The once majestic and gilded splendor of these smoking monoliths, chugging people to and from their grandiose dreams in romantic scenes of uniformed men hauling steamer trunks and put-together ladies in wide-brimmed hats carrying leather train cases in their dainty lace-gloved hands waving goodbye and blowing kisses out of the half window as they train slowly pulls out of the station, have been replaced with utilitarian steel boxcars covered in scrawled neon graffiti, moving lodes of nondescript cargo and only coming to mind when stuck behind one at a dwindling railroad crossing. I always look down the line with a faraway look and my pulse beats a little faster when I can make out that old Union Pacific logo on one of the passing cars. In a full-throttle society, the public's patience wears thin in front of the clanging bell and flashing red light. But a shred of grandeur remains with the train; their sheer power, the blaring cacophony. There is something unmistakably nostalgic and even utterly American about the train. The amount of train songs in existence is exhausting, even in the face of the train's fade into obscurity and relic-hood. So here's a half-hearted attempt at throwing some of them together in a quasi-coherent manner. Dreams die quietly without hope and adrenaline. Here's to gaining a little momentum in our coal-fueled daydreams and because sometimes you just want to take the first thing smokin' the hell out of town. It must have been a train that took me away from here and a train can bring me home...
Tom Waits- Train Song
Willie Nelson- City of New Orleans
William Elliot Whitmore- Lift My Jug
Woody Guthrie- Hobo's Lullaby
Jimmie Rodgers- Waiting for a Train
Arlo Guthrie- Last Train to Glory
The Flying Burrito Brothers- The Train Song
Steve Earle- Mystery Train Part 2
Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee- Rock Island Line
Bob Marley- This Train is Bound for Glory/Guava Jelly
Downbound Train- Chuck Berry
The Impressions- People Get Ready
Spike Driver's Blues- Mississippi John Hurt
Lonnie Johnson- Long Black Train
Leadbelly- Alabama Bound
Charley Pride- Atlantic Coastal Line
Johnny Cash- Orange Blossom Special
Woody Guthrie- Little Black Train
Hank Williams Sr.- Lonesome Whistle
Roy Acuff- Freight Train Blues
Boxcar Willie- Old Train Song Medley (Some bang for your buck.)
Jerry Jeff Walker- Desperadoes Waiting for a Train
Hank Williams Sr.- The Devil's Train
Townes Van Zandt- Wabash Cannonball/Fraulein
Tom Waits- Down There By The Train
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
One for the Road
Another unfinished, partial-fiction, stream of consciousness written in third person to distance herself from the gut-wrenching content written some time ago.
She sat back on her haunches, huddled in the pseudo-industrial bathroom, trying not to touch anything. What the he'll was she doing? She couldn't keep her mind off of him, those few sultry summer nights, the heat so intense they would both awake drenched in the most delicious sweat. That stupid Mohawk. Thank god for it. If he didn't have it, chances are she would have done something foolish, much sooner anyway. She could barely breathe as her fingers deftly scrolled to her intention. It was now or never, she knew, but she wondered if he did. Just pick up, you asshole, she thought as her heart raced to the ringing tone. The door to whatever semblance of a relationship or what-could-have-been was rapidly swinging to a close. Of course it was his voicemail. Why did she even bother with this nonsense? Everything was always on his terms, she always acquiesced with him. He made her weak. Weak with desire, longing, weak with love. His azure eyes swirling and churning as the saline sea, that damn glint, as if the sun had a direct line. The slight lisp on his speech, like an adolescent wearing a much-maligned retainer. The ways his clothes hung ever so slightly large on his substantial frame. God, the way he looked in v-necks. That patch of blonde-grey hair, the way it sprung and wound around her fingers when she tugged at it. She couldn't get the slight-watery image of his eyes out of her mind. Why did he have to have such comedic timing? It's like he knows every time she is happy, and he swoops his tomahawk self in to throw a beautiful, romantic wrench into everything. To cast doubts and make her second guess. She shouldn't entertain such thoughts, but as the nights came on, she couldn't escape them. They crept in. He crept in. "you've got ten minutes to call me back fucker, it's now or never kid. This ain't a joke anymore." she didn't know whether she wanted him to call or not, as some of the fervor was draining out of her system. She just needed a little fix, something to tide her over for a while. Just the inflection in his voicemail would do for now. This stupid lunch idea. Why was he obsessed with lunch? If only lunch could last forever, she knew which one she would pick. she was so close to saying "meet me, noon tomorrow, at our place," but something stopped her. Common decency, perhaps? Doubtful. What was it that stopped her? Was it love? Devotion? Half a brain? A taste of his own medicine? There was something comforting about the red battery light