Videos by: Madis Katz
Five cigarettes on Armenian railway
1st cigarette
2nd cigarette
3d cigarette
4th cigarette
5th cigarette
20101003
20100705
2010.06 Moskva - Izevsk
Text by: Madis Katz
See on nii rahulik. Magav platskaart, mõni jäse vahekäiku ulatumas. Pehme öövalgus. Piisavalt pime, et mitte lasta mul lugeda. Veel kergelt heledama (pimedast vaadates) taeva all paistvad maastiku varjud, tühi koht meie boksi vastas. Natuke nutvad lapsed, kelles väikseimat kussutatakse magama. Tunnen, et võiksin rääkida kõiki sõnatuid keeli, võiksin olla kõigi sõber.
Sellistel õhtutel armastan reisimist.
Kommi tahaks.
Hommikuks oleme kõik paistes nagu pelmeenid. Head und.
See on nii rahulik. Magav platskaart, mõni jäse vahekäiku ulatumas. Pehme öövalgus. Piisavalt pime, et mitte lasta mul lugeda. Veel kergelt heledama (pimedast vaadates) taeva all paistvad maastiku varjud, tühi koht meie boksi vastas. Natuke nutvad lapsed, kelles väikseimat kussutatakse magama. Tunnen, et võiksin rääkida kõiki sõnatuid keeli, võiksin olla kõigi sõber.
Sellistel õhtutel armastan reisimist.
Kommi tahaks.
Hommikuks oleme kõik paistes nagu pelmeenid. Head und.
20100510
2010.05 Balti jaam - Kivimäe
text by: Madis Katz
These trains are electrical. That’s nice. Green and so. And they have those cute places to hang your bicycles. Even if you don’t ride one, you just need to love that.
I’ve been riding them – those electrical trains - all my life. Except past few years; i just live in a another city. “no-electrical trains”-type of a city. No trams either.
I came from that other city. From bus station of the capital I walked to the tram stop, meeting a famous beggar – young woman, fluent in many languages, equipped with medium size wheely-subcase. She asks politely for money to take a bus home, playing pitiful. Different bums in other city do it also. But they are happy with ten times less money. They never get too intrusive; their legends are sometimes absurdish, but the performance is almost always worth a little pay. She? She got her pictures into newspapers. Greedy, girl.
Tram and then train station. Trains and select the correct one. Inside it and a friend. Sat and talked.
She had yellow boot straps. I had green suit. She had flowers on her shirt and a skirt. I had a cap and brown scarf with big hole in it. We talked.
I noted my stop closing up, getting up early, being at the door early.
Train stops, I can see the platform, just there, behind the doors. I stare at it for a second, memories, or mental notes about those signs saying something about some doors staying shut at some levels of platforms. I stare for a long second, Ii take a half step back, have a glance inside the wagon. Some people, she also, are showing me to take another door. I feel I look stupid; I rush through tambour, get to the other side, train is starting it’s move again and doors are shut, there also, anyway. Fuckin’hell! I’ve done it for few times. I mean walked back from Pääsküla because I fell asleep or something. It’s 20 minutes walk (some in green) what I usually don’t mind too much, but on that day I did mind! My great grandaunt got 91, it’s her party, and i’m late! Because i cant get out from the train!
Jumped out in Pääsküla, there was a train on the other side of the platform. Jumped in, joined an old guy on his seats and asked when will the train go – (yes, they do stand and start there sometimes) but he couldn’t understand. I changed the seats, asked a young lady now. She seemingly couldn’t get me either. “What?” she asked - “The train? It’s stopped, right? When does it kind of... go?” – “ehmm.. Instantly..?”.
This guess was kind of good. Train did start moving.
I saw a conductor, explained her my awkward situation, complained about e mess, claimed, that all the doors could be opened. She gave me those tired, “can’t-you-read-you- little-fucker?”-eyes and went along. I was just hoping for a little dialogue, ticket-buy/ohno- notbuy wasn’t the main issue.
I was lucky enough to have the right door to get out.
Few times more now I have had train rides in this city. And yes, now when you tell me, I yes can see the signs, and I yes can hear the machine-girl voice telling me to note which platforms are high, which low and which doors coincide with them. And even a little screen with running text telling to mind all those things, yes I see.
This machine-girl, she just doesn’t have yellow boot straps.
These trains are electrical. That’s nice. Green and so. And they have those cute places to hang your bicycles. Even if you don’t ride one, you just need to love that.
I’ve been riding them – those electrical trains - all my life. Except past few years; i just live in a another city. “no-electrical trains”-type of a city. No trams either.
I came from that other city. From bus station of the capital I walked to the tram stop, meeting a famous beggar – young woman, fluent in many languages, equipped with medium size wheely-subcase. She asks politely for money to take a bus home, playing pitiful. Different bums in other city do it also. But they are happy with ten times less money. They never get too intrusive; their legends are sometimes absurdish, but the performance is almost always worth a little pay. She? She got her pictures into newspapers. Greedy, girl.
