I wrote this for June 22nd of this summer, for a writing project a few friends and I had (it died pretty quickly-we stopped responding to the prompts) This was the first prompt "Describe a place. Tell us how it smells, looks, feels, is, how does time work there, what was the first or last time you where there, how did you discover it ect. Associations you have with it, emotions, memories. You can go in all or none of these veins. You can go on a tangent, but in the end, I want to know the place." I will discuss my weekend in my next post-after I have taken my Adult Psychopathology Exam (tomorrow)
Waverly
I’d like to say "I’d never given it much thought before," because I like the way it sounds. It implies a sort of philosophical view and discovery: “I have not thought about it before, but now am willing to examine the full depth and beauty of this wonderful idea or thing and discover something that is ultimately life-changing.” But the truth is, I have. I’ve given it a lot more thought than would seem necessary to give a train station.
There are stagnant puddles that never seem to evaporate on the landings that break up the stairs to the rest of the town above. I am suspicious of these and avoid stepping in them, because the station smells slightly of urine, though I’ve never seen anyone pissing there and can’t imagine why anyone would. To my knowledge, there are no homeless fellows that live down there; Belmont isn’t that kind of town. And since I have stood, on the platform, waiting, at 12:27 am, if there were any homeless people living there, I probably would have seen them. However, there is usually no one but me, or me and a friend who walked me there, and once or twice, me and a couple of teenagers makingout.
The conductors, of course, have a tendency to think that I was up to something, because there’s no good reason to be going home that late from Waverly to Kendal Green. And maybe rightly so, for it did gave me the independence a teenager from boring white suburbia wanted-a way to hang out with friends that lived a couple towns over, and a venue to photograph them, on the rooftop above the bench and stairs, at night. Fun, and maybe even possibly illegal (oh the thrill of barely doing anything wrong, ever!)
The walls are salmon pink, which is a much more interesting color than any of the other stations I get off at. Sometimes, if I stay the night and am waiting in the morning, I study the wall on my side of the tracks in greater detail: I can see the crackles, the orange sparks and red veins, and where the paint has been chipped away, the blue gray of the cement underneath. On the opposite side, there are streaks of lighter pink (or…more accurately, they exist on both sides but I can see them more clearly from a distance,) formed from the greater flow of water due to the way the hand rail above is structured. The water collects on the metal rectangles, runs down to the corners, and washed down the wall. In two places this pattern is broken, where fresh paint has been applied to cover up graffiti. For a very long time it said “yoonder” on the left hand side of the station, underneath the road-bridge. More recently, in big letters, left to right, bottom down, above the roof that covers the stairs that go up, it said:
from save
heaven me
-which is one of those flexible things that can be interpreted by me for myself. I can think….here, this town, is my heaven. My haven from home, an accessible taste of independence for a person without a car, and here I am waiting for the train to save me from it and bring me to a good nights’ rest. Though somehow I seriously doubt that the writer meant anything like that.
I don’t mind the drunk sports fans on some nights, but I do mind the throw up that is caused by them. I like eavesdropping on conversations, but I hate looking for a set of seats that’s empty and finding none. I don’t enjoy shelling out money to the conductor, but I like it when they don’t bother to come to collect the fare. The worst is though, when fresh snow is lying all around and still coming down, seeing the tracks are clean, and trying to convince myself that, maybe, perhaps, possibly, I have not missed the train, have not lost a sliver of independence, and don’t have to irritate my parents by asking them to disrupt their plans and pick me up after the last train has gone.That there is still a 'next train' coming to this pink, stinking platform.
Note Osya left yesterday. He's trying to convince us that he's responsible enough for a kitten. By 'us' I mainly mean Папа. The night before he said no, because he had asked Osya to replace the trash bag and Osya hadn't, so now he's trying to prove otherwise.
Sima's been playing angry birds with his stuffed animal angry bird, which consists of him throwing it at me, me not doing anything, him making a blowing-up noise and then telling me weather or not I'm dead (depending on how close the bird got to me.)
2) put about half an inch of water in a pot. put the apples and whatever else in as well (i.e. cranberries.) the initial water is just in there so the apples don't burn until they get warm enough to seep out their own juices. mmm, gory.
classes are awesome, professors care (though some are very weird...kinda like older versions of the students, with more power and having had more time to develop their quirks while reading philosophy in their offices)
