The Slow Movements

[theslowmovements]

Cold

Four long months have passed since the last train report. What might have occurred in the interceding months is now lost amongst the hazy mists of time. This morning’s ride was not unlike any that might have occurred during this quiet patch. Standing somewhat cramped between two women, ears full of sounds intent to distract, there was little to note in the faces and disposition of my fellow travellers.

Amongst these temporary companions, you’ll find but a few who ever bother to look up from their phones the entire time. Others sit buried in books, while the remainder are usually still, eyes closed, in quiet reflection that can, I imagine, only be about the horrors awaiting at work. We all wear our little, invisible Resignation Bonnets.  

If I was pressed to point out any highlights in the last four months, it might take some time to collate those precious moments. None are forthcoming and require coaxing from a special repository of shit we’d all rather forget. Odour seems a familiar complaint. Towards the start of the week I stood beside a man of questionable personal hygiene; an all-too-common occurrence. Flatulence is regular encounter, although by no means near as frequent as the oral issues that seem to have befallen the British public overall. What binds these wonders of the human body together so neatly is the full blown reluctance to open any windows. Fresh air, of course, harbours cold irrespective of season, it seems. Cold, in any form, is merciless and cruel in its leveling of the spirit. It drives almost each and every decision made by the British, and the stifling heat and fetid air contained within a train carriage is of welcome relief from the climactic perils beyond.    

[theslowmovements]

Status update

The tickets were booked and paid for from the point he hit a greasy return key. His imagination swirled at the prospect of just how much traction he’d receive from not only the initial gloat but an accompanying map, too, for a visual one-two combo pop to any gawping jaws in the audience. There would be a slew of material available – ‘bumpf’, to be technical – he’d be able to supplement his usually tedious timelines with in the months leading up to departure. Reclining in his chair with both feet crossed atop the pine desk, he strung a broad, self-satisfied smile across each ear in readiness for the soon-to-be congratulating crowds. He even practiced a wave goodbye.  

It was back to business in the jet set stakes, a warm and welcome relief that the ‘”and traveling’” touted in every one of his online bios would, after many a dry year, finally materialise to extend beyond mere trips to his own country’s desolate coastal regions to the north. Staycations would never be thought of as exotic by his peers and their required opinions like a short stint around a sliver of Europe.

He tapped his legs impatiently, contemplative. Now what mattered most of all would be the execution of a highly-considered, painstakingly-managed representation of the holiday; how to garner the utmost attention, admiration and jealousy for it all. Necessary, too, would be a barrage of build-up hype, as well as post-trip musings involving, and/or amongst, what familiar, screen-locked voyeurs might recognise as his tastefully minimal comforts of home replete with needlessly expensive Apple products just in view.

Strolling to the fridge for a celebratory beer, his mind was already framing ubiquitous shots of fanned economy class tickets tucked inside a Green Mamba, the spread wing of a plane high above patchwork clouds over anywhere, sunsets across whichever bay or notable river he might fortuitously encounter and, of  course, the fawning “boyos” with arms draped around each other, “punished” bottles in hand.

Sitting back down before a bank of screens cluttered with browser tabs offering proof of his life, he readied both the full press release along with an abridged version for each of his two primary, character-permitting social media platforms. Opening both outlets within a dedicated screen of its own, his palms moistened in anticipation. A slow, cool sip of lager assured him of the adulation to come. He pasted, as he had so many times before, the news into each respective status bar and once more hammered the return key with authority.

It took just a few minutes for the news to begin bleeding into the feeds of whom whose praise he sought, but in the time it took for the ‘pings’ to announce he’d been attributed acknowledgment, he sat in thoughtful consideration of his effective marketing prowess. It was almost as if publishing was, by default, his line of work, he mused, like his autobiography was being written and broadcast in real time with onlookers continuously baying for more, clawing to know every crevice, every cranny of his being. Though, would they ever really know for sure what made him want to give himself to each and all so voluntarily? Was it real? Was he?

[theslowmovements]

Train Report – 4 April 2015 (32/53)

Some time had passed since the last Train Report which had, up until early March, covered the morning’s Moorgate-bound Great Northern service from Harringay, a leafy, hilly borough in London’s north, into the overstocked City where too many people crammed into every working day to execute unwanted jobs, clad with drear. In contrast to the way the faces and gripes aboard had changed very little in the interceding weeks, the weather, as certainly uncertain as only British weather could be, had, in difference to the expected. Dawn now teased each carriage’s occupants awake that bit earlier, as the winter’s chill was in gradual retreat and a sunnier spring lifted months of dark mourn. Of the April showers that year, most, if not all, fell outside of working hours to spare those poor commuters any further cause to despair. It had, to many a mind, been a tangibly more jovial start to the year. How people forgot about the joy of light until it made a common return.

