Monday, April 29, 2013
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"...
Thursday, April 18, 2013
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.
Monday, April 15, 2013
"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?"
"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?"
"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."
"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!"
Sunday, April 14, 2013
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?
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
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.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2013
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?
Saturday, February 09, 2013
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?
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
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.