Sarah Carradine

Playwright, director and wicked bridge player Sarah Carradine has written us an awesome blog post. For more of her writing check out her blog: The Cheese Sandwich Follies.

Photo Credit: Felicity Pickering

Taking The Train

At night, rave near the guard’s compartment, naked with a blue light.

Train travel is the best. Grace Cottington tells us to always stay awake in the limo. There’s some pretty great stuff happening inside the carriage as well.

We’ve been given an opportunity and we have to grab it with two teeth and run with it.

There are prizes to be had Wynyard to St Leonards. Sit on the top deck. Look at the buildings. If you wear earbuds on the train, you might miss something.

You were told not to run on the road and that’s the beginning and the end of it.

People on trains are unguarded. As writers we look at them, to see them, to hear them. We have notebooks. Its not enough to carry them in our pockets. They must be used. They suffocate in shrinkwrap.

The world is your oyster. It just depends on what you think an oyster is.

I like trains. I like the motion. I like feeling the traveling happening. Everyone has a train story from a city not their own. But St James to Erskineville has its charms. Get in the last carriage so you will be closest to the steps when you arrive at the station.

Please do not return this to me as I do not want it back.

Milan to Florence, they bring you a cup of tea. Two loud and soft Italian ladies talk to you and your elderly aunt, showing photos, telling stories. So what you have no language in common.

It was exhuberating.

You can do that Glanville to Woodville Park, you know.

Not only that but listen to this what happened.

Sydney to Adelaide on the Indian Pacific. Darkness outside. The motion of the train. Do you know they pull a shelf down from the wall and it becomes your bed and you lie on it? The landscape painted by night travels past and you are rocked.

Come day go day.

I wish we were children again.

On a train at night a man put my hand on his penis. Finish what you’ve started. I was seventeen. Trains aren’t scary. Some of the people on the train might be. His breath smelt of green onions.

I was in sticky water.

On New York’s subway system they work hard for coins. They tell stories; their lives, their lies. They sing. Sometimes they dance. Once a blind saxophone player looked me in the eye as he accurately grasped the dollar bill I held out. We gave each other a nod.

Something that you wear under the clothes for the breasts.

I had to bite my pride.

Imagine if Ascot Vale to Footscray was a performance. Imagine. Well it is. If I curl up on myself, shutting out the world, I miss the show.

Grasp the nettle by the horns.

He will tear the house upside down.

Plain Jane on a high horse.

If you are on the nod, it will pass you by.

Just for the luck of it.

We’ll lose the plane.

Every once and a while.

And remember: At night, rave near the guard’s compartment, naked with a blue light.

Photo Credit: Felicity Pickering