To Acquire Meaning without Meaning

"You know what they said to me? You know? They said that I look like a raccoon snack. That's what they say to me!"

The woman that I let cut the line is told the above by a man of more than sufficient girth. He sits arms and legs splayed out in the front side-facing row. The woman bends her ear down when he was halfway through talking since perhaps what was said wasn't discerned correctly. She responds with a curious, "oh?" then swiftly makes her way to a seat, having acquired the meaning without meaning. The big man's monologue wasn't not quite finished. He smoothly (as much as he could be) transitions his attentions to those adjacent to his form, and begins to relate how much of a snack he is to that masked critter known for avid cleanliness and ability to wreak nocturnal havoc to trash cans ("rubbish bins" for those of you British vernacular types).
I finally end up severely aft. I begin to notice other crazies on board the bus. Notably, there is one I recognize as one that has caused two women to ride other routes; one through his rancid hostility and the other through his maniacal "charms"...

Enemy

I shall harness those powers of the Earth, as well as those mysterious outer reaches, together with the endless halls of time. All against you, they will be arrayed. For you fear them deep within, you shield yourself to thwart their encompassing energy despite the belief to the contrary.You lose yourself within petty distraction, the long fantasy that rules your heart and mind. You lay dazzled by the spectacle of the primed and polished that negates substance. Master of illusion, your own; in plain fact like the great empty ruins of an ancient castle encircled by ravenous carrion.
 
Yes, I shall reach out. I will reach you and defeat you. Through it all you will seem victorious, an embodiment of triumph, a great bringer of justice and light to your own cohorts. For did not the Myrmidons of legend also follow with blind fury and mindless loyalty forsworn to every whim of their master? Comfortable you will be in your calamitous abode, surrounded by worshipers that hang and patronize every utterance from your empty lips. Pride in your vanity, vanity in your pride...
It will turn itself around and right itself; do not fret frivolous anxiety over it, Nature rules all in the end no matter how profound and believable the denial. Take comfort that even I will not escape that, albeit I swear upon my immortal soul and reckless spirit that you shan't either.

A Collection of Omens Chaotically Distributed

I am firmly seated at the corner of West 31st Street and 6th Avenue. The Talking Heads blares within the confines of the establishment. All potential eavesdropping opportunities comes to an abrupt halt. I am relegated to reading the body movements and facial tweaks for replete comprehension of my brief interactions. The sky is gray and exudes an even light much like old analog TV static to a room at 2AM. It's difficult to focus. My mind is distracted by inner voices, music, masticating, and memories.

***

"So, do you make this trip often?" she asked.
"No," I answered.
"This is the first time I have been back in twenty years."
I stay silent. I am not one to volunteer.
She continues, curiosity getting the better of her, "So, are you on business?"
"Yes."
"Are you buying, selling?"
"No, neither. I don't do that sort of work." Of course, that depends what kind of buying and selling you mean, my inner voice says.
"What do you do, then?"
"I'm an engineer."
"What sort of engineer?"
"Mechanical."
"Oh really?"
"Yes. And you?"
"I am going with a friend. She is out here on business and she invited me along."
"Sounds like fun."
"Yes, I am looking forward to it. I usually don't take vacations without my husband, but this time I am."
A silence ensued. We both look forward and out the window. I start to think about what I need to do, where I need to be when I get to where I'm going when she interupts again.
"So, who do you work for, Boeing?"
I tell her it wasn't Boeing. Everyone always thinks this. Somehow she shifts the conversation to how everything nowadays seems so computerized.
"Yes, that's true. Most everything is moving in the direction of robotics. I feel like that's all I work on now."
"Oh yeah? Is that what you have been doing in your career?
"Yes, it actually started off that way."
"How so?"
"Well, my first project was automation. We took five manual positions and let the robot do all the work."
"I swear! They should lock all you engineers up!"

***

 I sit here thinking. More and more people are coming inside, going back out. They are like the tide, where the moon rises and sets with greater and greater frequency. I am not sure about today. It feels surreal already, neither what I remember nor expected. For instance, I see a man steal a huge stack of napkins. He bought something yes, but not nearly enough. I accidently make eye contact. The guilt on his face is like a scar of disfigurement. Lots of people are dragging around luggage that don't seem like regular travelers. One leaves his suitcase near me and goes into line. I guess I appear respectable enough; even to be locked up. All is a collection of omens chaotically distributed. That in itself should say something.