[theslowmovements]

Train Report 3.3.15

Not much to report from today’s train in. Can confirm, however: Selfish man, 5.4”, discredit to blond men, decided to produce and read a full-size iPad in a carriage that was rammed to the brim. And I stand, somewhat pressed against him, and wonder how it doesn't occur to him that reading like that does not infringe upon the personal space sovereignty of those around. His oily hair emitted a bit of a pong, too, opening up a secondary offensive front. It doesn't seem right to have to learn of the personal hygiene habits of people you’d never want to know in life, ordinarily, simply because a transport provider, with whom you spend a considerable amount of money each year, can’t run an efficient service.

[theslowmovements]

Boom, boom, boom thunders the metronome, slow and steady, unrelenting in its bid to force us on. Listen, without choice, to a colleague drone on at tortuous length; work calls that she supplements with tales of the one week break just had. No one cares for the social life she so desperately brings in here, oblivious that if we don't ask the questions then she’d be best off with refrain from telling all. So bored is she with work life that she entertains herself by organising meetings with the song-and-dance salesmen who sing so sweet for her business that they can forget about as soon as that phone’s put down. Can she be faulted? Not really, I suspect. Her want for recognition, to be liked, is horribly tangible at times. She craves acceptance.

[theslowmovements]

The past looms behind me predatory. I can feel its sweet, hot breath against my neck, heavy with so many long-lost scents. I can see it but never in plain sight, the shadow stalk, yet, if ever close, it could never be touched for all its unbridled might. A sharp-clawed fate awaits if prod with only my insides to spill. Sleek and low, I don’t know how to shake it. But would I were it ever really possible?

[theslowmovements]

Pong

Words, words, words. From the mouth they spew to coat and drench the recipient. Words come in all shapes, sizes and colours but for the most it’s just a washed-out green sprinkled with a recent meal. Bile is what binds. Bile stains if ever it’s in contact with the clothes the hide and cover the plain form. You can safely toss the soiled item knowing its time is very much done. Marked, a person is, by darkened splatters not unlike a greasy patch of sweat. Marked by words that stink a person up to wander aimlessly with putrid barbs that latch within the flaring nostrils of passers-by. High heaven pong.    

[theslowmovements]

warehouse

Boredom is like a dry, white heat searing the mind. It burns bright and long from the inside out, leaves you hollow and emptied of thought, of want, of purpose and achievement. There were long, cold, dark nights, once, spent in dim warehouses when boredom felt at its most defined. Whether escorting defunct fridges down a disassembly line to be spun into dust, or waiting for the sun’s early rise to bring with it a change in shift, time would be numbly frittered away over endless hours with the mind a loud buzz as if crammed with cicadas. Weed, music, the newspaper and sleep would help alleviate suffering. Thievery, too, when the chance arose. A lot of staring in to space, with a dash of wanting an electrical fire to start and us all to go home.  

[theslowmovements]

M&S

I’m a frequent shopper at Moorgate’s Marks and Spence. Most weekdays, this four-floored branch serves up the predictable goods for lunch and often that evening's dinner. Every-so-often, I’ll venture to the upstairs men’s section for socks as well. M&S, as it’s often colloquially referred to as, offers up predictability and a decent quality across all of it ranges, be it produce, textiles, or homeware. While not quite attaining the lofty levels John Lewis, it’s certainly no Tesco. I’m convinced its food and drink are of a better quality than Waitrose despite the latter’s snob value and free filter coffee offer. Filter coffee is, by many assessments, shit.

I’ve yet to see anything go down of interest in a M&S that doesn’t relate to food or slippers for that undiscerning older gent. No fights or attempted thievery. Perhaps it’s indicative of their nicer, middle class clientele. Their price point is also a deciding factor in limiting the riff raff who enter its automatic doors into the gleam and seduction beyond. When I was poor, it always seemed an intimidating place but over the years, as salaries increased, it’s now something of a staple. Does that elevate my social standing? Is it firmly cemented as part of my life’s aspirational thrust? Is it just a matter of time before I begun tucking my shirts into jeans?            

