Heard It On The Train
Heard It On The Train
(From Boyle Heights to Westwood)
PREFACE
(From Boyle Heights to Westwood)
PREFACE
I wanted to embody the spirit of what I believe the period of English Literature known as Romanticism is, as influenced by some of the periods most lauded poets; William Blake, William Wordsworth, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In class we have explored the question “What is Romanticism?” and how does what we discover in our reading of some of the canonical poetry deemed “romantic” that challenges or reinforces the quintessential or the popularly propagated romantic ideals.
As I think we intended to explore in class, is there any typical or specifically, are there any ideas that are essentially romantic? If one were to mimic or imitate or be able to point out a few poignant characteristics of the period what habits or idiosyncrasies do Blake or Southey share, or Wollstonecraft or playwright Baille? Why did/do the scholars feel that distinctions need to be made when traversing the history of the English language? The preeminent authority on definition in the English Language, the Oxford English Dictionary, defines Romantic, as fits the context of our class, “Designating, relating to, or characteristic of a movement or style during the late 18th and 19th centuries in Europe marked by an emphasis on feeling, individuality, and passion rather than classical form and order, and typically preferring grandeur, picturesqueness, or naturalness to finish and proportion. Generally opposed to classical poetry (poetry influenced by and of the same characteristics of the poetry of Ancient Rome and Greece).1
That definition does accurately describe what we have studied this quarter but that definition also decides that we have not learned anything about the Romantics or Romanticism. If we were to consider the OED an authority on definition, the OED definition does not include, in my estimation, what we have discovered in class about the “Romantics” through their work. I think that we have found that Blake’s Milton could not find order because the society around him was in the midst of crippling disorder. Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Marinere is completely ordered in an archaic form. It’s order the only constant able to inform the profundity of the Mariner’s misfortune and his attachment to an arbitrary albatross juxtaposed with the immoral institution in which he was gainfully employed.
Are the artists that fit the literary period/category of Romantic necessarily attached to the events of their time? Is that something we should ask of all artists, of all of humanity? Is Romantic poetry just that, an artistic signification of the rise of the British and other European colonial powers, their tyranny over much of the globe outside of Europe and the subsequent and inevitable backlash by the subjects of imperialism, whether they are the direct or indirect subjects of the colonial power’s authority?
Instead of discovering a static or concrete definition to fit the works of Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge and others given the “Romantic” distinction, I believe that our research has led us to the need to abolish period labels as ways of describing trends in the English language’s vast lexicon.
If the “Romantics” are bound to the definition scholars have bestowed upon them and we as students perpetuate that definition, then what lessons have we learned from their attempt to reconcile the soul of the imperialists, their worship and valiant attempts to explain the indescribable and vast complexity of the universe juxtaposed with the gross opulence of European society and the destructive oppressive tyranny they have levied on the planet?
I still do not know what Romanticism is, I do not know what a “Romantic” is. That is not me trying to take the easy way out, it’s just hard for me to confine Romanticism in a box, like Blake wrote in Auguries of Innocence, “the truth that is told with bad intent / beats all the lies you can invent / it is right it should be so; / Man was made for Joy & Woe / And when this we rightly know / Thro the World we safely go.”2 And the truth is the “Romantics” are of all forms and of all times. The spirit of revolution and thoughtful reflection leading to substantive action whether internally or externally for the betterment of yourself and humanity cannot be confined by a few well thought-out supposed defining characteristics. Are the poets of the revolutionary period of the 1950’s and 1960’s are they not “Romantics” if defined by the Oxford English Dictionary?
No more rhetorical questions, this poem is my attempt to encompass the brilliance and beautiful honesty in which the “Romantics” wrote.
LEG ONE
I heard some strange things on the train today…
Oh those long nights reading, suffering, struggling through,
All the great pleasures that many great writers agonized over
All night I read, all night I tried to understand
Until my eyes were too heavy to decipher any longer
The beauty that was written on nights similar
Nights who allow fatigue’s forgetful nature
Nostromo, Canterbury Tales, my laptop
My notebook, water bottle, an apple and a banana
Some salted almonds, gum, two pens and a pencil
A lightning cable, lotion, sticky notes…
And I heard some strange things on the train today
Because I packed everything but my headphones
Damn you Coleridge!
5:45 in the morning the Gold Line train comes in ten minutes
Down, down, down, escalator down
Down, down, underground
Underneath Soto Street
“Guero! Guero! Guero! Tienes cambio por favor?”
“No tengo cambio hermano,” I reply.
I don’t have a strong pigment
Sometimes I wonder what others wonder about me
At least when it comes to race
Then I realize the arrogance
I realize that this borracho sees light skin
Because my skin is light
Just like I see the black cans of Steel Reserve
Against the rusty gray of his shopping cart
Because they’re right there
I Tap my card *BEEP
And then down again
“The train to Atlantic Station in East Los Angeles is now arriving.”
