27 March
Due to summertime, the clocks all changed, and it is dark again. It is as it time had been set back, just that it is warmer.
Walk down the dry alley after the rush to ge up in tme .
Lit up second hand stores, empty stores. Pass-them and the sombre church, look up at the stars on this clear day. There is one star that appears to be moving. It is mowing much to fast to be a star, it is an aircraft flying high, heading towards Munich Airport. An early bird. Move on-down the theater street to the bus stop. Dolores is there, sitting in the shelter. She is surly today, may be occupied with something, may bb just tired .
The schedule, a lit display, glowing in the dark, giving up to the minute information, Wait for five minutes, then it shosws three. Then the bus is there., and board and pay. go to the back of the bus, the young woman doing her makeup, despite the lurching and jerking of the bus. She is holding the mirror in her left hand and is putting mascara on her lashes with the right hand. As she is working on her left hand eyelashes, her appearance is like a profile wrapped in arms. A strange composition, not without beauty. Then she unravels all this and starts to work on the right hand-eye, pausing as the bus drives over some damaged stretch at the road. The young blonde with the rastafarian locks is there as well, in a long slim brown coat. When the bus arrives at the station, she strides ahead, in a hurry, as always.
Good morning for the smoker with the pigtail. The bald man in the cafe, friendly, just hands over one large coffee, he does not talk much, that is good. Then, in the waiting room watch the silent television showing pictures of maned Mars landings, stand there, sip coffee through a hole. 'm a plastic lid, write notes, think.
It is just past six, time to move again. The Rosenheim train has arrived, the little diesel train of only two carriages holding a surprising amount of people.
Down the stairs, the nostrils assailed by both strange and well known smells, smells of old piss and fresh farts, dirty clothes. The underpass under the railway tracks may be clean, but the people who use it are not all that way. And it only taken one bad apple to ruin the reputation of the others.
The train is in, find a seat, continue writing. There are three types of carriage on this Deutsche Bahn railway line.
Those where the tables are large, offering enough space for everybody.
those where the tables are short, only one and a quarter seats wide, and those where the table has been reduced to a relic over the waste bin, just large enough for one cup of coffee.
This train has short tables, but it does not matter because the seats are not occupied.
The train starts to move, then stops suddenly. It has broken down, says the driver over the public adress system.
All the hundreds of passengers all move to platform three through atairwells too narrow, and wait for the train from Prague.
Six twenty eight, platform three, all aboard, all struggling politely for a seat..
and so, with a delay, roll into the dawning days, blue skies with white contrails.
Overcrowded, leave the train at Freising.
Due to summertime, the clocks all changed, and it is dark again. It is as it time had been set back, just that it is warmer.
Walk down the dry alley after the rush to ge up in tme .
Lit up second hand stores, empty stores. Pass-them and the sombre church, look up at the stars on this clear day. There is one star that appears to be moving. It is mowing much to fast to be a star, it is an aircraft flying high, heading towards Munich Airport. An early bird. Move on-down the theater street to the bus stop. Dolores is there, sitting in the shelter. She is surly today, may be occupied with something, may bb just tired .
The schedule, a lit display, glowing in the dark, giving up to the minute information, Wait for five minutes, then it shosws three. Then the bus is there., and board and pay. go to the back of the bus, the young woman doing her makeup, despite the lurching and jerking of the bus. She is holding the mirror in her left hand and is putting mascara on her lashes with the right hand. As she is working on her left hand eyelashes, her appearance is like a profile wrapped in arms. A strange composition, not without beauty. Then she unravels all this and starts to work on the right hand-eye, pausing as the bus drives over some damaged stretch at the road. The young blonde with the rastafarian locks is there as well, in a long slim brown coat. When the bus arrives at the station, she strides ahead, in a hurry, as always.
Good morning for the smoker with the pigtail. The bald man in the cafe, friendly, just hands over one large coffee, he does not talk much, that is good. Then, in the waiting room watch the silent television showing pictures of maned Mars landings, stand there, sip coffee through a hole. 'm a plastic lid, write notes, think.
It is just past six, time to move again. The Rosenheim train has arrived, the little diesel train of only two carriages holding a surprising amount of people.
Down the stairs, the nostrils assailed by both strange and well known smells, smells of old piss and fresh farts, dirty clothes. The underpass under the railway tracks may be clean, but the people who use it are not all that way. And it only taken one bad apple to ruin the reputation of the others.
The train is in, find a seat, continue writing. There are three types of carriage on this Deutsche Bahn railway line.
Those where the tables are large, offering enough space for everybody.
those where the tables are short, only one and a quarter seats wide, and those where the table has been reduced to a relic over the waste bin, just large enough for one cup of coffee.
This train has short tables, but it does not matter because the seats are not occupied.
The train starts to move, then stops suddenly. It has broken down, says the driver over the public adress system.
All the hundreds of passengers all move to platform three through atairwells too narrow, and wait for the train from Prague.
Six twenty eight, platform three, all aboard, all struggling politely for a seat..
and so, with a delay, roll into the dawning days, blue skies with white contrails.
Overcrowded, leave the train at Freising.
No comments:
Post a Comment