of me, but I wasn’t going to get up, go out, and get in the back of the line. If I was going to be viewed as a squatter (I was: both viewed as one and behaving as one), then I was going to continue to act like one. It was too late to put on the Southern manners I was raised with, now. Somehow we did the square dance necessary to work it out without having to speak to each other. I wasn’t opposed, but it would have strained their sense of propriety. I hold or place no blame for that.
I like to think of myself as polite and proper to at least a few steps beyond common contemporary courtesy. (I probably swear too much to actually be called “proper,” but I have very definite opinions on social courtesy.)
But hey, being on the lower end of that social non-exchange was another new experience, and all experiences are fodder for fiction and so, to be cherished. (No, Alan, I won’t pay another quarter for “fodder” - I originally come from farm country, dammit. I’m entitled...That was 20 years ago, but still, I’m not paying.)
And hey, we’re really close to N’awlins now, so I suppose I ought to gather my things, go back to my seat, and warn the class to gather their things.
Guess Alan will have to wait awhile to make it an even dollar.
Image Poems
Sun just a melted blob of orange sherbert
In the eastern sky
Train mimics a Tilt-a-whirl
Rocketing out of Memphis
I’ve had little sleep but am up.
In lounge, coffee is not yet made
#
Fetid standing waters,
With stick-armed trees grasping the air
Could this be swamp land
Or are we still too far north?
#
Talking with friends about a favorite subject
Creates feeling of comfort; well-versed expert
Stand up to teach a class on the same subject
You realize how little you know
#
Did I really tell students they could sleep
comfortably in Coach on train?
I lied.
Bad teacher! No cookie!
#
Poor nicotine-addicted students
Staggering to lounge, sleep still in their eyes
Wanting coffee
Needing cigarette
Should I tell them they just slept through
The first smoke break in 12 hours?
Will they ever love Memphis again?
#
More teacher guilt -
Was “Cheap Ass Wine”
Really the best choice for the class singalong?
By musician’s standards it has a good tune, the best chorus and easy-to-remember words
On our third time through rehearsals last night,
(Loudly, and off-key)
In the lounge.
(Dining car crew was much amused)
The kids declared it the official theme song for the class
...and began choreographing it
(“Arms pumping, Jazz Hands, now sway...”)
Dwight could not possibly imagine
What I’ve done to his new song
He’ll find out though, tonight, on Bourbon Street
13 students and 1 intrepid instructor belting out his country blues
“Cheap ass wine, cheap ass wine, ain’t nothin’ better than cheap ass wine....”
(See? Good chorus, easy to remember words)
But what will their parents think?
Not to mention, the dean?
#
(Not so) Strange how fast the hours from 7 AM to 3 PM have gone, compared to the hours of 1-6 AM.
Note to self for next year: No matter how lovely the Amtrak coach seats are for napping (and they are), they are not conducive to overnight sleep - especially if you get your best sleep lying on your side. But this trip is meant to be a series of first time experiences: whether enjoyed or endured, they’re all cherished.
I had never before wandered with pillow and robe doubling as a blanket, to the dining car and stolen an hour or two of sleep stretched out on a bench, and then, when rousted and having tried my seat again, wandered down to the women’s lounge to sleep on the short bench in the dressing room. It appears I can sleep in nearly any sized space, so long as I can lie on my side without slipping off the chair. I got maybe an hour or so there, until the early-bird women came down to use the dressing room before the rest got up.
I discombobulated the first woman who came in. Discombobulated is one of the those “Cost ya a quarter” words that writers (as least the ones I know) mock each other for. (“Oh look! A thesaurus!”) Alan & Jude, if you’re reading this, I’ll ante up my quarter next time I bump into you in a bar...New Orleans, San Francisco... or is Toronto our next fiction convention?”
I”ll ante up willingly, because discombobulated is exactly the right word.
A woman (me) working on this little sleep is easily distracted, so let me just say, “Ooh, I KNOW that’s swamp land out the window now. And, hey we’re crossing over the long bridge across ???Lake Pontchatrain????. And those are some funky-ass fishing shacks made of tin and sitting on stilts. Is there a strategic or aesthetic reason they’re pink, or is it just the color that was on deep discount at the hardware? I think I like pink fishing shacks. I don’t write much fiction with fishing shacks, but from now on, when I do, they’ll all be pink.)
There are more sunken boats than I would have expected, ‘course, those make great beds for oysters, crabs, and catfish. So, yeah, I guess I’d sink my old boat out around my dock too, rather than trying to sell it cheap in the classifieds.
OK, stopped here on a side track, waiting for the freight train coming the other way; ‘little more than half an hour outside N’awlins, so... back to the discombobulated women. They did exactly what they should have done - marched on in and started using the mirror. But they were at a loss as to what to say or do when I sat up and did my minimal morning ablutions (okay, make that 50 cents I owe) rather than fleeing the lounge. I wasn’t going to do a hobo bath in front of them, and makeup was going to have to wait for coffee. I’m not going to risk poking a stick in my eye until I’m at least awake enough to pronounce mascara. I don’t speak English in the morning. We’ve no idea what language comes out in that halting gibberish, but we’re fairly certain the language has been dead at least 1 aeon.
(Ooh, look, an orange sherbert fishing shack. I want an orange sherbert fishing shack, and I don’t even like to fish. And what IS it about orange sherbert today, anyway?)
The discombobulated ladies didn’t want to disrobe (75 cents) in front of me, but I wasn’t going to get up, go out, and get in the back of the line. If I was going to be viewed as a squatter (I was: both viewed as one and behaving as one), then I was going to continue to act like one. It was too late to put on the Southern manners I was raised with, now. Somehow we did the square dance necessary to work it out without having to speak to each other. I wasn’t opposed, but it would have strained their sense of propriety. I hold or place no blame for that.
I like to think of myself as polite and proper to at least a few steps beyond common contemporary courtesy. (I probably swear too much to actually be called “proper,” but I have very definite opinions on social courtesy.)
But hey, being on the lower end of that social non-exchange was another new experience, and all experiences are fodder for fiction and so, to be cherished. (No, Alan, I won’t pay another quarter for “fodder” - I originally come from farm country, dammit. I’m entitled...That was 20 years ago, but still, I’m not paying.)
And hey, we’re really close to N’awlins now, so I suppose I ought to gather my things, go back to my seat, and warn the class to gather their things.
Guess Alan will have to wait awhile to make it an even dollar.