[theslowmovements]

fumes

A man got on the train at Finsbury Park station this morning as I stood in the train doorway with breath that seemed to drag behind him like an illegally-fished trawl. You could smell where he’d been long after he was in fact there. Does a spouse not turn to their partner after a period of time together and bother letting their other, loved or not, know they leave a residual stench wherever they’ve been. Those nauseating fumes that derive from the stomach to claw at the faces of everyone they pass surely means the perpetrator frequently has people turning away mid-conversation for being unable to withstand the odorous onslaught. People like that are suffocating to talk to up close. If it’s undesired, offense must be skilfully avoided by turning to breathe in such a way as to not raise suspicion that you’re avoiding inhaling the culprit’s noxious fumes. I have had to do this numerous times with a number of people.      

[theslowmovements]

Habits

At work, I sometimes duck my head below my screen to pick my nose. I am partly shielded by the partitions between the office desks but am trying to not make any habit of it. One colleague, whose mind appears to drift, clearly forgets his place when he’s perched in full view of the company. Eyes glazed over, with index finger in deep alternation between each nostril, you could stand for tens of minutes staring at him doing so, if you wished; he wouldn’t notice. It scares me to think of the state of his keyboard.  

Another, more pleasurable, work pursuit is the undercover guff. Leaning to one side to create an exit trajectory, expelling what fermented bacterial air has accumulated within my lower intestinal tract is always a bit of a game in which the aim is to insure that the odour has dissipated before anyone else becomes aware. I have had a couple close calls, the first being an injured “who farted?” by a vocal colleague who stood nearby doing some printing. The other time might have, in fact, been a bust when another approached with a question when I’d just let one go.

[theslowmovements]

The Sales Pitch

We were privy to well-rehearsed sales pitch this morning,the dynamics of which were more of interest than the actual content. The two gentlemen, one an business development manager with the other a director (no less), must have found themselves in situation alike to hundreds of others; an likely exercise in futility, effort spent in achieving nothing other than bettering their patter, the jargon, the faux-enthusiasm, the chance the people they’re talking to could never afford their wares. What’s required? Why were they there? Hook the cheap laptop up to the oversized television and slap on a power point. Run through step 1-10 and pepper with a couple jokes and an aside or two.  All parties exchange a couple questions, answered by the Sales Team with the positivity of a Christian bride-to-be. Time for a video detailing one of the many services the company offers, but, oh, dear: we have no sound. No problem, though. We’ll get that send over to you along with all the other resoundingly triumphant material we possibly can. I like the way the one is taking notes a lot. Unable to see from where I sit that those might be, he’s probably detailing the order in which he’d have the members of my team liquidated, leaving me out, of course, because he can see I’m meant for better things – I’ll be shown some mercy.

When the pitch is done, 2-3 glances of my watch later, and it's time to open up the floor to questions, there’s no one really chomping at the bit to learn more. Granted, they’ve done a good job and have covered a lot, but really, we all just want to get the fuck out. There’s a period then that’s wonderfully enjoyable – no one knows quite what to do as eyes dart anxiously about. Who’s to make the first move towards the door? Never be the first, I think. Never express the keenness everybody else harbours. I take a small measure of delight in throwing away their laminated business cards. Why would I bother keeping them.    

[theslowmovements]

Fire Alarm

The test of the fire alarm went on for a bit too long this morning, so long, in fact, that most in the office resorted to fingers in the ears towards the end of the bell’s sharp, piercing clang-alang-alang. The building is probably due another farm alarm drill when it empties out its occupants who then spill into the small park across the road. The only real use for this exercise is to have a little look of what birdlife cohabits our address, too. For the most part, previous drills haven’t coughed up anything of a quality to get excited about. Most are bland, pale or just outright unattractive. Many look as if they’d baulk at the advances of a man, should Mr Hypothetical, of course, find within himself the level of excitation to instigate that kind of move based on how they appear. However, the next fire drill should present the chance to make a detailed assessment about the blonde on the floor below; the one previously written about. I write blonde although it does appear that she’s gone and dyed her hair a little darker. From our superior vantage point, it doesn’t seem a good idea. What made her her has been lost and it’s left my colleague and I to speculate about just how much of a diminishment in appearance it is. The blonde added allure and lustre; she was that much more pronounced within the dim light of atrium we peer down at her through.

What might occur if and/or when we finally get that close up is, perhaps, anyone’s guess. I’m sure they’re be the usual joshing and joking about who should approach her with offers of marriage or use of their penis. What  I am beginning to suspect however that she may not be as good looking as the build-up is leading to. One suspicion is that there’s a weak chin looming, a classic British feature.        