Tram and then train station. Trains and select the correct one. Inside it and a friend. Sat and talked.
She had yellow boot straps. I had green suit. She had flowers on her shirt and a skirt. I had a cap and brown scarf with big hole in it. We talked.
I noted my stop closing up, getting up early, being at the door early.
Train stops, I can see the platform, just there, behind the doors. I stare at it for a second, memories, or mental notes about those signs saying something about some doors staying shut at some levels of platforms. I stare for a long second, Ii take a half step back, have a glance inside the wagon. Some people, she also, are showing me to take another door. I feel I look stupid; I rush through tambour, get to the other side, train is starting it’s move again and doors are shut, there also, anyway. Fuckin’hell! I’ve done it for few times. I mean walked back from Pääsküla because I fell asleep or something. It’s 20 minutes walk (some in green) what I usually don’t mind too much, but on that day I did mind! My great grandaunt got 91, it’s her party, and i’m late! Because i cant get out from the train!
Jumped out in Pääsküla, there was a train on the other side of the platform. Jumped in, joined an old guy on his seats and asked when will the train go – (yes, they do stand and start there sometimes) but he couldn’t understand. I changed the seats, asked a young lady now. She seemingly couldn’t get me either. “What?” she asked - “The train? It’s stopped, right? When does it kind of... go?” – “ehmm.. Instantly..?”.
This guess was kind of good. Train did start moving.
I saw a conductor, explained her my awkward situation, complained about e mess, claimed, that all the doors could be opened. She gave me those tired, “can’t-you-read-you- little-fucker?”-eyes and went along. I was just hoping for a little dialogue, ticket-buy/ohno- notbuy wasn’t the main issue.
I was lucky enough to have the right door to get out.
Few times more now I have had train rides in this city. And yes, now when you tell me, I yes can see the signs, and I yes can hear the machine-girl voice telling me to note which platforms are high, which low and which doors coincide with them. And even a little screen with running text telling to mind all those things, yes I see.
This machine-girl, she just doesn’t have yellow boot straps.
20100509
2009 autumn San-Jose - Puerto Viejo
text by: Ann Kuut
Niiskus, niiskus, niiskus...Mu juuksed ei kuiva ära...Ujun läbi õhu...Niiskus...Autorajale sajab kosk, pilved upuvad puulatvadesse...Niiskus...Juuksed ei kuiva, deodorant ka mitte...Punased konnad olla mürgised ja lained suured...Niiskus...Kõrvad on kõrgusest lukus...Elu vihmametsas – vihmapilves – pilves, vihmas, elus...metsas
Niiskus, niiskus, niiskus...Mu juuksed ei kuiva ära...Ujun läbi õhu...Niiskus...Autorajale sajab kosk, pilved upuvad puulatvadesse...Niiskus...Juuksed ei kuiva, deodorant ka mitte...Punased konnad olla mürgised ja lained suured...Niiskus...Kõrvad on kõrgusest lukus...Elu vihmametsas – vihmapilves – pilves, vihmas, elus...metsas
2009 autumn Forthamilton Parkway
Text by: Ann Kuut
Veidras udus, linna sudus, kus Forthamilton Pway on täis linnulaulu, rööpad, mida ümbritseb suitsev ja kolisev korstende ja metroorataste džungel...Kõik peidetud siia ühte neoonvalguse kärasse, sellese masinakisasse...Mina siin, pisike, selle kõige keskel, astunud välja telepildist...mina siin
Veidras udus, linna sudus, kus Forthamilton Pway on täis linnulaulu, rööpad, mida ümbritseb suitsev ja kolisev korstende ja metroorataste džungel...Kõik peidetud siia ühte neoonvalguse kärasse, sellese masinakisasse...Mina siin, pisike, selle kõige keskel, astunud välja telepildist...mina siin
2008.04 Tartu-Tõravere
Text by: Ann Kuut
Tere hommikust lilleke! Näen sind täna jälle natuke teise nurga alt...Natuke ilusamana...Hommik on heledam ja tõelisem kui eile...ja rongijaamas on naljakas tunnel...
Istungi rongis...ilma sihtkohata...Millal veel kui mitte praegu, eks ju? „12 toolis“ oli tore lause: „Elu ei saa elada hing taevas, keha maa peal.“ Tõsi jutt! Nii et lasen kehal ja hingel mõlemil rõõmsa rõõsa põrssana mudas solgendada ja püherdada...
Tohoh...Nüüd läheb huvitavaks...Rongi rattad ragisevad...Sihtkoht on selgunud – Teravere või Tõravere vms. Tuleb pärast Nõod, et ma maha ei magaks...
