15.12.2024
Original Content Scrapped
It was mentioned a while ago there’d be a ‘circling back’, to revisit a special place. Let’s make it three.
When exactly I would circle back wasn’t known until a few days ago. I had prodded myself for a subject about which to write, and was quickly denied. That first thought for a story became a stumble. Often a sign of impatience, the prod can be unreliable. As with damp firewood, if the result of the prod is it’s not fit for purpose, expectations will likely not be met; one puny spark and lame plume of smoke in the hearth does not a fire make. That it can’t be a forced thing isn’t strictly true, but you know…one goes with what one knows, or with what is most motivating in the moment. But timing is everything, and that’s the reason for an unhesitating change-of-course. It’s the want of clear air…
Having left the fireplace metaphor behind for a seafaring one to get us outdoors, the question is what in the first place was I even thinking using a fireplace metaphor, being in sub-tropical Brisbane, hunkered at the desk downstairs, the ambient temperature a just passable twenty-seven degrees? The sad truth of the answer is it’s all that daily exposure to unfurling events in the northern hemisphere. In the recent short epoch of joy, the reliable colours of autumn between Canada and Mexico had suggested, nay, near to promised, a dynamic renewal would emerge after a brief glowing hibernation. But the leaves fell to grey…so too, hearts.
Most of us know the feeling of a ‘going back’. We’re drawn as much to the idea as we are to the practical reality of making the drive along memory lane. There are also the longings many of us have for those few favoured humble possessions, usually of childhood, invested as they often are with complex emotional symbols and meaning—especially if such an object has been lost to us. A surety turns up in those moments when we go to them, or recall them, and when we do, we’re a little more equipped to move ahead with something like a plan, or in the least, a tiny light peeking out from an intention of a plan. You will know your own feelings for these things as intimately as the tongue feels the smoothness of a particular tooth, or as fingers engage the supple meet-up between worn leather belt and buckle. The ache is that we wish to be saturated for a few moments in these absorptions. They seem sometimes to be overwhelming. But the feelings are magnetic, and can deliver us to a flow of productive imagination, or simply to a temporary cessation of anxiety, where time is of no consequence; not unlike a rare patience for a train not due until…who cares… It is an escape and we travel there by a variety of means. Here are some that are meaningful in my own ‘goings back’. I hope these resonate a little, if only to keep you from being drenched in that glum light of the north’s shortening days.
As to an audience in darkness and only just then birthed, all the illuminations came up with drama. The vista appeared in a glistening full surround of loud sound, with motion all a-shimmer. The memory of it has no sense of a pre-emptive curtain-raiser. I was barely three years old, pupils wide, and to an observer, the most typical of toddlers: wide-mouthed, rubbernecking at all the surrounding wonders. The first remembered night-time sojourn occurred at, of all places, Sydney Harbour, at the northern leeward end of the gargantuan coat-hanger. Its dark grey arc loomed against the black sky, and we (that’s the family and I), were on a busy boardwalk outside bright-lit arched windows of a storybook pavilion. Luna Park’s constellations of colour were all before us in scalloped strings, straight lines, and circles oblique, sprays of light lifting, panning, steam and smoke drifting through. The shifting crowds blocked streaming beams as other silhouettes of figures passed, opened new scenes, approaching or moving off. Continuous shrieks and laughter lanced the night as lanterned boats bobbed and swayed, splashes breached and shone and reached over low tangled waves from an opposite shore. Held by a hand, I was led into a circled gathering. At its centre was a bucket from which a live lobster was drawn out, the kneeling handler, smiling, held it up, showed it around, beguiling the crowd… And suddenly we were gone from there. What had happened in that intervening black-out? Lobster shock? A tantrum, perhaps, or toileting? All of the above?! Did I mention I was