the train sessions’

The Train Sessions’

She took me in her arms and kissed me.

I woke up and immediately looked up my phone dictionary. To "sass” means to be unnecessarily cheeky or rude. I’d learnt a new word.

Yesterday in the heat I was working at my other job as an outsourcing councillor on the Melbourne train system. I had a session on the Epping line later. My clients on this line are so sardonic. It was between Rushall and Croxton Park that two hipsters sat opposite me. They were not companionable. They kept to themselves. Hipsters who are so hip they abhor other hipsters. I sat and listened. It’s my job, its what I do. These two weren’t my clients.

Eve, the female hipster sported a grown out pixie-cut, evidently she had been to the Apple shop near Flinders Street and had an appalling shopping encounter. She was incensed: ”The first half of the 2000s will be remembered as the era of being duped by designers. All style no substance. I will never buy a Macintosh product ever again."

Eve adjusted the strap on her appliqué Apple computer handbag.

I made an unasked contribution to the conversation. “It will be remembered as the age of forgetting; we seem incapable as a species of making sense from mass murder in Africa, and the Middle East. The first half of the 2000s will instead be regarded as a time of wasted opportunities. Nobody will give a fig about fonts or designers. You most likely didn’t even read the appropriate manual.”

There was a metaphoric stew brewing.

Eve, the female hipster flew into a rage: “Woah. Zing. You don't even know what my problem was, or how I behaved or whether or not reading the manual would have helped. Everyone has a job; I spend all day dealing with customers (at my job, in hospitality...) and don't turn into an a-hole like you.”

Adam” Oh boy sassed!

They stood up smiling at their quick wit. There was no time for a retort. I turned away, reduced to a public pest. The children of the age of light and IKEA descended to the Northcote platform. As if to say, we haven’t finished with you yet.

the french love their pharmacists, train blog

I am watching my client as he walks towards me. I can hear footsteps. People brush past us as we attempt to board the Mentone train, stopping all stations to the city. I would never sign up for train-wreck-style reality show. No way! I became an outsourcing counsellor on the Melbourne Metropolitan rail lines when my life as a musician hit a bad patch. The client scoffs happily, gimlet eyes a-twinkle. The customer is an actor on TV. Naturally, he’s also a writer, a composer of music, musicals and has his own theatre group. He is not unattractive, wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and neutral leisurewear as a disguise. He might as well be carrying a neon sign. He loves Mentone, the village, the postcode, 3194, the ordinariness of it, the bowling alley, Warragul Road and the broad beach with cliffs that the early 20th century painters so adored. He loves neighbouring suburbs Parkdale and Mordialloc, but not Beaumaris, its pretentious, especially the yacht club off Beach Road. He informs me that my face is drained of life and colour. I press my hands to my face. “What makes you say that?” I told myself, if he doesn’t speak soon I’m going to fall asleep. Momentarily flustered by my indifference my client underwent a transformation, a silent storm that set the carriage alight. His ego crudely penetrated the space. He was possessed, fell to the floor and screamed that he was cursed by gypsies, that his past was strewn with heartlessly rejected lovers of both sexes - for he had such a pride in his ability as an actor and his attractiveness. His voice held no sign of gaiety. He was drenched in sweat. I tried to crawl to another carriaqge. No luck . . . to be continued

The letter. More often than not, it is not what we listen to that is beautiful but listening itself. I was on the line taking morning sessions on the stopping all stations to Upfield. I was listening to two young woman-talking shoes and spray tans. They slouched, legs akimbo, sharing an Ipod and cigarette. Their voices were unusually melodious. It was mid morning and I had an appointment at Batman at midday with a forty-something academic, having a crisis. After forty-odd-years he discovered that his life was complete nonsense. Frankly, I could have told him that this was a realization that hit us all eventually, but he wouldn’t have believed me. If he did nothing, concentrated on his garden, took up crosswords, his problems would soon vanish. He had been singing socialist folk songs from the age of six. He furthered his unhappiness by moving west to live with the ‘real people’. He subdued his monsters with whisky, rock bands, saving the world through responsible architecture and slaughtering his own livestock in his garage. I didn’t get the connection. He was too cheap to hire a proper psychiatrist and that’s where I fit in. One of his doctorial students recommended me; the outsourcing councilor. Four fifteen-minutes sessions later we seemed to be getting nowhere. It was like we were talking in different languages. Today, I would tell him there was no expedient prescription for happiness, bar acceptance of one’s shifting destiny.

The Train Sessions’

The stationmaster loves his job. He sorted out a squabble between two nasty bastards. It was over a copy of yesterday’s free afternoon newspaper. Talk about idiotic. I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone as the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and sit two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of nomadic sad souls. The Australia government won’t accept their fair share to this free and peaceful country. Talk about pathetic. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms in honey while my girlfriend knocked her chillum against a bluestone breakwater and stuffed black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that John Cassaveties might wear in a detective film, or possibly where he plays an expert on women or a whacked philosopher. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids or elderly away. My iPhone went mad; someone needed me. A customer was having an existential emergency. I answered the call; my customer was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, customer said, no problem as a wrinkly had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. He explained that the area where Zones One and Two meets are like a Devil’s Triangle for the elderly, they disappear in mysterious circumstances. Extraterrestrials or fare evaders are suspected to be responsible. Another explanation pins the blame on suspected leftover equipment from the lost city of Atlantis. Rail authorities will not confirm or deny this.

The Train Sessions’

Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two. The gateway to the paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. Academics and social critics are championing the virtues of the pizza shops and walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism, which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy. They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana.

What do you mean your mother made you wear underpants from the old covers from bankbooks? Start again and go through it slowly, because this is the most amazing story I have ever heard.

help GIL SCOTT-HERON

GIL SCOTT-HERON died a week ago and this is a beautiful quote from him, Gil says: "If someone comes to you and asks for help, and you can help them, you're supposed to help them. Why wouldn't you? You have been put in the position somehow to be able to help this person."

mystery

At one point in your life you have probably asked yourself is Jonathan Richman the greatest sensitive rocker in history?The answer is yes he is and her mystery is not of high heels is brilliant. He’s the best, forget the rest.