A Rant. (And I'll need a chorus)

And I ready the supplies which rest by my side for there are things to say and all fuel necessary for words sits readily available for use. Last nights whiskey tells me of my walk through the night with company in the form of wind and waves of air that shake trees. Some are lemon trees. But I think of moments before the whiskey when the world, and I wasn't expecting it, leaned over and kissed me.

Walking through a moment like this yesterday brought me into a world that shed it's tears through my very own eyes only moments before I arrived. Yes, until we are in it we are waiting and I stepped heavily into it, unsure and cautious, wrapped lovingly in music that was there to help the avoidance. But the world was waiting and impatiently knocking so lovingly on my face with the soft hands of a baker whose spent a hundred years kneading dough. "Wake up." It said. "There are things to see."

And I smoked, which I do, and stood in the sun, wrapped in accessories and heavily laden with a backpack stuffed with things I think I need. A man approached, walking slowly and surely and made a motion. I hand him a smoke and he waits. So I remove the tunes and listen as he speaks.

"Can I have a lighter?"
"Sure," I say as I reach into my pocket and remove a red bic.
"Thanks." and he lights his smoke, still staring at me. "It's been cold out. Do you think it will get warmer?"
"I hope so," I say. "But we'll see."

He nods his head and thanks me again while turning to walk away around the side of a brick wall that seperates the sides of the train tracks. I continue waiting and notice him come back around the wall, on the other side, looking suspiciously at me. He didn't want me to watch. His fingers went into the pay phone coin return, then the return for the ticket machine, checking for something. His pants were worn with nights outside and his jacket was needed for dark breezes. As he found no coins, he turned once more, saw my eyes watching his, and he looked down. Then he hurriedly walked away. It has surely been some time since he has seen his family, maybe it's been a while since he's eaten. But he didn't ask for food. And he didn't ask for home. He wanted to know if it will get warmer. I should've said yes, it will, with a direct assertion made by the hopeful for the sake of the hopeless.

As I stood there, lost in my previous tears and wonders and fears, anxious and unsure, a man approached me with the cool confidence of nothing left and asked me a question. The world came knocking with his foot steps. And I almost didn't answer. But the train arrived and the day continued.

My heart, rapidly beating to the point of leaping cleanly from my chest without a spot of blood, sat with me as I placed my bag on my lap and huddled into a four seat compartment with two young men who laughed and looked mockingly at me. I listen to the music and fear. So much fear. And I didn't know why.

From in front comes the poking up face of a child. Her hands grab the back of the seat and those are the first things I see. Then came the little blonde bob on the top of her head. Then came her eyes, round and young and excited to be hiding. I smiled and she drops quickly. The game is on. No need for nerves twitching and wondering about the madness of the big picture. In that moment the only thing that mattered was the intense game of hide and go seek that this child and I were wrapped up in. Her mother noticed. I share my smile with her too. And smiles are shared until they get off the train, with tickets in hand, for an event of some kind that I didn't know was happening. She won, of course. And maybe it was because I couldn't hide as well as her. But she won the game. I'm just glad I had a chance to play.

Then the city. The city always comes before I take the second trip. I commute to the city, to commute back out, then I walk to work, always at night except for this moment. This was my commute during the day. And I dreamed of playing a fiddle.

The buildings shine in reflection of the big bright blonde sun. Friends and lovers smile. Chips are sold with globs of sauce and small plastic forks to avoid the dirtying of fingers. Twenty minutes to wait and I just sit and wonder, not really thinking, but wondering by sitting.

Then the next train and a couple beside me in dark suit and dress. Her face covered gently with a short black screen, hanging lightly from her hat, and he looks at me when I notice this. In my own world there is pain and wonder. Not like theirs, though. At this moment I could not compare. And I sat hoping I didn't offend with my stare, two beautiful people on there way to the celebration of a life, and the acknowledgement of a death. The man looked at me and said something. I looked down, ashamed at myself for staring for the sake of stories, and not realizing till I looked that their story was harder than mine and that maybe, just maybe, it should be left to them to live before taken to words and told to others.

They depart from the train by the side of the large graveyard whose length I walk in its entirety every night that I work on this side of town. They walk tall, with surefooted steps. The man looks back. Our eyes connect. I wonder for a minute whether he was the killer before looking for another story sitting next to me.

And I guess I don't remember. But maybe I chose to forget. But something else happened. Another story was found. But, like the couple wrapped in black, I let it rest in it's spot, knowing I could find it another day and tell it in full, but it just wasn't the time.

So with confident steps I lurch my body, heavily laden with manipulated sorrow and wonders of what if, towards my first ever day shift. I arrive. I sit. I talk. I listen. I go. Another day over.

