Sunday & I attempt to summon the Phantom Trains of Terminus

[jack_babalon]

The tracks run like a suicide slash across the bridge over Ponce De Leon. City Hall East sits to the right, run down and gray, like all the old buildings that have been left marinating in the smog over the last 40 years. Left is the snake river curl of Ponce itself. Condos & lofts growing like flowers along a desperation river. I shield my eyes and trace the flow of the avenue through docks of liquor shops, cafes & her most infamous port of call: The Claremont Lounge, rising over the rest of the trees & buildings with the regal pride of a 7 foot tall drag queen. I approach a pack of feral husks. Shells propelled by the habit of life, black pools where eyes once were trace my steps along the dead rails. The tracks are a path between worlds, between historys & interpretations. They are a rust coated river Styxx and these men are Lithe junkies, jonsing for a sip of the amnesia waters flowing. Some of them shuffle behind me but they soon lose interest when they realize that i'm moving faster than I look. I look over at City Hall East, walls well marinated with 60 plus years of air cancer & grime. There is one window with a light within. A man is slumped over his desk looking at the paperwork. For a moment. Then I look again and he's gone. A temporal ghost, a memory of purpose in a place with none left, the way the starving must remember the smell of food before death. I'm crossing over North Avenue, the skyline seems huddled, as if the highrises & office complexes were trying to stick together for protection. The illusion of numbers logically, creates the illusion of strength. But the real jewel is the Masquerade. The old mill. I can feel the energy vibrating off her from up here as I look down and can see the concrete slab of backstage, the deadgrass of the music park, the patchwork fence & the port-o-johns who seem as scattered as a routed army. This may not be the place, but it's a place. To confirm this the sun nudges itself clear between the shoulders of clouds blocking it. The broken glass & abandoned bottles pick up this burst of light and reflect it, until the winding gravel looks like a bed of stars sparkling before me. The wind picks up & the last cicadas of Autumn begin to hum a song ancient when the world was new. I close my eyes and spread out my arms. I call the ghost ships of this land to sail once more. I summon the phantom trains of Terminus to roar across this land. I want to feel the earth shake with black iron & fire. I want to see the lost dragons of georgia fly across this land again. Somewhere off in the distance I hear a train rumble by. The CSX or Union Pacific most likely, but not what I was looking for. In impatience I open my eyes too soon and find myself standing there with my eyes wide open to nothing at all. The sun has retreated, embarassed by my theatrics. The Cicada cadence dies down with the wind. I sigh and make my way back to St.Charles. Magick without Magick once again.

Comments

[xtopher-robin.livejournal.com]

This is completely off subject, but you're good for just playin' the first set. I just wanted you to know that since you were worried about it. ~_^