A Kind of Mania

Is it possible to feel tired, yet impatient? Actually, do I really care if you, the reader, think it's possible or unlikely because if that's how I feel aren't I the best judge? And I can't think, right now, of a more appropriate way to describe this stale, frustrated, conjoined feeling.
Tired of waiting, waiting, waiting as if the train I was due to catch has been delayed and nobody can tell me, irrefutably, when it might come, or even if it will come at all. And so I wait because what else can I do? For in this scenario there's no alternative, and no way to make the wait pass quicker.
I can't be sure that it will ever end: this scenario might but the waiting itself might not. For don't you find that when you get the thing you've been impatient for the anticipatory effect doesn't stop? It transfers its affections elsewhere with far more speed than it took to acquire the previous whatever. The egg (the whatever) gets flipped, fried both sides (over-easy as the Americans say), served with its sunny side-up and whisked away by a fifties candy-striped waitress to be laid in front of the customer to be partook of; however, for the short-order cook there's no let-up, his spatula must continue to flip patties, bacon, tomatoes and eggs. The orders come in fast but aren't always served a) as expected, or b) at all, as if the candy-striped, possibly bubblegum-chewing, coke-drinking waitress has downed tools (her hands and feet) or got lost somewhere between the serving hatch and the dining floor, and yet the majority of patrons sit there in hope, rather than angrily stand, hitch up their trousers and with a cow-boyish swagger, exit.
Why? you might well ask. Because when the ordered how-you-like-it egg or whatever finally puts in an appearance, it still tastes oh-so-good. The trouble is, as I said, you then want more: more of the same or perhaps an occasional change from your usual, and yet although you now know you might be in for a bit of a wait your impatience grows.
You underestimate how long it might take; you overestimate how long it's actually been. You fidget. Chew your lips. Bounce your legs up and down, up and down. Fiddle with your hair. Pinch the lopes of your ears. Scratch that itchy patch on your elbow. Think about complaining but don't, which is very English of you, in spite of your mind being aligned with one track of thought: Whereisitwhereisitwhereisit. WHEREISIT??!!! Cartoon steam or a disco smoke machine (and now I'm showing my age!), non-visible, of course, except in your internal combustible engine.
The dirty smoke clears, leaving a stinging throat and watery eyes. The fire, inside, dies, yet the head pounds. The wait, calmer now, recommences. You're not as edgy as you were before for the nervous energy you exuded then was pointless, and caused you more harm than good for it only made you cross, then crosser still, and nothing, even after that release, occurred to change the outer state of things. There you were, still waiting for your order to be fulfilled in a diner by the side of a rail-road or in a parked restaurant-car that hasn't yet been coupled with its train, although hundreds of trains, in need of a restaurant-car, seemed to have passed through this very station.
You're not content, but you're not discontent either. Still frustrated, yes, but there's very little you can do, so read the paper, have a cup of coffee, sit and watch the rest of the world go by, although where you are residents or fellow travellers might be few. If you decide to take a nap, it's highly improbable you'd miss anything new or anything pertaining to you, and if you do, so what? You've waited so long, would it matter?
The food might arrive, grow cold and congeal; the train might leave without you. Or you might wake up and find, at last!, you're moving. You might not know where to, but finally you're on the move, you're going somewhere; God knows where, but somewhere. And although the destination might not be apparent for some time it's good to watch the landscape rolling by in-between averting your eyes to the laden plate, now set before you to replace the empty setting.

