Riding the Ghost Train

Riding the Ghost Train-Part One

Once I took the train to Chicago and then flew into Ottawa when I had nothing else to do. I arrived by moonlight and slept deep that night, restoring the soul to the soul, recharging my batteries by sticking the plug from my heart into the thin new moon. By morning I was refreshed, ready for anything, looking for a man who could answer earthbound prayers. Not G-d. This was too minor for to trouble Him while He might be restoring a soul by still waters. How I loved Him. And not little clay-formed gods, because I was looking for something real, not a superstitious rabbit's foot man. I was looking for someone with ju-ju, but not bad stuff, not false gods ego and no shadow stuff. Pshaw. I was looking for a real man who was a bit feral when the moon was still small and grew larger as the lunar slice grew into a fat melon.

At a pastry stand by the river, I saw Charles de Lint and I grinned. It gave me joy in my heart to see him; but I didn't want to touch his sleeve, I had no need. He was a useful, fey sort of grand man, but he wasn't who I needed right now. He was an affirmation though, that things were going well and my journey might very well be successful

It was clear after only a day that there was nothing here in this city of tall trees and old buildings that could help me, or interest me at all, so I rented a car and drove up to the Canadian Shield to walk the haunts of my ancestors. Suddenly I realised what I was hungry for and it wasn't to be found in the deisel-ridden city. At one point, out beyond the map's little highway squiggles and markings for points of interest mostly for Brits and Americans, I stopped the car and rested my head on the back of the seat until I was empty of the engine's vibrations and full of my own. I got out and walked through the wood. The trees were smaller here and it was cold-ish, even in this spring afternoon. I went back for my coat and beret. I walked miles through the bracken and brush, touching a three foot fir tree here, a finely drawn impoverished pine there. The soil was crumbly and old. Here, was almost the beginning of the continent. Soon I would be walking on what would feel like the moon itself. The Shield had a date. A man's date, but, there was more to it than that. The Shield had seen the Welsh arrive. The Vikings. And the Redskins had seen them and allowed the thin forest to close around them. They bid their time. It was clear there was nothing these strangers had that they wanted, except perhaps the blue-eyed Welsh and that's where I came in. We both heard music the same way.

I knew I couldn't stay long, I hadn't the right amount of clothing to keep me alive. I knew I had to turn back, but not without touching the Shield. With a bit of whimsey, I picked up a pebble to touch my thirst away. As I drove away I calculated how could I have the wilderness I needed without all the work and I reminded myself of how I had traveled half of America.By the time i reached Killaloo, I had my plans nailed to a bit of brain, like it was parchment of sheepskin old and edges folded.

I would return to the hotel, collect my belongings and make reservations for the four day train ride to Vancouver. I hadn't done it in years. I was so happy that I lie in the long claw foot bath for an hour,continually refilling the hot water, soaking happily. Because while I would have a room on the train with a bed, sink with vanity and a toilet, one showered only rarely and usually it was in a hotel by the hour along side the train station. The last time I did it in Montreal, the train whistle was blowing 'a tout alors ', as I ran madly, wet hair and clothes falling out of my satchel, but I was clean and warm from the long streams of water I had let pound on my back and ass until the hot water ran out and the whore in the next room cursed me richly. But I was doing well then, on the train as part of a book tour which was selling well, and I slipped some notes under her door equally about ten dollars. I heard her soft, "Merde", but she hadn't opened the door to throw it back in my face, so I was happy.
I like to be nice to people. I like people. I liked Canada, both sides for different reasons. I loved Quebec, (and pleased the long armed carriage drivers for calling it 'K-Bec') and had promised myself one tourist pleasure. I would ride the horse drawn carriage I had watched with grief in Bob Dylan's beautifully sad film, Renaldo and Clara. I wanted to ride all by myself and carry my melancholia like the rose that Clara carried.

In those days I was a romantic. Well,why not. I was young, I had a certain beauty and a talent for writing what other people felt, but didn't know how to say. I felt so rich in my lonliness in those days, so powerful and wealthy that I thanked G-d for the complications I endured because they reminded me I was human, so perfect was my life. This couldn't last and of course it didn't. That's why I was seeking this long train ride across Canada, across one of the few wildernesses left on the whole planet that i could travel across "by myself". Of course there were other people with me on the train, but beyond short pleasantries, i didn't have to talk much and that is what I needed. I had my old manuel typewriter and asked that I have a room at the end of the train so I didn't bother the other travelers. I bought several bottles of chianti, a baguette, a small round of edam in case I couldn't face the dining car. I brought my binoculars,because I had a mission. I was searching for someone in particular who would be a long way off, and that was better than 'not there at all' ...

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