barely three?! But then, again, amidst the strobing light, it was sideshow alley that became the universe. I descended from shoulders and was positioned to sit in an angled circular rocket ride on a conical disc, the most tame theme park thrill of all, save The River Caves… What’s more, I was now ‘packing’. In hand was a newly acquired orange water pistol—precious. Above the ride’s pointed axis, Superman ‘hovered’ attached to a welded steel armature. His rigid cape in blue carnival paint, he was impressively posed aiming for the sky. Then the revolutions commenced. All the lights went ‘round and ‘round and I gripped my gun. But with sideshow alley’s carousing, all that screaming, the man of steel’s ballerina-like spinning, I had little enough of the right stuff, and the G-forces heaved out their centrifugal puff… My little arm limp, the gun spun out of my grasp, instantly lost in the blackness of space on the endless round floor of that damned rocket crèche! My beloved 45 cal…was gone, never forgotten…alas, farewell…
Fairytales rarely flew through my childhood imagination. I’ve wondered, though, if the 19th century German artist and writer Wilhelm Busch’s book Max and Moritz can take some responsibility for this. I’ll leave that right there for curiosity’s sake. Nevertheless, I did live for a time by a dark wood on the shore of a sometimes gloomy lagoon. My olds were Europeans. The cooler air of that location’s elevation had its effect on them, and we moved there to a steep hillside of ironbark trees and sandstone. It was at the Blue Mountains town of Glenbrook, New South Wales, encircled by bushland; prehistoric, right up to the back door. There, the laying out of nature was of precipitous eucalypt valleys, round-shouldered lines of smokey blue hills leaning against each other to the distance where, until shortly before then, ancient tracks and the ancients themselves had closed each day to have the whole of their world immaculate. My father’s father and his second wife lived next door to us. My grandfather was a small gent, once a cobbler. He’d had polio and in spite of it, walked apace with a practically athletic limp. He would launch his withered leg ahead, and with arms and shoulders working determinedly on rhythm, balance, and momentum through neck and face, he strode smiling, always curious. He used a handsome leather grooming kit and shaved every day. On days out he wore three-piece suits, a hat, mirror-bright shoes, and used a carved elephant walking stick. At his place there in the mountains, he built a series of deep steps near two meters wide, made of thick slabs of sandstone. At every second or third step, stretching to the remaining width of the property, he then added dry stone retaining walls for terraced plantings. The steps, fifty-two of them, were formed up neatly and squarely, and led up to a dainty courtyard lawn garden, which had a wrought iron table and chairs, painted white, out front of a small house. Down bordering the narrow road past a short-glimpsed view of the lagoon’s waters, has been, and still remains, a close-set line of broad-girthed trees, their venerable roots supping at water’s edge. Each tree holds its own noble, self-fulfilling pose; each as different as the previous yet, all together, as belonging with each other as siblings. Late in the afternoons we regularly took walks by this glorious stand, halted here and there between them to look over to the far side of the often serene reflecting surface. We’d then turn into the forbidding bushland, along meandering tracks toward a hidden shoreline, past twisted sticks, grasses, reeds, furtive lizards. Then as a darkening sky draped the tannin-filled lagoon, frights brought adventure for a young ’un from the shrieks of water birds. Tickling terrors were part of the fun as well, with a racing climb home up each of those steps, learning counting aloud up to fifty-two. My grandfather was accomplished, particular, his backyard all edibles. I came to think of him as a small superhuman. On a hillside looking down to that dark bushland and rare mountain lagoon, I had wondered if he, having attained his little castle at that splendid locale, ever thought of himself as having made his own unlikely fairytale. His name was Julian. He worked at a biscuit factory, sweeping its floor. We all left there about sixty years ago. Two of my motorcycles and most of my cars have since come with me to pass by Glenbrook Lagoon again.
