To the rattling and shifting Irish train I’ve been listening to a recording of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan”, which has cast the glow of a cigarette smoked basement club in the 50’s.
But of course it is not, its fluorescent lit and a terrible tacky light blue and ever so slightly off white. Over the last hour to be honest it’s started to give me a headache.
But in the rattle I can feel my hand steady myself against the exposed brick masonry, and the sight of the rail car ahead of my own moving slightly out of time with my own feels like improvisation (though I know well and good that it isn’t).
But in a subtle and repeatable moment on a train to Galway, my heel cannot help but tap on the carpeted floor as though the spirit of some grand company possesses it from decades prior. And though it is neither significant nor remarkable, the strange ramble keeps me good company along the way for a short while.