There is the way of the rail, the dao. Not the big important one, with the capital “D”, but the little “d” that doesn’t last. It does not constitute something profound. If it changes you – the change is cumulative, almost imperceptible. It can, if you let it, take you over – just for a bit of your journey, just for a change. The rhythm of motion overrides habits and hopes, dreams and desires, oaths and obligations, wishes and wants. They all depend on localisation in time and impermanence in space dislodges you in time – just enough to allow for some space to move out of time.
The waves of space wash over you, time becomes elastic, stretching and shrinking, rising and sinking.
The way of the wave: tidal, rhythmic, joyuous, altering you for a second or forever – who knows? who cares?
“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.“
– J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Elliott
As I walk through the world in the morning, I walk through chores: Brush my teeth, feed my flesh, lift my eyes and observe the world. See the light watch the shadows: frightened and slightly porous It is braving the dark, but the darkness remains unfurled.
Like a puppy, to no avail Light is chasing its own tail. Ceaseless effort – no rest, no sleep Leaves the shadows dark and deep. In the forest, the room, the mind They just move as they hide behind, They never diminish Fade out or finish.
And the dance goes on, like a tide – as it ebbs, it flows. And the mind wanders off, but off what and off when – who knows?
Oh, but time is a funny thing: Lucky – spiral, unlucky – ring; Snake consuming its own tail Has no future, no past, no fail. With no fail comes no gain – no foul. As ouroboros tries to howl It’s unable to rant and rail, Mouth gagged with a scaly tale…
It is time to abandon this train of thought As it leaves us nowhere and profits nought. If I look the look, talk the talk Then I also should walk the walk.
As I wend my way through the virgin wood, All I see are multiple shades of green, All I hear is hue, hue and cry of birds Known just by the sounds – a sight unseen. But my mind gets pulled from the joy sublime Of the sight and sound, the leaves and birds To the stinging nettles that intertwine Unremitting brambles, as sharp as words: “Why the fuck did I wear shorts?”
As I focus on light and sound, I forget to attend to thorns. Joy is found, but also bound By recurrence of cuts and burns. The annoyances and the strain Can be taken away by train.
The train that blurs the near spares far, Serenely cloudscapes through heavens glide. An airplane left antiseptic scar Amid the clouds, stumble on the ride. Landscape renews and we in comfort cruise, But dusty windows engender dusty views.
A patch of lights through clouds gives me joy Untampered, instant and without words. It filters down softly to alloy Itself with shadows in subtle smooth sensations – The joy of pure vision midst the turds Of unremitting complications.
My elasticity declines as I get older – Of skin and time, and arteries, and veins. My hands and feet – they are a little colder Each winter with increase in aches and pains, As well as other relevant increases In colds and flu with snottiness and sneezes. If snake of time contracts then what remains Is an attempt to stretch the space with trains.
Ouroboros of time constricts my breath. As body shrinks my mind expands – and shatters Its dissolution congruent with death But also with infinity of matters. What cannot stretch can break and reassemble. Abandon frame, you all who enter here. Reconstituted, you will still resemble Yourself to others, even those near And dear, them, who try to fix in space Of ageing body time’s dissolving trace.
At the end of the day we arrive. It’s a velvet curtain. The applause increases politely as curtain drops. At the end of the day you are feeling alive and certain. Your heartbeat is apparent to you just before it stops.
The space partitioned by electric wires And anchored to the ground by the poles Is well and truly caught. They cut my vision – Straight lines across unending undulation Of hills and clouds. Ugly not because Of shape, but due to insular connections – They only touch each other, not the space They fracture with the guiltless disregard Of those unaware. Rest in peace My endless space Available in pieces.
The train stitches together images, like a demented alliterating seamstress, cackling to herself with the wheels’ rattle, stitching wood with water, sand with sky, space with sadness, past with possibilities, unseen with unexpected, journey with joy.
I love train journeys, especially at night. Lights, lights, lights – they conceal details and smudge shapes, they fill my eyes – imprecise, beautiful, meaningless… And the wind – its motion is the same, it blows the lights through the night and away, it fills my ears with noise and my skin with sensation – indistinct, but directional… It blows the stars out of the sky and memories out of my mind, and I feel so light without the excess weight…