When I stick my head out of the moving window, the dark
lets me in, rushing past my head, brushing all my hair right back, smoothing
all of me. There is no other way I know of feeling so alive and thrilled so
quickly. Head in : normal, machine-world, head out : wild, dark-eyed world. Heading into stations, the train-chug, minimal
train-chew carries me as though I'm young and on my father's shoulders. We swing
into the suburbs, Christmas-like lights of red and white lining the way. City
smells begin to envelope and we swing about, not steady enough, held by the
door. You can't help imagining what would happen if the door swung open, you
finger the handle, so close and possible. Unless you look carefully, you could
brush your head, or worse, much worse, against the tall poles that parabola
towards you. The rails start to slice sound, metallic and smooth, giant
dress-making shears. We switch tracks, heading directly into solid walls,
veering away at the last minute. All the time, the air is flowing straight
through your head. This awakens everything, all thoughts pop open, you are
keen-eyed. Thankful that your lower half
is anchored in the warm, electrically-lighted, carpeted, inside world, that you
really live in. You swing into the station, swerving to the other tracks. You
glide, elegantly and high pitched, up to the stationary platform, your hand reaching
for the outer handle, with the window pulled down as far as it can and up to
the full length of your arm. You can
right- angle the unwieldy chunk of handle, a smooth, rounded utility handle,
still working after decades of hands.
© Isabel Hare
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