The research has been productive. Now it is time to write, to begin to pull it all together – to go to that place that all artists know – the lull, the isolated place not of this world where you work your craft and you produce. Martin, it begins.
Not haven ridden a train since I was in one of those infamous Amtrak train derailments many years ago, the call is strong to take a train trip. That literal train wreck was deadly and disasterous for so many. There are no seat belts on trains. Suitcases become missiles, a train on it’s side is a sealed, long, dark coffin. The exit windows are too high to access for the width of a train is 18 feet, impossible to reach, even standing on the shoulders of a man — we tried. The doors are pneumatic and cannot be opened. The immobilized casket begins to fill with deadly smoke, while the brackish water in which the train car has landed begins a swift entrance, like a swollen river spitting back the pathetic man-made sandbags declaring you, little ones, you are the trespassers, and I have arrived to claim my due.
In my train car I came to, in the dark, laying in the the luggage rack, now the floor of the train, covered in heavy suitcases, purses, and debris, with the dark waters rising and muffled moans of other passengers, wondering if my legs would move, my arms would move and if they did, what next.
The fact that I would consider a train ride, yet again, is something strange. But I am. I want to load my satchel with poetry, and mysteries, and fashion magazines, candy bars, peanut pies and oreos. I want to wear black, like my grandmother always wore, when she took an important train trip. I want to turn off the phone, forget the laptop, take my lovely onyx pen and leather bound journal, and write, and my camera, oh, yes, and my camera.
The OutPatient Monk describes his ride as a religious experience. I agree. It can be. I love his blog of simple faith. Maybe because that is the only kind of faith I have ever known. Simple, very simple.