It’s still early so the eastbound train doesn’t have many passengers
“It always smells early in the morning on the train,” said a kid carrying a trumpet case exiting the train,
“The homeless finally get to sleep once the trains start running again,” said another kid carrying a violin.
“I know I’m not against them. If this is there refuge then fine, but I don’t have to like the smell. I don’t think we should euthanize them or anything it’s just an observation…”
The conversation trailed off as they ascended the stairs
The breeze from the departing train causes my jacket to flap
Paper cups hit the wall; a bottle crashes onto the tracks
*COUGH *COUGH *HA-CHOO
“Salud”
Rattling of the escalator, muffled rock music from head phones, chewing, inaudible conversation, Keys and pocket change jingling, a loud whirring, something is being cranked every 30 seconds, boots and heels
“The train to Azusa is approaching please stand clear.”
The first leg of my journey a 13-minute ride to Union Station
I pull out Nostromo and begin reading
Pillared masses of black basalt framed like an open portal a portion of the white field lying aslant against the west. In the transparent air of the high altitudes everything seemed very near,3
Joseph Conrad is a great writer, oh to write like him!
“This is Mariachi Plaza Station”
The breaks squeak
“Please stand clear the doors are closing.”
steeped in a clear stillness as in an imponderable liquid; and with his ear ready to catch the first sound of the expected diligencia the engineer-in-chief, at the door of a hut of rough stones, had contemplated the changing hues on the enormous side of the mountain, thinking that in this sight, as in a piece of inspired music, there could be found together the utmost delicacy of shaded expression and stu…4
And on I read…
The camp-master was the Italian sailor whom all the Europeans in Sulaco, following captain Mitchell’s mispronunciation, were in the habit of calling Nostromo. And indeed, taciturn and ready, he did take excellent care of his charge at the bad parts of the road…5
“This is Union Station, transfer here for Olvera Street, Metro Link, Flyaway, Red Line, Gold Line, Amtrak, Silver Line, Silver Streak. Thank You For Going Metro”
LEG TWO
*Knock *Knock *Knock
Metro security is knocking on the window
A sleeping man is being told to exit the train
I follow right behind him his charcoal blanket dragging like the ghastly cloak of death as we descended the stairway his suit case pounds each step tapping as death’s scythe
I can’t help but sing,
♪♪ I got to keep movin', I got to keep movin'
Blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail
Hmmm-mmm, blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail
Blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail
Hmmm-mmm, blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail
And the days keeps on worryin' me
There's a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail
Hellhound on my trail♪♪6
There's a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail
Hellhound on my trail♪♪6
I wish I had my headphones, I could be listening to that song right now.
The small engine of the small transporter carts, the rising gates of businesses just opening,
An alarm, *honk *honk *honk
“Grrrr… you move!”
Death speaks in a small fatigued tone
Coffee and pretzels fill the air
6:08 in the morning the Red Line train leaves in three minutes
Down, down, down, escalator down
Down, down, underground
Underneath Los Angeles’ ground transportation hub Union Station
Train brakes squeaking as the Red Line slows to a stop
The wheels of the train hard against the rails
“Step back and please allow customers to exit the train.”
Only three stops until I have to transfer
So I leave Nostromo in my right pocket
I stand because there is no where to sit in the middle train car
Wearily silent is the car, how can so many people be quiet?
How is a car filled with people unwillingly willingly touching each other?
LEG THREE
6:13 in the morning, the Expo Line train leaves in a minute and a half
My footsteps slam on the stairs as I run
Up, up, up, stairway up
Still underneath the ground on 7th and Hope Street
Run and run, for seconds are not counted a minute to board
One minute, 45 seconds, or 30 seconds or the train has left early
Run, run, run! In a window seat on the eastside of the train
“What will today bring? All I know is that it won’t bring me.”
Nostromo in hand, ready for the longest and most productive leg of my journey
…as Sir John himself acknowledge to Mrs. Gould afterwards.
CHAPTER 6
“Man, who the hell you talking to?”
“I’m talking to you. You think you helping me but you ain’t helping shit!”
“I ain’t been helping you?”
“That’s what the man said!”
“Who the fuck are you? Who are you talking to?”
“I’m the man talking to you… You need to calm down and stop talking to that man in a wheelchair like you are.”
“Who the fuck you talking to? Did you wake up this morning and wipe his ass? And make sure he’s going to make it to his appointment? This is my friend, do you know him? Did you guide his legless ass onto the elevator? What the fuck have you done? You need to mind your own fucking business. We going to the doctor you going to the doctor? Why you all in our business?”
“You talking to him foul.” “Why are you not reading and listening to them dumb asses?”
