Awareness

Observation

I think about sleeping. I try to fold my legs as comfortably as possible in the tiny space and my foot slips from where I try to wedge it against the side of the train. I hope I don't flash the slightly older than middle-aged man drinking beer on the other side of the aisle too much leg, but I don't really care. There's not enough space and I'm so tired.

I can feel the vibration of the motion and the clackety clack and shudder of the carriage through where I rest my forehead against the glass. I worry briefly that my clean but slightly messy hair will gather the grime, acquire the smears that can be seen plainly against the blackness from outside that makes the window so opaque. Either that or it will be the other way around, it will be me creating the smudges, one of those unhygienic slummers that have no consideration for the meaning of public surface. I rest my head and try not to watch my reflection stare back at me; it's too close and focussing hurts my eyes. There's still not enough space, it's almost claustrophobic. I want to sleep, but there's only 12 minutes left until Cardiff station (or so the announcement tells me) and I haven't come this far to sleep past my stop. It's supposed to be a 2 hour journey, so far it's taken well over 5.

A droplet crawls down the glass just in front of my line of sight. It judders erratically, not quite falling. I try to keep track of exactly where it collects the bits of past droplets' snail-trails along its path and where it leaves the same behind. An old game that never fails to frustrate me with its futility. The train is leaking, the roof deficient as 2 seats ahead of me water assembles on the upper rim of the window. The pieces swell impossibly and slip along the edge with the rocking of the train until finally, fat and bloated, gravity takes them.

Not like my droplet that makes its way so selfishly and grudgingly, a chaotic line dance with only 1 dimension. It sinks into the rubber that seals me away from the black, or possibly just away from my reflection. The droplet is gone in any case, I don't sleep, and fandom without the internet is a strange thing. Almost as strange as when fandom takes on flesh and bone and digital entities greet you in life, a collision I'll never get over. Inside is outside is inside, but I don't know if I'd be able to watch water through double glazing.

Memory

I get attacked by 4 street cleaners on the way home, and a man of non-specific derogatory description kicks over a dustbin in order to impress the girls he's with. Rebel, rebel, I'll always be a rebel. When people pass I try to crawl into the walls as I walk and struggle not to feel like too much of a sick cliché. Some of them talk and hurry, some of them eat greasy chips from paper cones, the paper without the newsprint which surprises me every time I see it. Newsprint belongs in fish shops, and some of the people wear stupid shoes and pale pink skirts that I wish I could get away with.

I'm still tired and my back aches, nagging, like it has for the last 2 days. I ignore it, but I turn a corner and there is the first cleaner, it's so much I almost scream. I almost walk right into it, to get run down and to lose my feet beneath it as they are swept away by the protruding brushes. The machine whirs, a busy insect with bright white lights peering, examining all about. I run away from its gaze into the empty road where cars are so much less threatening. I watch the second carefully, and the third, and by the forth I'm already trying to work out how to blog about this. What is it they're supposed to so energetically accomplish? They move the dirt around, and maybe sweep away the drunks.

I remember being 4, when we had a mauve vacuum cleaner, one of the stand up ones with handles that you push about. It lit up across the front and made what seemed to a very persistent and angry noise whilst in use. I used to hide under the dining room table and scamper around to make sure it didn't get my feet, half terrified and half gleeful. The white table cloth would hang down over the black wood and sometimes it would be necessary to climb into a chair and tuck my feet up, safe out of harm's way. Now it's an occasional joke to attack with the new vacuum cleaner nozzle, but I still remember telling myself stories about monsters lighting up and whirring.

Physical

My fingers feel swollen as I fumble for my keys in the front pocket of my overstuffed rucksack. They're not really swollen, I can tell by the ring I've only recently started wearing again, as always only one hand wash away from being lost in another Ladie's WC. It's loose on my finger, and that's not how it sits when my hands inflate. I bought it in a market square in an italian town we stopped off in for lunch not long into the drive from Naples back to England. I don't remember its name, but there was a fountain and ice cream, and now I have ring with a celtic knot that somehow still hasn't managed to lose itself the same way the rest of my entire ring collection has scattered itself about the country. It rests temperatureless above my knuckle and the joints refuse to flex, the skin stretching.

I drop the keys and check my hands as I bend to pick them up again. The flesh is pink and pinched from where I have been carrying the plastic bag and I can feel how my lips are chapped and dry for no good reason apparent to myself. My calves sleep within my boots and my back still aches. I collect my mail and collapse on my bed, unknotting, untying and finally kicking. I peel off the fishnets, the only tights I could find, and wonder if I'd still like them if they ever started to wrinkle around the knee.

I drink, I write, I wish I could be bothered to make myself some food. I make typos. I regret not leaving a sheet on my bed when I left as I attempt to arrange laptop, duvet, and limbs in the most soothing design I can, failing, as always. My eyes strain closed with my fingers and uncared for nails still on the keyboard.

I sleep. Maybe. Soon.

Posted by Missiedith at May 5, 2004 1:43 AM | TrackBack