[theslowmovements]

Signs

There’s a new poster on the station that contains a table of times when the train is at its most packed. Considering it’s so often late, there is little adherence to the bulk of indicated slots that are denoted as “standing room only” by a little red dot. And stand I did, this morning, amongst the splutter and sniffles, the greasy beards, and the yawing, pallid faces in need of respite in seasonal sun.

[theslowmovements]

Blonde

It’s a number of times now that life has presented what initially appears to be an attractive women to wonder about over a period of time. Sightings will take place fairly regularly and the subject in question is then either well-noted or more speculated about if no clear views are available. Documentation can take weeks, months and sometime years. In the case of the latter, personal preferences at particular points in life, but, more importantly, time itself, can render a woman completely unattractive from what was once a moderate obsession. In cases whereby the woman in question has been shown to be nothing but a pig up close, there is certainly a liberation from the nagging curiosity; a relief in not having to imagine about her from afar again. The internet has often proven useful in dispelling a former crush when she was remembered as being something but is now bloated and ravaged by the interceding years, children, sun exposure and/or a tipple too many.

In respect to the short-term former, it’s more of a game, of which the blonde I've seen over the past few weeks disembarking from my home time train is a prime example. It's often just a glimpse to get the game in motion - in her case a distant side view or a brief tail trail to imagine the rest of her based on her lovely light hair and slightly stocky legs that lead to a curvaceous rump. Intrigued is heightened knowing she wears glasses over fine features. As the weeks passed with only fleeting glimpses, often in the mad rush up the stairs with all the other homeward-bound drones into winter's cold dark, yesterday morning she stood right opposite in wait for the train: the money shot. When the time comes to take stock of the imagined by comparison to an up-close-and-personal assessment, it was pleasing to note that I didn’t recoil at the horror of my own want. No, she was very cute, late 20s somewhere, albeit with a smidgen too much makeup, but not horrendously so. Bring on summer when women here know how to flaunt their wonderful forms.

[theslowmovements]

Brett

Solid bits of advice there, Brett. So glad there are a still a few like you whom at your age can hold the flag aloft. If I can just tack on some helpful words in addition to what you’ve said, I’m sure you’ll agree when I add:

 Frequent bars and clubs usually associated with people much younger that you at which you’re then the loudest, the most vocal, and the one cracking the funniest best jokes. When people learn of who you are, so, too, will they of the band/s you’re in. Even if they don’t like your obnoxious face or know-it-all ramblings, no press is bad press. 

 In deciding which route to go musically, don’t stray too far from the beaten track. No one likes an Obscure Olly. Remember that (you and) your typical South African didn’t really hear much else after 2002 so going with a sound popular in the late 90s or early 00s is an almost certain win. Even better, musical styles that incite scene clichés like ‘passionate’, ‘urgent’ or ‘post-something’ make your music easier to pigeonhole for people to mention to mates.  A mix of screaming/singing with brutal verses and harmonized choruses is a great yet safe, tried and tested way to tick a lot of the right boxes. Don’t be afraid to be unadventurous.

 Lastly, use Facebook updates incessantly to establish yourself at a fountain of wisdom. Impart every thought you have about every band (or inanity that’s crossed life’s desk) you’ve heard, establishing yourself as the quintessential progenitor with unquestionable taste. Encourage your followers to ‘get involved’ (with what you’ve deemed holy), create meaningful, productive debate about the scene, what punk/hardcore/gabba/etc should really mean (by your definition, of course), and continually work to further your cred as a big fish/small town lynchpin. 

[theslowmovements]

Pizza

How time flies. Tomorrow will bring with it the middle of the week and by that point we’ll be at an equal distance from the rue of Monday and the joy of Friday. Without much on the news front for today, and little to speak of occurring last night, this morning’s snowfall was Tuesday’s highlight. More of a dusting than Christmas postcard thick, it left behind enough of a slush to hate once cars and people had had their way. That’s the point at which snow reveals itself to be nothing else than disgusting shit, a grey slop to ruin trouser ends and skirts.

I think I might have pizza for dinner. Not the healthiest option, it is, by most standards, one of those foods that leaves you feeling almost entirely satisfied. I’d put it down almost entirely to the cheesy/crisp pairing. Embellishment is key to a good shop-bought pizza, too. An onion and extra cheese make great supplements to bases that are usually stingily-topped. But more is better in any case.