Diary of a Suspended Driver 3rd Day...

3rd Day

To Melbourne:

Climate change has hit with a vengeance here the morning is like an afternoon in Brisbane. What is this? The air is like steel wool; grey, nasty and jagged. The people on the platform are limp like my daughters Cabbage Patch dolls. Whatever happened to Cabbage patch dolls? They were expensive at a time when we could not afford them. You had to order them and then wait for them to arrive at the shop, hand made, ugly, with their own name and birth certificate. It was worth it! my daughters loved them and they are still home together in the spare bedroom lined up and looking as good as when we first bought them. Maybe they were not that expensive after all. The commuters move onto the station like Cabbage Patch dolls.
Reading the paper as I sit mute among the most social animals in the world is like purgatory. Politics in this country has descended into low farce, bottom dwelling carp have nothing on our pollies at the moment.  But then it works and that is all that counts... "You get the politicians you deserve..."
I break out the computer and start editing Daughters...
The bloke beside me is my twin we click away on our laptops oblivious to  the passing parade of the most" livable city in the World".
The city platform is busy but not crowded, I walk from one side to the other catching the train to the outer North as though it was ordered for me.
We start our journey out, I think back to my history lessons why do all the trains and roads radiate out from Melbourne like spokes on a wheel? Because that is the way the rivers and creeks run. the pioneers followed the line of least resistance and we have been stuck with a system that means you have to go in before you can go out.
Amazing though how human collective will and endeavour means I can travel from way out to in and out again in relative comfort, safety and in fairly good time.
I watch two women in animated conversation, their bodies talk as much or more then their mouths. Hands in motion, bodies turned and leaning toward each other to, eye contact oblivious to all, ah friendship is beautiful whatever its guise.
Amazing that the Internet is not guaranteed on train journeys hard to stay on the ABC.

To Kyneton:
Returning is like fixing a nagging tooth ache, you know you have to go through the pain for the the relief it will bring at the end.
The commuters seek shade from the fireball sun, crouching in the shadows, small beads of perspiration gathering in all those places. Their heads are bowed and their minds are concentrating on something faraway.
The speakers shout "stay behind the yellow line", some shuffle nervously, most are indifferent. They rush to get onto the near empty train, seeking what? The best seat! Or is it just their competitive nature?
At the Melbourne station cops patrol along and up and down. Billboards proclaim 'Have you got what it takes' "Do you want to make a difference' .
Why do commuters always look nervous? Car drivers never seem to look nervous, how many car drivers are killed as compared to commuters?
I figure they are that way because they are dependant on other, the other, their fate is in the hands of Metro, train drivers, rail tracks, power outages, suicides... We hate to be dependant, far better to be independent despite the cost!
The girl over from me is about thirteen and trying to look about twenty, boy its tough out there if you have to do it that way.
Summer may be hot, but it sure makes it easier to commute, clothes are light and stations warm.
The bloke next to me is reading the age compact version, first person besides me who I have seen doing that. I smugly surmise that he must be a professional. I am conceited, God help me I am.
Walking home the air is cool, commuters rush, why do they always do that? Their home nearly!
Contrary me decides to slow down, I am rewarded with the rolling vista of the Campaspe lazy in a summer haze meandering around the Kyneton perimeter.

4th Day
Off on Holidays to a Lake faraway.
Maureen had planned this week off months ago figuring we would need a break after KATIE'S departure to Kenya (See previous Blog-Giving until it hurts) she was right.
But first I must go to work and then catch a country train to a pick up point in the country. Every thing is packed, car, boat , food , fishing gear, essentials. It is amazing how small things like no license concentrates your mind and turns one into a planner.

The sky is red, beautiful in its eerie stillness, and threatening in its portents. The city as we approach it is shrouded obliterated fron view in a dirty brown smudge. Did we do that? Those bloody car drivers did, not us commuters! We are doing our bit for the planet.
A little girl bike rider, stands nervously by her bike, guarding it, sometimes Lycra just not do it.
Balieur fell on his sword I read, I wonder who was holding it? The conservatives say it has nothing in common with Julia's job on Kevin. The progressives say the electorate did not elect Naphthine...
What bloody hypocrites and Bull........!
I start editing Daughters again....It sis amazing some of the stuff one writes and how one writes it. How did I write something like that? Bloody Hell ...
At the Melbourne station the train is slightly late, but not to bad, the crowd builds, stoic, impassive, concentrated.
Amazing how school girls always travel in packs of five.
Work is fun and I buy a few more fishing items at lunchtime-just in case.

To the Country.

I am to catch the  diesel heading north, its late. Two boys have tempted fate by running across the tracks just before it arrives, the speaker shouts out a warning, they run off, police arrive but they are gone. A young school girl stands directly in the way of departing and hurrying passengers she is also tempting fate. An oil tanker train goes crunching past on the other track, smoke, graffiti, and grease-impressive.
The diesel is old, worn, it seems  moulded onto the tracks, the carriages are well traveled they seem to sag a little, or is that me. Crowded I stand for the first time, hanging on as the sway rocks me.
Standing the carriage looks like a Dr Who time machine, hurling along through a unknown universe. The commuters in it have surrendered all their human qualities and become mute, self absorbed, cut outs. But that is what is expected and I am no exception.
The people on this line seem to be a lower social demographic then the Kyneton line. Or is it because it is Friday?
I get a seat after a drop off and contemplate the week ahead-no commuting. The couple across from me are talking in sign language, now that is an idea.
The alcoholic in the next seat looks afraid. Why does the demon alcohol stamp its slaves with the same gaunt, hepatic, eaten out hollow look?
A trio of boys whisper dirty jokes to each other and stifle laughs. AH nothing changes...
A school girl has shortened her dress and undone her buttons, giggles nothings with her mates. AH nothing changes...
The train gurgles interrupts to a stop at the destination. I meet son in law George on the station (all prearranged) Maureen has not arrived in the Cruiser yet.
We duck across to the pub across the road and sample their Happy Hour. All of a sudden Maureen has arrived- just getting into it.
You beauty -a week off.

Am only recording :commute days.
Daughters is the book I am working on at the moment.