inspiration

At the end of a week shortened by a Monday off work, I'm headed in the direction of Shepherd's Bush Market. Expertly weaving through the crowds on the sidewalk, I make rapid progress and approach the Hammersmith & City line tube station less than ten minutes after leaving my house. The sun has the vigor of the late afternoon still in it, but the LondonPaper guy has for some reason already called it a day. He and his stacks of free newspapers have disappeared from in front of the old library. I climb the stairs to the platform empty-handed, facing the prospect of a dull journey without reading to keep me entertained.

Three minutes later I board a Central London-bound train where the evening commute is in its last throes. The train is crowded but not overly so. I find one last available seat and slump down in it. With nothing to do, I lean back and disconnect from life for a while. Around me, people are chattering animatedly or bop their heads to silent tunes, fed directly to their brains through white cables hooked up to their ears. Most just sit there motionless. I follow suit and pay scant attention to what's going on. My head is heavy from an exhausting work at week and all I want to do is kick back. I stare at my knees as if I were reading the newspaper that isn't there. Then I look left. The guy next to me has his legs crossed so that one of his feet almost touches my knee. I have to cant my legs to avoid contact.

His left leg, propped up as it is on top of the other, forms a flat surface on which he has unfolded some newspaper of his own. I browse lazily and without much enthusiasm. The small font blurs before my eyes. Only the bright photos penetrate the haze that my tired brain has put before my eyes. I sink back in slumber, but before I doze off, I berate myself for wasting another fine opportunity. I should be observing the goings-on around me, taking mental notes of curious folks and unexpected actions, imaging colors, noises and atmosphere. My blog would benefit, but I'm not seeing.

My gaze touches upon the many faces and bodies on the train for one last time, but there's nothing interesting. The nugget of wisdom from the Bruce Gilden documentary boils into my awareness. When out doing street photography, one sees many more characters than if one just wanders the streets with some other business in mind. It's amazing how much truth there is to that idea. When I embark on a day shooting and hold my camera ready, the city looks very different. There seem to be different people in the streets.

The blogger's and writer's camera is his notebook, a tool for recording curious encounters and random details that can later be added to a post or story to spice it up and give it life. Tonight, I don't carry my notebook. My wallet and phone swell my pockets enough already. There is no room for more. And while I've convinced myself of the perspective-changing quality of a camera, I'm not so sure about the powers of the notebook yet.

When I went to Paris a few months ago, the underground that was to take me to St. Pancras got stuck between stations for torturous minutes. There was no announcement and no one had any idea when our trip would continue. I didn't know whether I would make my train. To keep anguish at bay and apprehension contained, I distracted myself by observing my surroundings. There quite a few characters but not much action. Neither the yarmulke-wearing Red Cross volunteer nor the exhausted man with two indefatigable toddlers bouncing on his knees was in any way perturbed by the interruption in service. Seasoned tube rides that they seemed, they had experienced it all and knew that agitation will only drain your energy but never make the train go faster.

A few seats down sat a massive-bottomed lady who mercilessly invaded her neighbor's space with her bulk and loquatiousness, completely burying the armrest between them in the process. The poor fellow that was the target of her overbearing sociability took it stoically, looking at her but focused at infinity. He wished himself far away, a feeling I that shared. Paris!

I took the little calendar out that I frequently carry and a pen and started scribbling in the spaces left by days where nothing had been scheduled. I revisited the Red Crosser, the undaunted dad and the dozens of passengers in between. What struck me most was that the mood in the carriage hadn't changed at all from the moment the train stopped. It was as if nothing at all had happened, as if the train was still rolling at cruising speed, about to enter King's Cross station in a few moments.

A large crowd in a dark tunnel with nowhere to go, in the worst place one could be when disaster strikes – you could forgive people for panicking, for at least fretting. Disaster has struck here before. The existence of danger is on the news on occasion and surfaces regularly in panel discussions. It must be on everyone's mind – just not when they are inside the tube making their journey home. There, the (real or adopted) Englishness takes over. No one whose eyes wander the pages of London Lite looks up. No one removes even one iPod plug from the ear.

Foreigners recently arrived in London learn quickly and assume the English ways. Traveling flips the switch. In the tube, life is suspended. Until one arrives at one's destination, nothing can do about the outcome of the journey, and no one does a thing. No one expends energy on what's obviously pointless. I was still scribbling, hopeful that the characters I was observing would later grace a post and make it interesting. Alas, my exercise was one in futility, because nothing ever came of my notes. Committed to paper, they were long ignored and eventually forgotten.

It was with this in mind that I resign myself to idleness, following the example of most other passengers on the train. Only a few individuals try to stand out from the amorphous crowd. A mentally disturbed fellow sits at the other end of the carriage entertaining or annoying everyone with music blasting unbelievably loudly from the tinny speaker of his telephone. A little boy with wayward teeth of the kind that would only go unfixed in England explains his view of the world in a shrill voice that can't possibly emanate from his tiny chest.

He points his fingers every which way, sticks them in his mouth and nose and later in my face. His dad is vaguely apologetic and clearly excited about his kid's many talents, among which also counts the forceful ejection of spittle, as I discover with great dismay. I wipe my face and overhear a tall woman proudly reveal to her friend how the eyes of the entire train are fixated on her boobs when she rummages in the bag that sits by her feet. To prove her point she bends down again. Heads turn but I stare straight ahead gloomily. Much is happening in the train but it doesn't make a story. I lack the inspiration to see something worth telling. With a slight rumble, the train pulls into the station where I alight. Maybe stories wait for me outside.