Train of Consciousness
Writing a story across England. We’re on the train going out like the Lion of March having come in long since a Lamb, headed on to Oban, Scotland. Terrell, Scottie and me. Three free, loose on the landscape . . . Spires of Oxford yielding to The Cotswolds, Coventry, Birmingham . . . into the old rust belt of England. Writing our stories together, a game of Scrabble © of the heart. Strange awarenesses of returning to the Mother of our emerging at the end of the long rail line at a place called Oban. Oh, but, much life to live and tell of before then. We’re not nearly out of letters; yet I can’t find a triple letter score for my Q or Z. Knowing how to spell your own name is hard enough, connecting self to the story of another harder still and all with the chance of multiple fates beneath, impossible.
We’re changing trains at Wolverhampton and onward then to Glasgow. I’m beginning to remember who I was as we Scrabble © our way across the platform to our next waiting time and space machine. Moving in an Eternity of silence now so seamlessly it seems we’re light beams in a thought experiment. Tee equals Boo times Scooter squared, more or less, as without poetic license, the Lake District leaps, lapses and is left behind, a relatively space of mind. Carlisle Station, ancient walls of ancient towns protected now not by fortification but by a total irrelevance to history. Grade rising toward the Midlands. Great betweens of light-beams and clouds and streams, onward on unto Glasgow.
Racing out of Glasgow Central to find a way to Glasgow Queen St. and finding a cabby chap who is thoroughly pissed at having copped a fare for only three blocks and two Quid. Fish and Chips and off on Platform 4 to the Western Isles. Low sun along Loch Lomond, the dying embers of remembered gloamings of long ago and love within the heather-thistled hills. The work of glaciers evident in Scottish wonders as the land lends rapture to our pressing on against the grain of eons. ‘Til there is Oban, the Gaelic safe harbor of Kings and Lords, gateway to the Western Isles and home of Aros Ard B & B. Night graciously pronounces benediction on eight hours of training on how to leave Oxford and become Haggis in the Highlands.
Writing a story across England. We’re on the train going out like the Lion of March having come in long since a Lamb, headed on to Oban, Scotland. Terrell, Scottie and me. Three free, loose on the landscape . . . Spires of Oxford yielding to The Cotswolds, Coventry, Birmingham . . . into the old rust belt of England. Writing our stories together, a game of Scrabble © of the heart. Strange awarenesses of returning to the Mother of our emerging at the end of the long rail line at a place called Oban. Oh, but, much life to live and tell of before then. We’re not nearly out of letters; yet I can’t find a triple letter score for my Q or Z. Knowing how to spell your own name is hard enough, connecting self to the story of another harder still and all with the chance of multiple fates beneath, impossible.
We’re changing trains at Wolverhampton and onward then to Glasgow. I’m beginning to remember who I was as we Scrabble © our way across the platform to our next waiting time and space machine. Moving in an Eternity of silence now so seamlessly it seems we’re light beams in a thought experiment. Tee equals Boo times Scooter squared, more or less, as without poetic license, the Lake District leaps, lapses and is left behind, a relatively space of mind. Carlisle Station, ancient walls of ancient towns protected now not by fortification but by a total irrelevance to history. Grade rising toward the Midlands. Great betweens of light-beams and clouds and streams, onward on unto Glasgow.
Racing out of Glasgow Central to find a way to Glasgow Queen St. and finding a cabby chap who is thoroughly pissed at having copped a fare for only three blocks and two Quid. Fish and Chips and off on Platform 4 to the Western Isles. Low sun along Loch Lomond, the dying embers of remembered gloamings of long ago and love within the heather-thistled hills. The work of glaciers evident in Scottish wonders as the land lends rapture to our pressing on against the grain of eons. ‘Til there is Oban, the Gaelic safe harbor of Kings and Lords, gateway to the Western Isles and home of Aros Ard B & B. Night graciously pronounces benediction on eight hours of training on how to leave Oxford and become Haggis in the Highlands.
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