flashing in the corner of her device. It made her choice a little easier, she wouldn't have to employ her typical cognitive dissonance. What the hell made her even do it? Seeing his mother didn't help. Rereading the frantic and obsessive messages certainly didn't either. She wanted to feel something harsh though. Something to contrast the marshmallow dream she had landed in. She wasn't used to such harmony. She thrived on chaos and pain because that's all she knew. Her defense mechanisms had no time card to punch any longer, she felt she was losing her edge, thankfully, but she had grown so accustomed, it felt foreign and naked. Maybe she was just looking for an excuse, something to order her world back to it's upside-down state. Because thinking back on when she first read that message, she didn't feel much. It grew more rose-tinted as the days and nights floated by. Was it just simple anxiety? Plain old fear, brought on by having this perfect picture, perched so deliberately upon the mantle, smashed to the ground by past demons. Was that dream and that day the beginning of this? It stands to reason. But the epiphany that night morning, what of that? She cried and thought of Mabel. She felt her, she felt she was in the right place,
She sat back on her haunches, huddled in the pseudo-industrial bathroom, trying not to touch anything. What the he'll was she doing? She couldn't keep her mind off of him, those few sultry summer nights, the heat so intense they would both awake drenched in the most delicious sweat. That stupid Mohawk. Thank god for it. If he didn't have it, chances are she would have done something foolish, much sooner anyway. She could barely breathe as her fingers deftly scrolled to her intention. It was now or never, she knew, but she wondered if he did. Just pick up, you asshole, she thought as her heart raced to the ringing tone. The door to whatever semblance of a relationship or what-could-have-been was rapidly swinging to a close. Of course it was his voicemail. Why did she even bother with this nonsense? Everything was always on his terms, she always acquiesced with him. He made her weak. Weak with desire, longing, weak with love. His azure eyes swirling and churning as the saline sea, that damn glint, as if the sun had a direct line. The slight lisp on his speech, like an adolescent wearing a much-maligned retainer. The ways his clothes hung ever so slightly large on his substantial frame. God, the way he looked in v-necks. That patch of blonde-grey hair, the way it sprung and wound around her fingers when she tugged at it. She couldn't get the slight-watery image of his eyes out of her mind. Why did he have to have such comedic timing? It's like he knows every time she is happy, and he swoops his tomahawk self in to throw a beautiful, romantic wrench into everything. To cast doubts and make her second guess. She shouldn't entertain such thoughts, but as the nights came on, she couldn't escape them. They crept in. He crept in. "you've got ten minutes to call me back fucker, it's now or never kid. This ain't a joke anymore." she didn't know whether she wanted him to call or not, as some of the fervor was draining out of her system. She just needed a little fix, something to tide her over for a while. Just the inflection in his voicemail would do for now. This stupid lunch idea. Why was he obsessed with lunch? If only lunch could last forever, she knew which one she would pick. she was so close to saying "meet me, noon tomorrow, at our place," but something stopped her. Common decency, perhaps? Doubtful. What was it that stopped her? Was it love? Devotion? Half a brain? A taste of his own medicine? There was something comforting about the red battery light flashing in the corner of her device. It made her choice a little easier, she wouldn't have to employ her typical cognitive dissonance. What the hell made her even do it? Seeing his mother didn't help. Rereading the frantic and obsessive messages certainly didn't either. She wanted to feel something harsh though. Something to contrast the marshmallow dream she had landed in. She wasn't used to such harmony. She thrived on chaos and pain because that's all she knew. Her defense mechanisms had no time card to punch any longer, she felt she was losing her edge, thankfully, but she had grown so accustomed, it felt foreign and naked. Maybe she was just looking for an excuse, something to order her world back to it's upside-down state. Because thinking back on when she first read that message, she didn't feel much. It grew more rose-tinted as the days and nights floated by. Was it just simple anxiety? Plain old fear, brought on by having this perfect picture, perched so deliberately upon the mantle, smashed to the ground by past demons. Was that dream and that day the beginning of this? It stands to reason. But the epiphany that night morning, what of that? She cried and thought of Mabel. She felt her, she felt she was in the right place,
Bukowski Loved to Bet the Horses
An unfinished stream of consciousness from a while back. A few notes: full moon, freak magnetism at cartoonish level, interrupted by some drunk and tragic asshole. Come to think of it, when am I not...