“What you know about what we’re going through? Why do you have something to say? You over there worrying about us. You need to worry about where the fuck you going. As a matter of fact, what stop you getting off of, I’m going to kick your ass. Mind your own business.”
“You ain’t going to kick anyone’s ass. Try it.”
“Imma kick you ass.”
“Why you gotta kick my ass, why you attacking a man in a wheelchair?”
“You don’t know the nature of our relationship! What stop you getting off I’m going to kick your ass.”
“They’re not going to fight, pussies!”
“Why you worried about where I’m getting off? We can handle this right now.”
“You don’t want to handle to handle this right now. You won’t ever leave this train.”
“Come on then! You don’t want this… I ain’t ever helping your crippled ass again. Who woke you up this morning? You made sure your ass is going to make your appointment? Look at you just sitting there… don’t make me get in your ass. You don’t know me. Why are you talking to me? You don’t know who we are, this been my friend for 33 years. How long have you known him? You remember when this nigger could walk? Fuck this man! I ain’t ever helping your crippled ass ever again, you letting this nigger who ain’t done shit for any of us say something?”
“What you gonna do?”
“What am I gonna do? Leave this crippled nigger to help himself.”
I can’t help but laugh as he exits the train.
“Mulatto nigger. I don’t trust you. Look at your demonic hazel eyes. Infused with the white devil Untruthful. Where do these mulattos come from? Why is he laughing.”
Says a woman with three suitcases standing, ogling, “You can never trust the half-breeds because they betray us. Go to hell. I know you hear me. I know you’re honest.”
Who has she been talking to? I wonder… Actually…
He had struck her imagination from the first by his unsentimentalism, by that very quietude of mind which she had erected in her thought for a sign of perfect competency in the business of living. Don Jose Avellanos, their neighbor across the street, a statesman, a poet, a man of culture, who had represented his country at several European Courts…8
♪♪ No llores, mi querida
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame, mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango ♪♪9
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame, mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango ♪♪9
My headphones, oh my headphones
How I long for thee
Oh how I hate where my ears roam
I hate that I can’t help but listen freely
My headphones… oh my headphones!
How selfish it is to feel alone
With crazy people saying crazy things
Lamenting the next sound… my phone rings
*loud vibration *DANANADANANADANANA
It’s my babe!
“Hey babe, what do you want for dinner tonight?” she asks.
“I don’t know. What are you in the mood for?” I answer.
“You want fish tacos?”
“You always suggest fish tacos, I don’t want fish tacos, you know I don’t like fish that much,” I complain.
“Well, that’s why I’m asking you, you always deny what I suggest.”
“You always suggest fish tacos. I’m going to continue to deny that until the end of time. I don’t like fish tacos. Give me any taco but fish, or lengua, or cabeza, or tripa y pescado.”
“You want fried chicken?”
“That does sound really good actually but we had that yesterday, I think I want salmon.”
“With what? Calabasitas y arroz?”
“Si, flaca que es perfecto!”
“How is my daughter doing? How is my son?”
“I dropped your son off at daycare and your daughter still won’t let me sleep. She’s sleeping right now though.”
“This is your time to sleep too. You should take a nap with her, every time she sleeps you sleep.”
“I’m working on my presentation. I’m about to wash the dishes, so I thought about dinner. I can’t sleep, there is a lot that needs to be done.”
“Do not complain to me about not being able to sleep later. I told you that I’ll wash the dishes, we can get Uber Eats or I can pick up something on my way home. You don’t have to cook.”
“We don’t have the money…”
“What kind of rice? White or brown.”
“White rice is fine. Take a nap and I’ll call you when I get out of class, okay?”
“Okay babe. Have a good day!”
“You too flaca, take care of my baby girl!”
“I always do! You’re not the one who is up all night with her. You want to be awake with her from 1am to 5am?”
“She wakes me up too. Goodbye babe! Te amo!”
“That’s why I tell you to sleep in the living room if you want to rest. Hmph… te amo tambien.”
“If I went to go sleep in the living room you would throw it in my face. ‘Nunca me ayudas, duermes tranquilamente en el sofá.’ You know you would. Te amo mucho mucho. Ciao.”
“Hmph… te amo mucho mucho mucho.”
I hang up.
“Why did he dictate his conversation to us? To all of us on this train? He’s the crazy one, he’s insane. Don’t call me insane because I have three suitcases and no plane ticket.”
(and had suffered untold indignities as a state prisoner in the time of the tyrant Guzman Benton), used to declare in Dona Emilia’s drawing-room that Carlos had all the English qualities of character with a truly patriotic heart. Mrs. Gould, raising her eyes to her husband’s thin, red and tan face, could not detect the slightest quiver of a feature at what he must have heard said of his patriotism. Perhaps he had just dismounted…10
“This is Rancho Park/Westwood station. Transfer here for Westside Pavilion, Big Blue Bus 8 and Rapid 12 to UCLA, Green Bus to Culver City. Thank you for going Metro.”