Picture credit: Compartment C Car, 1938 Edward Hopper

Wanderlust

A hotel room in disarray. A tan suitcase unlocked and lying, with its lid open, on the unused hospital-cornered and turned-down bed; its carefully packed and now lightly creased clothes escaping in a crawl across the dark carpeted floor.
The underwear, which had already been unpacked, spills from a hastily stuffed drawer as if refusing to be confined, so soon, to another unlit cramped space; a thirties-style hat rakishly placed on the dressing table looks ill-at-ease in-between the TV and the hospitality tray with its cup and saucer, plastic kettle, sachets of instant coffee, Breakfast tea, brown and white sugar and UHT milks; a floral scarf and black corduroy jacket trail over and across the back of an upholstered chair which even unadorned would not suggest comfort; and shoes, singly or in mismatched pairs, are dotted everywhere, arrogantly upright or placidly on their sides, their heels and toes at all conceivable angles, which to a maid or porter, should such a figure happen to enter this picture, would understandably be a hazard for him or her to pick through, though possibly less so to the occupant.
The female occupant, newly arrived, is however preoccupied, and appears, like the room, in a mild state of disorder. The tempest, if there was one, now over, although the evidence seeming to relate to that could just as easily be the usual way she unpacks after a tiring journey; a tedious task, no matter how it's achieved, that at present looks as though it's been stopped mid-flow, as if she simply couldn't be bothered or needed a quick rest and a few minutes to survey the mess to galvanise herself once again into purposeful action.
Her shapely form is seated trance-like on the made bed, her torso hunched over as if her head is a weight she can no longer carry. Her face is drawn and pale, framed with wispy blonde hairs, and her light blue-grey eyes though they stare are not fixed on anything in particular.
At some point, she has peeled off the outer clothes she was attired in, feeling, perhaps, they harboured germs from travel or that her delicate skin needed to breathe like a wine that is best served at room temperature, and so she sits in an all-in-one dusky pink undergarment, which is not unbecoming but not becoming either. It neutralises her English rose tone, whereas a bolder colour might have enhanced it, but then she had dressed for comfort not vanity. And of course it's possible, before this lapse occurred, that a hot shower was next on the agenda.
But maybe the thought of that had been too much: too weary to stand, to put one foot in front of the other and walk the short distance to the bathroom, and this had quite literally stopped her in her tracks so that she just threw herself down and sat. And sat, staring at nothing. Her eyes and mind suddenly turned vacuous; the battle to stay alert gone now her destination had been reached and she once again had the privacy of her own space, her own paid-for room.
Who can guess, from looking alone, how far away this lone woman is from home, how many miles she's travelled? What's brought her here, and where from here she might go? Is she a habitual traveller or was this a rash decision, in so much as decisions can be rash without advance planning if you have responsibilities?
That she is alone, and seeming somewhat pensive about it, makes one looking in assume that she is the type, in looks and manner, to be overly anxious or flighty, even perhaps resentful of the mood in which she acted: what was it for? what was it about? why is she here?
How will she spend her time? Will she dine alone? The adventure worn thin now that the consequences of doing so have begun to set in and solidify.
Anonymous people surround her, just outside these neutral walls, upon which at least one is hung a bland landscape; just across the corridor or in a room a floor above or two below, other occupants in a not too dissimilar position, are, with glazed eyes, as is the woman described, reaching for their handbag or briefcase to delve inside and bring out a yellowed piece of paper on which a faded bus or train timetable is printed. For to each of them the point is the journey, and not, as they are doing now, sitting still.

Picture credit: Hotel Room, 1931, Edward Hopper

A Sympathetic Ear

I love my town.
No, love's too strong a word and like is insufficient. I 'know' my town is closer, insomuch that I know other surrounding towns less. I prefer its smallness and the fact that it doesn't sprawl, although that in itself, in the near future, might be a problem, because I sometimes think the way it's developing is irrelevant to its actual needs.
Still, it's home. I've never known anywhere else, either living on its outskirts or for the past twelve years in its centre, though that's not to say I haven't wanted to, it's just that when you weigh it all up this town suits me. It meets most of my present needs even if indeed it's unable to now meet its own, and yet I occasionally hanker for different which I sometimes think is connected to being an armchair reader: a restless spirit who, these days, travels in mind only. Well, okay, I occasionally take the train a few stops down or up the line to another leafy suburb but that's as far as I go, and usually when I return I'm relieved to be home because while a subtle change is nice, it's not different enough, and yet somehow it makes me appreciate all my town has to offer, which if you knew it you might argue is not a lot compared to its larger, more sprawling neighbours.
So, it's definitely not love but maybe respect, of a filial persuasion, and so at times you could say I feel duty-bound to stay, even though it will age and I may not like its transformations.
Where would I go?
I don't know. Nowhere else really appeals, at least not enough to pack my bags and wave goodbye. For good. Forever. Because when you stop the daydream and actually consider it, it, one, seems like a lot of effort for thin reasons, and two, reality, especially if it's an unknown reality may not live up to my expectations, and on my own I'm not the type to make the best of that kind of a situation. Not without back-up.
Where's your sense of adventure? In my head, mostly. I've never been one to throw my cares to the wind. God knows I've tried, and on a few occasions sobbingly failed; the most notable being a one-night-stand with a university, and yes, I mean literally, with the student halls and not a fellow pimply-faced student. I have a torn personality: a grass-is-greener and a small-town mentality. In other words, I prefer to think, wind myself into knots and even go so far as to believe I could drop everything, but not actually have the guts, the balls to follow through. Because reality is known to bite and I think, no matter how good something on paper seems, I'm likely to get badly bitten.
Perhaps if there was a rational motive like the lure of a job or kin, the notion could be more easily (and willingly) acted upon, but as there's not it seems too much of a risk when there's no telling if in doing so I'd be more content as in a whole new lease of life, instead of content but plodding.
Besides which, all England's leafy or coastal pockets seemed overfilled to the point where their inners are secreted and strewn like a bin ravaged by urban foxes, and so the ideal town I have in my mind I do not think I'd find in England, or probably anywhere.
A sleepy town where nothing much happens, but when it does everyone knows about it. A curtain-twitching, yet hospitable town: wary of newcomers at first until your character's been vouched for by a long-standing resident or you've been dealt with and seen often enough in the town's few establishments. A thirties, forties, fifties town. An American town, off the beaten track, and in the South, with a handful of stores and an all-night café which is, of course, its beating heart. For this is the place where, any time of day or night, regulars and all those stopping over or passing through tell their woes to a sympathetic ear, who from behind the cash register reassuringly nods, occasionally grunts, and seldom smiles.

Picture credit: Nighthawks, 1942,  Edward Hopper