But when I walk home the night has returned and so have the quick footsteps of people who don't trust a bearded man in flannel walking behind them. They cross the street, a whole group of women in evenly set short skirts which need to be pulled down constantly to avoid them sharing their special places before they wish. What would I do? Why act so fearful? If these streets scare you, then put on some clothes, drop the drink a minute before you reach your stumbling drunken peak, and walk home with confidence. But no, they drank to much and barely maintain the perched presence of each high heeled step, as they run across ten busy lanes, to the safer side of the street. And I wonder what they see. If in the day, a child and I play subway games, and at night my presence alone causes great freight, then what of a world which holds it all?

Well it was late and I ran to the train. No point in waiting so I ran the length of the dark graveyard full of stories and grass fed by tears, towards a train station where one other man was waiting, smoking and leaning on his car which had boxing gloves hanging from the rearview mirror. He looked at me as he smoked, confident that his battle would be won. His arms barely stayed inside the sleeves of his dark colored t-shirt. I try not to make eye contact. He stares anyway. I ran all the way, and I think I made it on time but its the last train. If I missed it, than I have to walk south to the city and east to my house, fifty kilometers of night. And I don't want that.

The train slides in, gushing cool winter wind, threatens the resting of my hat upon my head, and opens its doors. Three cars on this train. Inside are five men. All of us, with me now making six, look suspiciously at each other waiting for a fight. What was earlier a place for games with sweet smiling children is now a potential battle ground. We wait for each others moves. He stands, I ready myself. The guys behind me act up, I jump for the front. We wait. We all sit and wait.

Te train arrives earlier than expected and we exit together walking separate ways towards stairs leading up and down, into a world where we no longer have the company of our combined momentary fear, our temporary readiness for anything. At the top of the stairs people run and laugh and hold hands as they head for the moments that lie in wait. There is a main entrance full of ticking clocks and people on phones calling the others they were supposed to meet. A man is kneeling in front of the steps with a camera pointing up. He holds steady his discomfort, taking a picture that I see before it gets immortalized. Three men walk by in white Saturday night shirts which aren't tucked in. One dances in front of the camera in strange and rhythmless steps. The camera man smiles and waits patiently. The man walks onward, content with his awkward behavior. Perhaps he was deserving of the high five given so gladly by his fellow mate. But I couldn't help but think that this man would never play as good a game of hide and seek as I, especially on a day time train, with recognition of a world in pain.

Then a bottle of whiskey from an overpriced pub near Federation Square. And back to the platform to wait for the next train. I smoke next to signs with circles and crosses drawn over burning cigarettes. Heavy fines apply. And I swig the brown of expensive American whiskey purchases in the middle of this Australian town. A train conductor walks by and smiles as I exhale my toxic breath. He holds up his smoke and takes a drag. Let's break the rules together. And I smile while saying thanks for that moment.

Another eruption of metal on metal between man made stone walls. I look up at the sign blinking above and board, taking a seat across from a man in a clean jacket, with a clean shaven face, eating gummy bears one piece at a time. I notice his patience as he rips apart each candy, chewing slowly on each head and set of gummy bear feet. He wraps up the bag and places it under the side of his tightly crossed legs and looks over at me, a strange bearded man in flannel drinking whiskey.

I wonder if the train will crash. Sometimes I hope for strange things. Maybe an adventure will just barge into my existence, maybe a new story will simply explode in front of me. An old man watches me drink. He smiles and nods. Maybe a former drunkard, acknowledging what once was. Maybe he hopes I too will leave the bottle behind one day. His smile leads to a yawn, and back goes his head to rest against the yellow plastic seat.

The train reaches home and I step out, walking quickly, thinking of people, and places they'd be. I hop on the tracks as the last car flashes by. The jump is so high that I stumble and nearly fall, but with my feet back on the rocks between the wooden ties, I feel comfortable like a man who is a child again, if only for a moment, and all of the whiskey and all of the wonder makes me want to get home early and see what tomorrow brings. But first I walk to the casino and have a few pints. I empty my pockets of money and hit buttons to watch it go. I place my empty glass beside the door with a sign that now says closed and walk home alone.

My steps fall slowly and I can't drink enough to stumble. I raise the bottle, threatening a smash to the sky, and place it back in my pocket. There's something to be said for growing up. Something happens when we walk alone, waiting and wondering, but always alone and most often at night. And this is what I do. I walk alone. I walk at night. And instead of breaking my empty whiskey bottles after nights at the casino where I am playing the games but wishing for a conversation and losing twice at once, I climb a tree for the sake of climbing.

Then it's 3am and I think of all whom I have ever loved and what it all means. I think of moments passed and desires for day. The wind knocks against each window on this house with the help of branches, of course. I go outside and smoke each time, but I no longer want it. If a cigarette was a friend, I'd never be alone. But while I'm here, while walking and nights alone with whiskey makes up my life, I think I'll smoke and see if I can get by. So I rest when I can, knowing that hope is something saved and needed, that I must be ready for train games with children and moments of potential madness with men, that I must not smoke too much to make me grow old, so I can always climb a tree when I drink alone.