LEG FOUR
6:49 in the morning, the Big Blue Bus Rapid 12 arrives soon
I loiter on the train tracks, I walk slowly
Towards the crowded bus stop
I’m almost there
I put Nostromo in my right back pocket because I do not like standing and reading
A backpack in my ribs and a suitcase up my ass, I stand
It takes twenty minutes to get to campus, directly north up Westwood Boulevard
*Cling *Cling my hand slaps the metal hand rail
My keys jingling as a woman’s hands grazes them hanging from my hip
*HONK *HOONK *HOOONK *HONK
“No one reads the signs,” says the elderly woman in front of my crotch
“People don’t like to read at all these days,” she continued.
“That’s why we’re in all the trouble we’re in, you see, people hate reading. So all you have to do is write something down, and people will do whatever they can not to read it.”
“They’ve got to understand it after that. After they read it, they have to comprehend it,” replied an elderly man.
Rain began to fall. *PIT! *PAT! *SPLAT!
A young man typing on his laptop yawned, *OOOOWWWWWAAAAHHHMPH
I could hear the girl sitting across from the elderly woman reading underneath her breath
“Whether We Will Accept Civilization as It Is or Put It Under a Rigid Examination to Make It What It Ought to Be as Far as Our Race Is Concerned…11 that is an awesome title. I wonder what my professor would think if I titled an essay like that?” she whispered to herself.
The rain fell harder, the buses wheels splashed
*SKRRRRT *CRASH *SHRIIING *CRAAAAASH the sounds of shattered glass
Luckily the bus just passed
No heads turned to witness the calamity
7:02 and we’re almost there.
Puddles splashing sidewalks
Loudly, without a single care
The man with the suitcase headphones’ talk;
♪♪ Pull up on a nigga in a wheelchair like St. Louis
Shootin’ at everybody in here like St. Louis
If you don’t wanna die, get the fuck out!
Feel like Diamond daddy when I pull that Desert Eagle out ♪♪12
*PIT-PAT *PAT-PAT *PIT-PIT *PAT-PIT
I cannot believe that he listens to…
Not only are we not politically and religiously free as I have aforesaid, but socially we are not free, economically we are not free, and we of the Universal Negro Improvement Association…13
♪♪ Skuba Jamie Foxx fuckin’ hoes but ain’t no disc jockey… ♪♪14
“Sir, the fare is $1.25”
“I’m $0.30 short is that okay?”
“It is this time.”
*HA CHOO! *Sniff *Sniff
Lincoln cannot free you, Victoria of England cannot free you: if Negroes must be free then four hundred millions of us must…15
♪♪ We like money money yeah yeah, we like money money yeah yeah yeah yeah Pull up with a 100 rounds nigger… ♪♪16
And what do we desire? We desire the emancipation of the entire race, we desire the freedom of our country Africa; free from the domination of an alien race, free from exploitation, free from the pernicious influence of an alien civilization, and an alien creed…17
“The next and last stop is Ackerman Plaza UCLA. All patrons must exit. Thank you for riding Big Blue Bus”
7:37 in the morning and I’m ordering coffee
Awaiting the day’s hassle
*PING I get an email…
Class is cancelled
FOOTNOTES:
1 The English Language does not have a formal dictation but The Oxford English Dictionary traverses the history of the English Language by tracing the origins of usage of words used in the language.
2 Blake, William. Auguries of Innocence. Lines 53-58. This poem was not published in Blake’s lifetime. Thought to be written in 1803 it was published posthumously in 1863. The poem is apart of what is known as The Pickering Manuscripts, a name given to notebooks found of Blake’s work.
3-5,7 Conrad, Joseph. Nostromo. Random quotes from pages 46-49 chapter 5, in the Barnes & Noble Classics edition. Nostromo was originally published in 1904; the BNC edition is from a 1919 edition of the text.
6 Johnson, Robert. “Hellhound On My Trail.” The Complete Recordings. Robert Johnson was a Blues singer infamously known for supposedly selling his soul to the devil to become the best guitar player alive. Active in the 1930s.
8 Conrad. Nostromo. P. 54
9 Dylan. Bob. “Romance In Durango.” From the album Desire.
10 Conrad. Nostromo. P. 54
11, 13, 15, 17 Garvey, Marcus. “Whether We Will Accept Civilization as It Is” Selected Writings and Speeches. Dover Edition. 2004.
12, 14, 16 Sada Baby featuring BT “Playaz Klub.” From the Skuba Steve: Hold Up Mixtape. The song essentially transcribes the plot to the 1998 film, The Player’s Club, which was Written and Directed by Ice Cube.
Comments
Post a Comment