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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