'And I'm waving through the window. As we go, somebody says "What are you waving at?" But what do I have to lose? Somebody might wave back.'
-Waterboys
I had one of the strangest dreams last night. I was piloting an enormous drilling machine, shaped like a giant, sharpened lipstick (I say piloting because I was actually sitting in a high-tech cockpit like that of a fighter jet, complete with joystick controls and wearing a mirrored helmet) drilling my way down through the largest glacier in existence. It was okay. I woke up wondering if I was going to get paid once I'd tunneled all the way through. I'm not sure I want to know the meaning of this one. Blisteringly Freudian.
Three hours later and I'm sitting at the central train station in Gothenburg, Sweden, where I have resided now for over half my life. Gothenburg that is, not the train station. I'm on my way to the main college in Uddevalla, north of here for a business meeting, and as usual I'm enjoying watching the crowds of people as they flow around each other at varying speeds. It's a little reminiscent of driving in Paris.
I like train stations a lot more than I like airports, the latter often being filled with tired, stressed individuals who look as though they might punch you in the face if you so much as ask them the time of day. Train stations are always permeated by a slightly easier energy; the passengers always travel a little lighter, and over shorter distances, meaning they don't usually get time to reach boiling point before arriving at their destination. The best way to move through a crowded train station is to wear headphones and listen to something organic, like Portishead or Morcheeba while watching the people around you. This instantly gives you the feeling that you are part of an elaborate video that, oddly enough, fits the music perfectly.
Another hour has tiptoed past and I'm on the train, sharing that quirky elevator anonymity with everyone else. The city starts to thin out as we speed past it's outer districts, and perfectly fluffy Simpsons style clouds hang in the tall blue sky like badly photoshopped cotton-wool. It's a fine day for getting out of the city.
I'm thinking of my wife, who is heavily pregnant with our first child, and I'm filled with a little rush of something that feels like positively charged vertigo. Becoming a father is something that I always knew I'd do, but now I find myself at this point, I'm a stew of pleasingly positive emotions, often catching myself staring at families with small children wearing a slight smile, my eyes with a watery glaze to them. I must look weird. A million questions about fatherhood cross my mind at those moments, and I push these aside, telling myself that as a human being my persona is in a constant state of evolution and therefore any answers, opinions or advice I may give my baby as it* grows while being (hopefully) morally sound and correct, will reflect the existential state I currently find myself in. Duh.
As I sit writing this, the scenery rushing by becoming greener with every minute, I note with some amusement that everyone in the compartment (including myself) is preoccupied with their own small piece of technology; phones, cameras, mp3 players and laptops. It seems we've perfected our own ingenious way of avoiding the awkward silence that deafens people when they're placed together in a small area. Sometimes I wonder what their reaction would be if I suddenly whipped out a kazoo and gave a noisy rendition of the theme from Rhubarb & Custard.
Yesterday's film was Green Zone, a modern war flick directed by Paul Greengrass about the controversy surrounding the American army's presence in Iraq, the plot focusing on the fact that the US action of sending teams of soldiers into the country to locate and seize weapons of mass destruction was merely a front to allow the strategic deployment of military forces in order to dissolve the already divided government and place a puppet leader in power. Starring Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear, it's a fairly run-of-the-mill Hollywood bash that focuses on a troop led by Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Damon) looking for Iraqi chemical weapon sites during the confused, powder keg days following Saddam's overthrow, with plenty of military terms and abbreviations thrown around to lend all the relevant characters the appropriate sense of authority. Scenes of hushed, high-level intrigue noisily intermixed with segments of chaotic mob tension and running, pitched nighttime battles. It's here, during the combat scenes that Greengrass finds his feet, the action taut and claustrophobically shot with hand-held cameras and a disturbing lack of music. While it's not the best film I've seen recently, the sensation of scuttling through the bullet-riddled streets of Baghdad in the dark will definitely stay with me for a long time to come.
I'm reaching for my headphones now, as I'm approaching my destination. Mazzy Star should suit the campus crowd quite nicely.
Quentin Beck
July 23rd 2010
*I use the word it as we don't know what sex it will be
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