i've been feeling a tad bit blue (tis part of my overall nature, it is) and this has kind of been rattling around in my brain for a wee tiny bit...mostly in the wee hours of the morning when the trains roll through. i think beaches and trains carry the same symbolism...isolation.

i live about maybe four or five blocks from the train track (still trying to figure out if i'm on the "right" side or "wrong" side of them), both freight trains and the amtrack (i think the freight trains are louder, but the amtrack quicker) and their intensity differs. i'll explain more in a minute (because, come on, i always digress and ramble around a bit before i get to where i'm going and sometimes i don't even get there)

living in arkansas, one of my parents' favorite places to travel each year was (no, not Dog Patch) Silver Dollar City, in Branson, Missouri. yes, folks, i was doing Branson before Branson was "cool" to do("luckily" for me, my folks weren't all into the Little Abner thing so we didn't stop on the way at Dog Patch...tho i met a guy once from that town, but that is, in and of itself, another post altogether).

About the only thing to do in Branson, at the time, was to go to Silver Dollar City. There was the Shepherd of the Hills play, and a neat little burgeoning artist community whose name escapes me. and of course, for scuba divers in particular Table Rock Lake, that boasted the clearest waters around, especially for a lake, but that wasn't the sort of thing my parents were into (well, we did go to the artist community...mom bought pottery and they both bought a dulcimer...yeah...ok...little more understanding into lala's life, eh?)

no, no, they loved the arts and crafts weekend (where do you think i get my love for this? that and War Eagle...netter, you are so close enough to go to this...awesome!) and *sigh* yes, the Bluegrass weekend...oye vey. they usually planned our trips around either one of these weekends.

however, Silver Dollar City did have a few fun rides. One of which was called Bald Knobbers Hill (or something to that effect, quite honestly, the last time i went there i think i was twelve or thirteen...sooooooo many years have passed me by)

the ride consisted of hopping on "train" of a miner's type of carts and being whisked through many different scenes...scenes of a canary dying because of toxic mine fumes, the cow kicking over the lantern that started the chicago fire...and in between there were three, yes, i counted, three deep, drastic drops...roller coaster style (i loves me a good roller coaster) drops.

however, right before the ride ends, the "passenger train" full of thrill seekers comes around a bend, and low and behold in the distance is a single light, and the sound of the oncoming locomotive train is distant at first, but the further we roll along, in some insane game of chicken, the louder it gets, until it seems the whole of the tracks are shaking and you can feel the oncoming train into the deepest parts of your body...and right as you flinch, fearing that each "train" will surely collide, as that lone train light coming directly at you whistles so loudly, it's horn honking, filling your ears, bearing down, and the fear continues to well up inside you, the train whistle ever louder and louder....whoooooosh...down you go...down the last thrilling hill of the ride.

that's how i feel some nights lying in my bed, and they come through quite frequently in the wee hours, in the darkness, as everyone around them sleeps.

i can hear the train's horn. and it gets louder and louder, and on clear nights, when the temperature is a little warmer, without clouds in the sky or without that extra buffer of cold in the air. the engineer blows his horn at every automobile intersection, and i feel my apartment shake, from four or five blocks away, or at least i imagine i do...

and each time, i am transported back to that ride, in Silver Dollar City, and that (unrealistic) fear returns. only now, i'm not rewarded with the unexpected rush of a downhill roller-coaster ride. rather it's the fear of the unknown, of isolation and of what will happen next.