The romance of Chicago's mass transit system - of any train, really - is the sensation that fate, not the thousands of volts running through the third rail, is what has brought you and everone else together for the minutes you'll spend sharing space and glances. You can't help but watch and wonder at the luck of it all, of all the stories, unspoken but glimpsed - in a wet kleenex clutched in a trembling hand - in a brilliant bag and horrible shoes - in the slurred, murmured pleas of late-night drunks to stomachs, to deities, to this GODDAMN TRAIN TO STOP SHAKING SO MUCH. In an interview, the poet, John Ashbery, mentioned that he found himself embarassed, but unable to stop himself from working his craft between Berlin and Paris - self-conscious about being a grown man earnestly scribbling sentiment while on a train.
It's easy to understand the impusle, though, doncha think?
These people certainly do.
No comments:
Post a Comment