Milline rahu...Ei tilkagi rahutust...Päike põikleb läbi piiskades klaasi ja teeb sõitjaile diskot...Mina olen juba ammugi varvastel ja keerutan ja keerlen...läbi Eestimaa märgunud heinamaade ja mööda kasetohku üles...Tema ja sambla lõhn jäävad veel kauaks mu küünte alla ja seebiga maha ei tulegi...Kobrutavad kükakil hurtsikud, mida küünistavad puud... „Täna näen ma Eestimaad!“ Klopsitud plekki vineeri peal, roostes tünne, kus vihmavees roisknevad lehed...Kooruv värv ja nuuksuv loodus: „Andke mulle tagasi mu rüü...mu ehe...mu kalleim vara...Ära nüli mind...“ Ahh, niisama siristan siin elektriliinil...
Tere hommikust lilleke! Näen sind täna jälle natuke teise nurga alt...Natuke ilusamana...Hommik on heledam ja tõelisem kui eile...ja rongijaamas on naljakas tunnel...
Istungi rongis...ilma sihtkohata...Millal veel kui mitte praegu, eks ju? „12 toolis“ oli tore lause: „Elu ei saa elada hing taevas, keha maa peal.“ Tõsi jutt! Nii et lasen kehal ja hingel mõlemil rõõmsa rõõsa põrssana mudas solgendada ja püherdada...
Tohoh...Nüüd läheb huvitavaks...Rongi rattad ragisevad...Sihtkoht on selgunud – Teravere või Tõravere vms. Tuleb pärast Nõod, et ma maha ei magaks...
Milline rahu...Ei tilkagi rahutust...Päike põikleb läbi piiskades klaasi ja teeb sõitjaile diskot...Mina olen juba ammugi varvastel ja keerutan ja keerlen...läbi Eestimaa märgunud heinamaade ja mööda kasetohku üles...Tema ja sambla lõhn jäävad veel kauaks mu küünte alla ja seebiga maha ei tulegi...Kobrutavad kükakil hurtsikud, mida küünistavad puud... „Täna näen ma Eestimaad!“ Klopsitud plekki vineeri peal, roostes tünne, kus vihmavees roisknevad lehed...Kooruv värv ja nuuksuv loodus: „Andke mulle tagasi mu rüü...mu ehe...mu kalleim vara...Ära nüli mind...“ Ahh, niisama siristan siin elektriliinil...
20100222
20100218
2010.02 Tartu - Tallinn
Text by: T. P.
Friday the twelfth – Brave Tallinn
I had had one and a half amongst those shaky days when nothing stays in your hand; falls, fails, goes on undone.
But I fucking wanted to get on that train.
Bought rum, cola; asked for lime juice – they had none. Cigarette tobacco and papers. Took my bag and smiled for some acquaintances in the queue – “For the train trip” I think I said just to say something. They lifed-up, and one told me to be careful, wagging finger at me, or I end up in Kursky Vaksal.
“No worries, I didn’t buy the nail polish,” I replied, happy that I had read that book.
I fixed up first half of a litre Evian baby-bottle mixture before the train. Tasted it; missing of lime was blowing the sacrality; - blow it, laymen! I had to forget I had no lime, no sugar. It was, and tasted more like of those “rum-and-colas” my mother and her friends at some point so much liked; sure things at New Years Eve parties.
No, today it was “Viva la Cuba!” for me. I needed Cuba. Drink just had to motivate.
I hate to rush to get the train.
And I did it again. Few uncertain minutes I had for smoking on the door.
I took this old carriage with gawky seats, but comfortable in their length, amusing in their style.
Happy as relaxed. Train took me away from those falls, fails and undones. Fuckers! Moving train is escapism.
Earphones enwrapped me down to my selected world. Sat, zipped from baby-bottle. I was slow with myself and heavily enjoying it. I only tried to catch the eyes of the girl sitting opposite; to play or to startle her (would I have done it?), never did, and then she went off. Jõgeva. It came fast.
I was left alone on three metres of bench in two pieces, now mine.
I had to write a SMS, important to do it on that day. Young thing they are, nevertheless markers of a new protocol. Not too soon, not too late, not at the perfect time either I went for this little polite appeal for creativity, bordered in space with 160 letters. I used my generous synchrony, for inspiration and fill; it did the job.
And a phone call. But this one I really wanted myself. The last injection, the last possibility to add a bit to the fuel gathered, now burning for my Tallinn.
I called. Talked and laughed. Got my charge, but it was the very last moment. Taste of virtuality; my cure was powered up while there, in between, moving from reality to be a plain memory.
I was making my trip at the latest possible time. Cuba Libre! Don’t fail on me now or I am fucked.
My usual style is “dreamers gaze” when alone, at sunbathing, rain-tipped, cloud-caressed, whatever trees and villages, huts and fields passing by.
