Why do we all have train stories?  I think it’s the space, the sounds, the crowds, the strangers, the performances, the movement, the alone time, the quiet, the sound, the  rhythm.

We’ll be riffing on theme of trains on March 27th at the KGB Bar, Red Room 84 East 4th St at 7 PM with Master Lee, Steven Meyer, Hectah Arias, Greg Johnson and Scott McMillan and special musical guest Peri Lyons.

In celebration of trains, I asked Scarlet to put together a post.  She started with some free writing on the train:

Delays

Brooklyn Bound C train
A complete stop
Pitch black tunnel silence
No longer hear the engines groan over antiquated tracks
Rather, the hot labored breath of riders which steam up windows
Murmurs and muttering
Sighs
An apology for nothing
A faint melody leaks from a pair of cheap headphones
A neon light flickers
It smells like mold

Cyclone

No matter what train I ride, I look for your face in the sea of brown bodies. I imagine there are times when we are riding the same train, on different cars, heading to divergent destinations. We are completely unaware of the fact we are dangerously close to one another. And all that lies between us is metal, glass, and flesh.

Remember when we used to sit in the far right corner of the Coney Island Bound F Train? Summertime. I would place my olive legs on your lap and you would grab at the flesh that poured out the bottom of my shorts. I liked watching your callused tattooed hands explore my knee caps.

No one paid us any mind.

 

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