I stood at Waverley Station yesterday taking in the hectic atmosphere of curtailed reunions from a precipice that allowed me such advantage.
I love the hybrid nature of architecture many European stations are created with. The amalgamation of people flocking to and from while everything around them whirls in synchronized bliss, all this as the sun tries to beat through frosted ceilings casting temporary shadows and temporary dials of light a strewn on threaded floors of both marble and stone.
This is a source of calm for me. The manic murmur is not directed at me thereby negating all rules my body signals as stress, and as no one is singled out, we are all subject to the interactions of this surrounding.
We become equal.
This is my 21st century meditation, holding the same limitations as its name presents, temporal. The effect is tantamount to the ability to remove yourself from any given situation and find peace in proper tranquility. I say proper as in the natural state of calm we accept as given, nothingness.
My escarpment is a walking bridge on what would be the second floor if it was not just a passageway, its rails are decorated by dark green colored patterns standing out, and adding to, the decorative allure of an older station by definition of its art nouveau styling.
In front of me, the electronic time boards now silently change where they once clicked slightly off from the next destination until a wash of clicking and clacking took over the air and overtook the stations buzz of indecipherable words, all was suddenly quiet in the clattering of the timetables chime. I believe Rome's Central Station still has theres. It would be worth the travel to hear the silencing of cacophony through cacophony.
My floor is currently marble, once I get to the platforms it will be stone and the feeling, despite my insular shoes and without regard to temperature, will change.
I decided after looking at the time board that I wanted to be underneath them, the colors and amount of sun were just right for whatever experience I was searching for. There was no need for analytical thinking, It was moments like these that I seeked, where I was lead by emotion without opening my mouth. A natural emotive response.
Making my way through the only intersection of the walking bridge I kept to my right as I am supposed to. Veering to your left would lead you into oncoming traffic to which you had no respite. The vindictiveness of those trying very hard NOT to avoid you could ruin any semblance of tranquility you may have. I follow this rule to preserve my state of mind, it is after all my reverie I am seeking.
Following a second left turn I walk down the stairs at a pace quicker than I would like but not wise to attempt, I am after all within the blood flow of a beast I am foreign to. I can keep up. I observe and store this sequence of events as I do so.
At the bottom of the steps, stretching to the far end of the stations walls is a hall flanked by shops whose roofs do not reach to the ceilings, merely rising like a vaulted ceiling. The shops contain your quintessential sandwich fronts, a book store and express versions of larger establishments like M&S. The feeling this strip of mercantilism gave was a little darker than my timetable destination, perhaps due to the sun, it would serve as a port of call another time.
To the left, the stairs gave way to a platform and included its underbelly as part of this. Accumulated personages gave this away.
It took 37 steps to detail from the corner of my eye, the right side and store lined rampart that sat beneath the walkway. It faced the open aired square as it was beaten by the effulgent light of both robust and lissome nature that spilled over to the gathering audience who seemed as if paying homage to the silent timetable.
Their own silent upwards gaze could be misconstrued, if you were a romantic, as hundreds of plebeians waiting for the clickity-clack chime of father time. It was like a pilgrimage as I came to the foot and centered court of my stopping place. I did not look up when I arrived, instead I faced down at the marble floor absolutely fascinated by what I saw.
There hobbled before me, a one legged pigeon.
It held within it a grace I have never seen in a flying rat before. I could not tell if its stub, which took the place of his left foot, was cauterized from a womb long past or if it was born with the disability. What I gathered in my rubbernecking, were more question than answers. Not only did it bob front to back as pigeons do but it also had a slight wobble that lurched it to the left every time it did. It was cruelly put, fucking adorable. Completely taken, I ignored the passerby's suddenly faced with an insubordinate.
I felt humbled by the life of this wretched little creature. Lets face it, the life of a pigeon can not be a glamorous one. Born into filth, and left to fight for itself more often than not within scrounging cities amongst others of its kind, pigeondom has always mimicked human society at its worst. Its only saving grace being that it could fly away if it had the capacity to dream of greener pastures.
This little guy was forced to adapt to an even greater degree. There was something sweet about that, that he was somehow stronger, wiser than the others who pecked the ground around him, ignoring a king amongst pigeons. His demeanor did not give off an air of cockiness, if pigeons can even give off this characteristic. I swear to you his demeanor gave off a self-effacing, simple existence. So much so, that I would have gathered him into my hands and brought it home where I would have bathed it, washed it with fine oils and clothed him if only I knew it wouldn't have broken skin with a peck, sending me to the hospital for a rabies shot. The little fucker.
Humble or not, peck me and I'll evoke the experimental ten year old inside us all. You know, like that neighbor you had back in grade 5 when your parents moved to fort Francis for a year because Dad got transferred. You never really knew why you had to move but you had your ideas, but nothing would prepare you for the day, when at 19, still idealistic and young, you found out it was Dad's infidelity that sent you to that hell hole.
It all made sense now. The hushed, whispered fights, the loud make up sex and mom stabbing dad 'accidentally' on the first day of Lent screaming, "Why don't you give up red headed whores Walter, I gave up my dignity." <insert stab here>
This pigeon showed more pride in his stubbly walk than I could say for most men I've come across, and if that statement makes me look poor its only because I am not blessed with a sycophantic entourage to watch my every word.
I had found my destination for the day, it wasn't the center court or its timekeeper tenant. A one legged pigeon made my day, as he hobbled, hobbled away.
No comments:
Post a Comment