Bukowski loved to bet the horses. Who is this man I put my money on? All in. No safety net this time. You have to risk something that matters, but I risked it all on this absolute stranger. This stoic half dork, half stone cold fox. Dual natures the both of us. Living in a dream can quickly turn nightmarish. On a dime. I'm not looking for problems keeps echoing in my head. Maybe I am manufacturing them instead. Passive-aggressive is my nature. It satisfies my two halves, simultaneously. Ive always been a gambler at heart, for it is my legacy, but I let it all ride this time. Seventeen red. My whole stack. Everything I have. I do mean everything both tangible and in. Maybe, I'm the one clawing at the freshly dug Earth. Maybe it's just fear's time to set in. To confuse and upset my happiness. Last week was too trying for the beginning. It threw a monkey wrench in the whole machine. I want to scream or cry or kill or smother myself with a fluffed pillow of my own design. I feel kill-crazy. My hands around a throat. Hands around my throat. Clutching, choking, squeezing the last ounces of life out of me. Do I feel it or am I dead already? Is this dream really just a novacaine induced coma? Or is this what life tastes like? What happens to the boy who gets everything he ever wanted? Does he really live happily ever after? Or does he live some illusion, some hologram of happiness? never to see his true reflection again. A delusion. Bukowski was onto something with this red wine drinking, I'll tell you that. I feel more open and ungated than I've ever felt. There are no inhibitions to work around. There are literally no cares to hinder the process. Fuck it. Fuck them if they can't take a joke. Fuck them if they don't understand me or my writing. Or if they can't separate my writer's persona from the real person, if there is a discernment to be had. It remains unclear. It's just a facet of me. The chameleon, the super-empathizer. Highly suggestible to the intense emotional lives of the living. Never quite knowing where the empathy ends and my soul begins. What is the percentage of evil. Is it constant or does it change? Which side will eventually win out? I fear the nefarious always does. I wrote about past demons of others today, but what of my present demons? They are not as far away as I would like. But they also keep me sharp like a knife steel. Like pull my emotions taut so they can be plucked and manipulated onto the page and smeared into my waking life. Like dripping, pungent and intense oil pigments on a freshly-stretched piece of gesso-ed linen. The gobs of color cling to the canvas with a tenacious fervor unmatched by any other paint. There is no running. Just streaks of madness across the mind, pressed so hard it leaves indentations on the other side. Can life be the dizzying and frenetic abstract that my mind dictates and the Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post drawing of my heart? More like an oddly colored and slanted post-impressionistic landscape of my soul. I knew the lightning rod of freakishness was at full strength this afternoon, much to my relief, but perhaps to others chagrin. It fuels my writing, my honest, real, but seedy writing, but at what cost? Can the honest writer ever be happy? It doesn't appear to be if past precedent is to be believed. Hemingway, Tennessee, Bukowski, they all suffered, suffered not because of their art, but suffered because their neuroticism allowed them to create art. It is a by-product of madness. A worthwhile symptom of the disease. The only solace. The only solace afforded to the neurotic, hysterical, emotionally blessed/cursed writer. What a fucking night. I'm b
Bukowski loved to bet the horses. Who is this man I put my money on? All in. No safety net this time. You have to risk something that matters, but I risked it all on this absolute stranger. This stoic half dork, half stone cold fox. Dual natures the both of us. Living in a dream can quickly turn nightmarish. On a dime. I'm not looking for problems keeps echoing in my head. Maybe I am manufacturing them instead. Passive-aggressive is my nature. It satisfies my two halves, simultaneously. Ive always been a gambler at heart, for it is my legacy, but I let it all ride this time. Seventeen red. My whole stack. Everything I have. I do mean everything both tangible and in. Maybe, I'm the one clawing at the freshly dug Earth. Maybe it's just fear's time to set in. To confuse and upset my happiness. Last week was too trying for the beginning. It threw a monkey wrench in the whole machine. I want to scream or cry or kill or smother myself with a fluffed pillow of my own design. I feel kill-crazy. My hands around a throat. Hands around my throat. Clutching, choking, squeezing the last ounces of life out of me. Do I feel it or am I dead already? Is this dream really just a novacaine induced coma? Or is this what life tastes like? What happens to the boy who gets everything he ever wanted? Does he really live happily ever after? Or does he live some illusion, some hologram of happiness? never to see his true reflection again. A delusion. Bukowski was onto something with this red wine drinking, I'll tell you that. I feel more open and ungated than I've ever felt. There are no inhibitions to work around. There are literally no cares to hinder the process. Fuck it. Fuck them if they can't take a joke. Fuck them if they don't understand me or my writing. Or if they can't separate my writer's persona from the real person, if there is a discernment to be had. It remains unclear. It's just a facet of me. The chameleon, the super-empathizer. Highly suggestible to the intense emotional lives of the living. Never quite knowing where the empathy ends and my soul begins. What is the percentage of evil. Is it constant or does it change? Which side will eventually win out? I fear the nefarious always does. I wrote about past demons of others today, but what of my present demons? They are not as far away as I would like. But they also keep me sharp like a knife steel. Like pull my emotions taut so they can be plucked and manipulated onto the page and smeared into my waking life. Like dripping, pungent and intense oil pigments on a freshly-stretched piece of gesso-ed linen. The gobs of color cling to the canvas with a tenacious fervor unmatched by any other paint. There is no running. Just streaks of madness across the mind, pressed so hard it leaves indentations on the other side. Can life be the dizzying and frenetic abstract that my mind dictates and the Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post drawing of my heart? More like an oddly colored and slanted post-impressionistic landscape of my soul. I knew the lightning rod of freakishness was at full strength this afternoon, much to my relief, but perhaps to others chagrin. It fuels my writing, my honest, real, but seedy writing, but at what cost? Can the honest writer ever be happy? It doesn't appear to be if past precedent is to be believed. Hemingway, Tennessee, Bukowski, they all suffered, suffered not because of their art, but suffered because their neuroticism allowed them to create art. It is a by-product of madness. A worthwhile symptom of the disease. The only solace. The only solace afforded to the neurotic, hysterical, emotionally blessed/cursed writer. What a fucking night. I'm b
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