When I Finally Was Able to Use the Noun "Bimbo" in a Complete Sentence

A herd of goons float by. I am half aware of their passing, my current introspection casts an interference. I wake and observe with more clarity. Slowly, the scene seeps into my consciousness, like rain through limestone. All are dressed alike, with black and red draping jackets and matching ball caps. At first I may believe that they could have affiliation with the San Francisco Giants, then I am under the impression it might be the Denver Broncos. I shake my head, some of the blurry elements shake free from my vision. Now I realize that I can only understand one of every ten words that they speak (it is English though). The tone however, is crystal clear. It finally dawns on me that even though I would find it amusing, they are not professional anything. For I have discerned this medium of humankind in all regions traveled -however much their existence would loved to be denied by their surly fans, patronizing squealers, or obsessive bimbos. The remind me of a group of expatriated US businessmen wandering the streets of Wanchai or Bangkok or Shanghai...need I say more?

Public Transit Hostile Takeover!

As the cold stings my fingers' ends I follow a woman in a great floral muumuu onto the bus. There is a long queue, full of mini steps, misreads at the meter, and as I find out, overall hostility.
After I swipe my pass I head completely aft. There are no seats for the sitting. A completely full interior renders within my vision. I can discern a mumble-rumble coming from a rapidly blinking bald man sitting over the wheel well in a side facing row. His shaved head makes him appear older than his true age. A small woman sits next to him, much to the former's displeasure. His face twists into a scowl, so much so that the very air is transform about his head. It becomes shaky and wavering, as if the mixture were about to oxidize or go from gaseous to plasmic.
"I was saving a seat for someone," he sneers to the woman, "but don't worry about it!"
The only acknowledgment from her is a microscopic shrug. After all, there are not enough seats never mind space to barely stand.
"Fucking PEOPLE!!!" the bald man shouts. A shock wave portends from the interjection like static electricity from a car door to the surrounding workers.
***
I am standing in the back by the door. I am aware that the backdoor will most likely push me inward when it finally opens downtown. I can see the bald man clearly now. Somehow through his expletives he thwarted his friend's usurper since she now sits beside him. With enthusiasm and rapid blinking of the eyes, he speaks to her nonstop. She even gives up on her ear buds and extracts each with slow, profound movements. Meanwhile, there is no sign of the usurper. She had melded into the mass like peanut butter on more peanut butter.

Cyclops and Courtesy

I am followed. This dark and dreary morning is no exception.
I ask myself, "Where is a cop when a cyclops is around?" -for that is what pursues.
It maintains a measured distance, but seemingly ominous. Why it bothers me, I don't know. Perhaps the unwanted curiosity is too awkward. I shift to the left, the cyclops swerves to the right. I think no more on it.

***

Straightway I position myself in a bus line, and amble inward at first opportunity. The tiny little steps resembling a Munchkin march take me aft. Nearly filled to the brim, I sit in a side-facing row. It was then I notice my jacket unbuttoned only once directly amid. As I fumble to attempt a clasp, my mind wanders over how it could have happened with such stealth. My introspection receives a piqué of static. Enlightened by sudden awareness, I glance at the source. Two dark eyes study me for an instant, and then, vanish!
Not to say that this never occurs, but the quality is unrelenting. She sighs and rolls eyes in exasperation. She then looks down at her phone despite her evident restlessness. Without any warning she taps another on their knee. The other looks up. She raises her right hand and brushes her chin. He responds by mirroring her movement to wipe that something on his own. That something is tossed away only to be utterly swallowed up by the environment. They both go back to what they were doing. So do I.

One Less Word

"I had just missed you the last time you came by."
"I am sorry about that."
"Should've said one less word. That's what it was."

Perpetual States of Desolation

What is that unseen force that piques the senses when a person stares at you at first unbeknownst? It manifests itself akin to someone sticking a needle in your neck, an itch on your pinkie toe, or a dull and mysterious pain in your gut...some plethora such as these. -And then I must also ask, what possesses this starer to continue their namesake's activity even as she has been detected and acknowledged via a purposeful and inquisitive glance in return?

