Blue sky morning. Sunlight paves the railway line, highlighting the journey. I've been travelling that same track for the last five years, but it never repeats itself. Every day, there is something new to feel and see. Seasonal vibrations, chimeric atmosphere, faces shuffled in an infinite deck of cards.
I notice a tree branch for the first time, its unique, convoluted way of grasping for sunlight never apparent to me before. The train halts outside a block of abandoned industrial space. A glimmer-spray of fine glass fragments pulses in the early sun, scattering the bare concrete with fallen stardust. Amidst the glow, a lone brown pigeon forages for unseen flecks of food, pausing every few seconds to appraise its surroundings.
Pinpoints of constancy also flow through the train ride. Ahead of me, a certain bald head I saw yesterday, exposed scalp shining beneath fluorescent lighting. The man in the tweed suit sits here also, with his cuff links and that 1960s spy look; long, prominent nose like the fictional submarine captain figured in a television series of my childhood. When he gets off the train, he will walk down North Terrace with his morning cigarette in one hand, brown leather brief case in the other, striding towards the university with a perfectly straight, composed and upright posture like gentlemen of old.
The Nordic one is here too, thin yellow-blonde hair down to the tip of his shoulders, walking with the long, effortless strides of the tall. I rarely see his face, only that shock of blonde hair coming down over his collar; his patterned shirts and black slacks. But not the nerdy type. His walk is too self-assured, his hair too proud.
Then there is the bearded old man in shorts, looking like a grumpy Santa Claus on vacation, beer belly accentuated by a tight cotton Bonds shirt, hairy legs bare down to a pair of grey socks which emerge from black shoes and extend up to his shins. He reads his books, bag on the floor between his feet. I wonder what he thinks about, what he has seen, where he is going and what tales he might have to tell.
On the bus, there are regular characters, too. Shane is perhaps the most memorable: a big man with an intellectual disability who always makes it his duty to greet the passengers and introduce himself as he steps onboard. He has shaken my hand a few times, and kindly does the same to anyone he sits near enough to talk to. Occasionally, he will ask me what I had for lunch and happily tell me how much he is looking forward to having some Pepsi when he gets home. He seems a happier person than anyone riding the 174 bus to Paradise.
Other regulars seem to leave only a few particular impressions behind in my mind: the woman with glowing chestnut hair, a red and white handbag, and beautiful coats (I would love to know where she shops); the greasy man with glasses and a red jumper; the girlish woman with pale hair and sad eyes; the immaculate blonde who reads fashion magazines at the bus stop; the young, anaemic-looking man in a long, black coat and green cargo pants.
These are the regular characters of my daily travels. They are strangers to me, really, but I feel I know them somehow. We share the same spaces, pass through the same tracts. We are celestial bodies tracing an identical orbit, even if only for an hour each day. Their presence is a kind of compass; a comforting, interesting point of familiarity between the banal and the chaotic.
