October 12, 2006
Words lost on journeys we walked on

Fallen leaves tainted a faint gold by the glow of the lone street-lamp, scattered in the shadows of the sidewalk, piled up against a random wall — perhaps by the wind, perhaps by a neighbour's rake — seem to whisper the passing of yet another year.

Autumn awakens unspoken words. A familiar song winding its way through copper wires that attached a modern piece of electronic marvel to my much-human ears dug up a distant, disjointed memory. That of standing on an unfamiliar curve, on an unfamiliar road, in an unfamiliar neighbourhood in the north of Boston, waiting for a bus that never seemed to arrive.

It was oppressively sunny and I'd left my sunglasses behind at my temporary home of a few days. Earphones firmly lodged in their proper place, my body swaying slightly but involuntarily to the gentle riff of the guitar, I seem to recall having walked a distance to a couple of bus stops down the street, thinking perhaps the time I spent standing could, instead, be spent walking. The bus must have finally arrived, but I have no recollection of where I was taking it to ...

It was the tail-end of winter, in a city loaded with memories, soul laden with shards leftover from too many broken things, I made friends with a writer-to-be who said to me that "a novel is just a long short story", and was puzzled when I burst out laughing. We traded books, and I came back to my temporary home one night to find him watching a French movie I'd already seen. That night I was surprised to discover that I could understand the language rather well, after what seemed like a long struggle to tuck it under my linguistic belt. Certainly well enough that I found pleasure in pointing out inaccuracies in the translated subtitles — as one would, in such an opportune circumstance.

Then I went from winter to winter, kissed a true love, back to a true home, to a city of squalling winds from the Antarctic and searing winds from the desert. Or was it still autumn? The comfort of old friends like the comfort of an old coat. Favourite places that I can name and give precise directions to.

Perhaps it was because that this was the album I'd always crave for the moment I stepped out of my front door every morning, that by the time I'd walked to the train station, the music had run its course and this very same song always found me standing on the open platform. The darkened asphalt, the bleak little beige station building that was too small to provide shelter on rainy days, the old waiting benches heavily ornamented with graffiti and scarred with overlapping messages of love and insults. People gradually gathering in the unspoken ritual of a collective act — that of the wait.

I marvelled at the dress sense of Melbournians — all dark grey and black — our notion of winter elegance simplified to the point of monochrome. I marvelled at those who seem to be purposeful even in the early hour of the morning, armed with a newspaper, an umbrella, or a briefcase for the day of work ahead, and the evening beyond that to look forward to. But first, we had to wait for the next train — the one that never seemed to arrive.

Yet these trains must have come. My memories of waiting persist beyond those of moments when the doors of the carriage slid open, or when the door of the bus folded to one side, welcoming one into a mobile cocoon. These trains must have arrived at some point. Finally, eventually. They must have arrived in order for me to have left, and left all that behind.

Posted by sniffles at 11:08 PM