Shaky-wavy, lit with warm yellow, tipped with modest number of subjects for attention – my carriage was my space ship here and now, no will to look out from the window. Out there was plain nothing, only movement mattered.
I’m lucky for those old-styled carriages are still there. Time has soaked them up; something leaks out and infects passengers with its vibe. It’s different. Strong for those who still have antennas out. These latter ones are clients. Clients of time, not the train company.
It would never feel so pure and understandable to fix another baby-bottle on those “new” and “comfortable” blue seats. Here, just a bit more in the past, it’s not rebellious or original. It’s done too many times. I feel no urge to rebel at the “blue seat compartment”. I’m a visitor, a passenger.
My generation – we are no revolutionaries. We take what’s there, never care for the past or reasons.
Who knows, I might get inspired and one day, when have to, I drink those blue seats brown and bulky, so that everybody can see and remember what trains can be. Yes, grayhoppers, behold! – the world on wheels and tracks!
Not today; music and baby-bottle made the ride short. Distance and time merged in a relaxed escapism; tensed as tuned in for brave Tallinn.
Lights of the approaching nest of a capital were closing in on the train in otherwise snowfrozen darkness behind the windows. I was almost through with my second baby bottle and perfectly immune.
Friday the twelfth – Brave Tallinn
I had had one and a half amongst those shaky days when nothing stays in your hand; falls, fails, goes on undone.
But I fucking wanted to get on that train.
Bought rum, cola; asked for lime juice – they had none. Cigarette tobacco and papers. Took my bag and smiled for some acquaintances in the queue – “For the train trip” I think I said just to say something. They lifed-up, and one told me to be careful, wagging finger at me, or I end up in Kursky Vaksal.
“No worries, I didn’t buy the nail polish,” I replied, happy that I had read that book.
I fixed up first half of a litre Evian baby-bottle mixture before the train. Tasted it; missing of lime was blowing the sacrality; - blow it, laymen! I had to forget I had no lime, no sugar. It was, and tasted more like of those “rum-and-colas” my mother and her friends at some point so much liked; sure things at New Years Eve parties.
No, today it was “Viva la Cuba!” for me. I needed Cuba. Drink just had to motivate.
I hate to rush to get the train.
And I did it again. Few uncertain minutes I had for smoking on the door.
I took this old carriage with gawky seats, but comfortable in their length, amusing in their style.
Happy as relaxed. Train took me away from those falls, fails and undones. Fuckers! Moving train is escapism.
Earphones enwrapped me down to my selected world. Sat, zipped from baby-bottle. I was slow with myself and heavily enjoying it. I only tried to catch the eyes of the girl sitting opposite; to play or to startle her (would I have done it?), never did, and then she went off. Jõgeva. It came fast.
I was left alone on three metres of bench in two pieces, now mine.
I had to write a SMS, important to do it on that day. Young thing they are, nevertheless markers of a new protocol. Not too soon, not too late, not at the perfect time either I went for this little polite appeal for creativity, bordered in space with 160 letters. I used my generous synchrony, for inspiration and fill; it did the job.
And a phone call. But this one I really wanted myself. The last injection, the last possibility to add a bit to the fuel gathered, now burning for my Tallinn.
I called. Talked and laughed. Got my charge, but it was the very last moment. Taste of virtuality; my cure was powered up while there, in between, moving from reality to be a plain memory.
I was making my trip at the latest possible time. Cuba Libre! Don’t fail on me now or I am fucked.
My usual style is “dreamers gaze” when alone, at sunbathing, rain-tipped, cloud-caressed, whatever trees and villages, huts and fields passing by.
Shaky-wavy, lit with warm yellow, tipped with modest number of subjects for attention – my carriage was my space ship here and now, no will to look out from the window. Out there was plain nothing, only movement mattered.
I’m lucky for those old-styled carriages are still there. Time has soaked them up; something leaks out and infects passengers with its vibe. It’s different. Strong for those who still have antennas out. These latter ones are clients. Clients of time, not the train company.
It would never feel so pure and understandable to fix another baby-bottle on those “new” and “comfortable” blue seats. Here, just a bit more in the past, it’s not rebellious or original. It’s done too many times. I feel no urge to rebel at the “blue seat compartment”. I’m a visitor, a passenger.
My generation – we are no revolutionaries. We take what’s there, never care for the past or reasons.
Who knows, I might get inspired and one day, when have to, I drink those blue seats brown and bulky, so that everybody can see and remember what trains can be. Yes, grayhoppers, behold! – the world on wheels and tracks!
Not today; music and baby-bottle made the ride short. Distance and time merged in a relaxed escapism; tensed as tuned in for brave Tallinn.
Lights of the approaching nest of a capital were closing in on the train in otherwise snowfrozen darkness behind the windows. I was almost through with my second baby bottle and perfectly immune.
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