Scrap 006: Planes, Trains & Automobiles
I'm writing this on a train, a bus, a plane, a bus, and another train. Little bits of it in my head, as I walk between them. I was supposed to write and schedule it before I left, but, you know, life.
It was also supposed to be about something else, but I left that thought back at home. The further I move away from our flat, the further I move away from that idea. I know it's still there, though, safe and sound. Waiting to return when I do.
This happens a lot with my thoughts and ideas, my feelings and memories too. They attach themselves to places, or objects, or actions. I think, like me, they need time for themselves. Time to grow and develop, time to wait until they feel ready and able, time to be sure that I feel ready and able myself.
Stepping onto the U8 reminds me to finally pitch the idea I had months ago. I search for the note I made back then, emailing it to myself so I don't forget this time. On the bus I respond to frustrating messages about money, trying my best to flick them out of the window as I hit send.
The plane gently immerses me into a pool of nostalgic feeling. I'm not sure if it's the air pressure, or lighting, or smell of overpriced and undercooked panini. Whatever it is, as we reach cruising altitude, seatbelts securely fastened, I feel like I'm slowly traveling back in time. 500 miles per hour.
The woman next to me pulls out a tiny point-and-shoot camera. Her phone nowhere in sight, she begins to take photos of the cartoonish white fluff of clouds. And, there it is, I am firmly back in the good old days. None of us lived through a life-changing pandemic, apps and algorithms don't control our minds, you can still find a good döner in Berlin for under five euro.
Planes always bring back this feeling for me, the good old days. Traveling, I suppose, more than just planes. Any kind of definite and deliberate movement, place A to place B. It seems obvious now I think about it, moving is the good old days for me. It's something I've done for most of my life.
Between my mom’s and dad’s homes as a teenager. Between university and my home town. Between our current home and my family's and in-law's. Between countries, careers, and things I didn’t even realise or no longer remember.
Standing still never really worked for me, even though I can often appear incredibly still from the outside. Even if I am incredibly still on the outside, the inside is always moving. I’m throwing stones in the water to keep from getting stagnant, constantly swimming in order to survive.
I'm sure this is the reason my thoughts often jump ship. They know I need to search for them, to stay curious, to remind myself what I need, what home means, and who I am in the first place. So, they find their spot and wait. Like little breadcrumbs, they lead me away from the gingerbread house, or towards it, depending. Guiding me back to myself, whenever I’m lost.
A voice on the train reminds me that I need to be in the front four carriages. I don't even remember the bus. The train journey is exactly what I need, dynamic and familiar, brutal and soft, short and infinite. Concrete, graffiti, tower blocks, huge factories, green fields, clusters of houses, yellow fields, farms, canal barges, deer! The void where huge cooling towers once stood, the sign I was home, you are now arriving at…
I take a deep breath and close my fist around a new thought. One I want to keep with me, not leave here on the train. A breadcrumb of realisation that will nourish me like a whole bakery. I am living in the good old days, right here and now. I always have and I always will. The train stops, I press the flashing green button, the doors open with a deep breath of their own.