I only just give up and turn back to this little screen. I decide to document the occurrence for a couple of different reasons. First, the leer I received was positively indicative of Medusa, with her snaking hair of Gorgan monstrosity and stone chilling gaze of petrification. Second, I have been itching to write as of late. I have felt up until now out of practice. It used to be that I could lead with a minute happening such as the said relation and run with it for a secured duration. However, the practice has diminished, and that mythical muse of malcontent has departed. It leads me to the question: do I require to be in a state of perpetual desolation in order to allow the flow of words to drain from my soul as it used to?

Ubi Est?

I'm surrounded by businessmen, lawyers, marketers, economists, and stock players. They rifle through copies of Esquire, Maxim, GQ, tablet computers, spreadsheets of figures, smartphone emails, and various prospectuses. They tend to concentrate through their haze of graying strands, condescending voicemails, fascist stylings and affectations, Bose noise canceling headphones, and short attention spans.

Where the hell am I?

Can anyone say?

Me, the oddball listens to "The Fountain of Lamneth." A progression of musical pathways and key and time changes. Every time I listen to it, it's as if I hear it for the first time. I always tend to not know what to think once it comes to completion.

Another genre whispers standing in the dark. Their features covered in shadows under their own control. One of them comes by and periodically asks me if I need anything. For a long time now I have responded in the negative. I get the feeling that the reaction is one of offense at my "unneed."

On the screen above is indubitably a scene taking place in a bar with blonde women and men in untucked plaid shirts. This came right after the predictable feel-good movie and as well a sitcom that exaggerates the technical among us as socially backward individuals. Usually I would purport the opposed point of view to the immediate former. -But then again, I am in the strict minority literally, and in the most definite sense, figuratively.

O where am I, where am I? Can a guess be made, can an idea be said?

Two Anomalies Cross Swords for Thy Interest

The usual suspects wait here at the transit center, most dressed in office attire, scrubs, and then the curious assortment of one in shorts and a T-shirt. The latter is what piques my interest since it is slightly out of place clothing for working downtown. She is fat, has cropped hair whacked off at the upper neck (almost all American women could fit into this category), and of course wears the essential iPod earbuds. She waits at the center of the crowd like some kind of nucleus to the ever-gathering throng of humanity. Her offset attitude from the rest raises the usual questions: what's her destination, what kind of workplace does she frequent, what sort of characters does she interact with and why?

***

My entrance to the bus is met with an almost-full condition. I am seated left by a man in a thick tan hoodie listening to rap music too loud for his headphones and that smells of cigarette smoke. To my right is a woman sitting cross-legged and endlessly sweeping her finger across her mobile device's screen that also then also gives off the strong scent of a floral and fruity perfume. These two's smells come together and intermingles around my nose's proximity with a certain virulence. Not soon afterward, the bus doors open letting in the nasally sensed items of diesel, rubber, and something else that I cannot identify. These wash away anything those adjacent to me had been exuding so completely that I become mildly surprised. I mean, this is not a typical observation, something that is completely opposite found from the "Archives of Experience." Perhaps the reason for this anomaly is my own wishful thinking, my stubborn will twisting those signals my brain would otherwise read from even basic unpleasantness.

The Terminal Man

The large diesel power plant fires to life and suddenly we are launched onto the highway on express route 41. Something somewhere flimsy metal clangs against rigid metal then disappears from hearing range with curious mystery. I have found myself all the way in the back of the bus due to the almost at-capacity situation. I sit near a middle age main with a sling supporting his left arm reading a book entitled, "The Reversal." Across from me is a younger man attired in jeans and an old school Mariners Tshirt with a giant pair of headphones strapped over his ears. Whenever someone wears these, I am always predictably reminded of those workers that guide the big jets into the jetway airport terminals. I imagine the wearer performing these duties with the utmost proficiency despite their demeanor, dress, length, width, or depth. Why, I cannot say; the image simply pops into my brain automatically without recourse. It could be that I find wearing such a thing preposterous onboard a public bus, or that the overkill itself perhaps speaks to a parallel character trait of the wearer, whatever that may be. What I know now of course is that it is time for me to depart, and I cannot waste any remaining time on this subject.