I’m not a trainspotter. But, please, stick with me: a nice railway platform can be really something. You may read that a second time, if you like. To be clear, this isn’t the academician’s ramble on trains. There is no train, and if you wish to depart the platform prior to the arrival of a train, or even the passing by of a train, either passenger, or goods*, it’ll only add to the incongruity of having been where one catches and alights from trains without being involved with one. Except, if you find yourself pursuing a fugitive who leads you to a railway platform, only for you to be stymied, the fugitive squeezing between closing doors of a departing train, escaping your clutches, leaving you to shake a fist and damn your own bad luck…for you to then leap onto the permanent way (railway jargon), and speed-run like little Tommy Cruise after the train… (you’ve seen how that goes), but such excitement isn’t what we’re doing. We’re here for the opposite…because a nice platform can be really something. As is patience. If you’ve arrived with it, you’ll be well served. If arrived without it, it might be helpful to see this as a chance to serve yourself a respite cup now, or to put up your feet and find the mood of relaxation because…because relaxing…right? But that’s rhetoric. You are already relaxed. You’re just that type, if you’re still reading. So let’s move on… Shortly to be described, is a series of phenomena, and other factors situated just so, that create the ideal conditions to effect a special kind of calming experience. Ironically this dynamic scape relies on the inanimate long hard surfaces of a railway platform and its infrastructure. So we remain in the aforementioned Glenbrook, where I became aware of all these required attributes for said calming experience. Beyond the southern side of The Great Western Highway, we soon find our way to a charming railway station—a mountain railway station—because a mountain railway station projects mystique; stands heroic; shelters boldly; holds secrets; carries deliverance; welcomes warmly; rings romantic. Having been led here, it can be revealed that all this works best at small regional and country stations where the schedule is more likely to promise pleasingly rare services, to the extent that a sparsely populated platform is always preferable. An hourly schedule would be a minimum requirement. Nice, especially if you have nothing too “important” to be hurried for, or harried by. Glenbrook railway station for these purposes is/was** an exemplar. Being a mountain railway station, it exhibits the first and perhaps most important feature required, that is, of being located in a cutting, which is an open passage excavated through higher ground. This feature carries the vital acoustics of extensive, steep-sloped stone surfaces. Knowing this now, you’ll likely have sprung ahead and surmised sound will be important. So it’s advised you seek out, if possible, a station distant from an urban area, away from busy roads, and in a cutting, if you can. A couple of other points in preparation for your own event: for the air and the colour, autumn at the turn, spring at the burgeoning, are best, and middle of the morning after the rush—ideal. You will have your favourite sandwich with you, which you made yourself—a personal preference is an artisanal sourdough rye, with leftover pulled baked chicken, thin-sliced Gouda, or Jarlsberg cheese, crushed walnuts, a good smear of French Dijon mustard with a touch of mayonnaise, a few fresh bruised tarragon leaves and seasoning, to your liking—accompanied by a thermos of a favourite beverage. Let’s now descend the stairs from street level to the platform, where we seek out the most amenable place to sit. In spring, this will be where there are planters, once common on small regional and country platforms, and feature the brightest arrays: Phlox, Pansy, Petunia, and in shrubbery, Gardenias offer their beauteous scent. Autumn’s hues, will be whatever they’re up to, dependent on the growing changeability of the seasons. But in either case the temperature is most likely to be temperate, comfortable. Slow is the go. Spend some time looking over the plantings, noting whatever local wildlife there may be. Take a little time to commune with them, observe their dedications on the stalks, leaves, and blooms. I recall there were many stations where the blooms of choice were roses, in numbers, clearly tended for commuters to be delighted. Sit…and if there’s sun on your face, close your eyes and lean back. Breathe slowly, listen. Listening is the thing. Atmosphere is the thing. The breeze, and the birds, are the things. The air moves by and through the cutting, cools, or warms, mixes through on its rise and fall. The platform, long and curved, a ship-like deck, awaiting, steel rails heating, wires overhead waltzing on the lightest wind, stanchions always thrumming bass notes underneath, and birds alighting on the Stations Master’s roof, tweeting echoes floating up and down the tracks, and sometimes all the sounds come to their abeyance…for who knows how long when you’re lucky. Listen. Listen, is it from the east, or west? A song is singing like a steely whistle’s silver hiss. Low down. Low down, near the ground, upon the sleepers, below the tracks, coming closer, your ride on platform 2 is almost over. Take a train? Why not.
Once, in a conversation with a film producer, the subject of story flashbacks had come up. The producer was not much for the memory flashback: ‘unnecessary’, they said. This is sometimes true. But also true is its worth in the establishment, or furtherance of character. What cannot be denied is that memory’s deeper aspects are of essence in the tapestry of human meaning. With celebration, hope, remembrance, contempt, longing, regret, renewal, fantasy, or any of a multitude of remembered fears or endearments, we travel a continuous path of recall, with a good bit of projecting into the future.
Some may not be for the flash-back, but memory is there, running on a loop, until it isn’t anymore.
TA
*In Australia what’s known in most other countries as a freight train, has historically been referred to as a goods train. It’s probably worth mentioning also that, should you meet with a practitioner from the road logistics industry, it’s apparently considered inappropriate to refer to road-hauled freight as cargo (not supported by online research, but how much is?), cargo being goods handled only by ships. But, who knows, I may just have been the butt of a joke, being unaware of such detail. But, as my father professionally rode the rails, they were goods trains, and shall remain, to me, goods trains.
**I, unfortunately, cannot vouch for the present state of Glenbrook Railway Station, though it has undergone several needed improvements, as it is decades since I’ve been there, but I hope it retains some, or all of the atmospheric attributes I’ve alluded to above.