The train

A long, long time ago, I can't remember when exactly, but I think it was the early seventies....I caught a train into Sydney. Actually, I did that more times than I can remember, but this time it was different. It was still one of the old 'red rattlers' that had no safety features whatsoever. People used to stand in the open doorways as it picked up speed between stations. I know I often did. Then there were those old, dark green, vinyl seats which years later were eventually replaced, because handfulls of socially challenged individuals from a younger generation preferred slashing, rather than sitting, on them.
I made this trip alone, so I was very likely on my way to the Australian Museum near Hyde Park all the way from Macquarie Fields, for the grand return fare of 5c. I say alone, but in fact I was joined by an elderly man, somewhere around Strathfield perhaps. Like many of his generation, he was open and conversational from the outset and I must have looked like someone who wanted company for the remainder of the trip.
But the truth is, I didn't.
Nevertheless I didn't change seats either, so the old man began telling me how much Sydney had changed since he was my age.
He told me of the Harbour, lit up like a Christmas tree with all the coloured lights on the ferrys and boats, of the young couples out on the town for the dancing, of the popularity of the boxing on a Saturday night, when crowds would turn out and a good time could be had for less than a shilling. He had been in the ring himself as I recall and had known a few of the big names in boxing back then. They were all gentlemen he said and he was proud to have been in their company. After naming them, he asked me if I had heard of them. When I said I hadn't, he told me I certainly would one day. If I had though, I wouldn't have known, because I forgot most of what he told me within minutes of getting off at Central Station.
It's now one of my many regrets.
Here was an eyewitness account of Sydney in the '20s and '30s, recalling things he had experienced, not just imagined from a grainy black and white photo. He remembered the sounds, the colours, the smells, the people.....many of whom had long since passed from living memory.
And I, just as you might expect from a 14 year old, couldn't see the value of genuinely listening, or asking questions......
Now I'm 51 and I would give anything to be back in that carriage on a hazy Summer's morning, heading into Sydney.

Think'n

I just realised. Most of the time, I consider myself to be reasonably normal and well adjusted. It's only when I turn my attention to arty things I've done, or attempted to do, I get all gloomy and depressed. Soooooo..... what's THAT all about? Why are we overly critical of ourselves, our abilities? As I said to an old friend recently, in art, the very thing that drives us can, if unchecked, hold us back. But I won't let it stop me.....not this time. I'll bide my time just a little while longer....watch tv....grab a beer.....