Friday, November 21, 2014

The Ill Use of a Chefs Knife

The light is dim. Yet, as always there's someone here in sunglasses. At this present time, I sense that the eyes behind them are observing me. My intuition is confirmed, since I am able to discern two dark orbs staring in my direction. I get the feeling that he thinks I don't know, or couldn't penetrate this "impenetrable" shield. Yet, the reality has won out. Then, the original question returns. If it is dim, why wear sunglasses. Is it like Bono? Bono, who claims eye issues. His reason may be legitimate, but this guy, I don't think so. I might as well accept that root cause will dwell in the realm of mystery and speculation.

My observation moves onto the now-present. The bus is now pulling into Westlake Station. The confines are filled to the brim. 
The driver gets on the com and asks, "If folks could get down and get a little tighter!"
There is minimum resulting movement. A mere trickle works their way into the bus. Standing room only, body heat, steam on the windows, the smell of papers, the sound of ventilation fans with an accompaniment of electronic devices. Rain splatters against the blacktop against a gray backdrop. At least, this is what the window tells me. Then I am reminded of the micro-cut on my left cheek left by a jaggedly torn fingernail. It's jagged from the ill-use of a chef's knife, and torn from God knows what. 
At least it's Friday.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

An Encounter with a Singularity

A long-haired dude with "Manson" eyes, an old bespeckled woman in a blood-red long coat, a man with frosted ponytail and a fedora, and finally an apprehensive yuppie sitting in the handicap seat: all are riders never before seen. Perhaps I am too much of a newbie myself, the gray coated lanky one folded behind the articulation. What is new anyway? If one is old, but they're suddenly in a different place, do they become new? It is would seem so, in this day and age, and most likely for all ages. This is a quirk of human nature, no doubt.
Perception again becomes reality. Consider the converse, which in every person, there are the years and experience embedded within them from the time they entered this scene we call, Earth. Each has been at life, day by day, until such the time as the present. The present time, at which you or I intersect he or she. Us, each with our own unique story, also living each of the planet's rotations, but by bit. These intersections can be found to be extraordinary if we allow ourselves a moment to reflect upon them. What are the chances, given all the aggregate of moments that these random people came together in this one place at this singular point in time? 

Image courtesy of

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Thoughts of Wonder

A dark evening with a backdrop of pinpricks through walls is the scene that greets. I miss the sought-after route by mere steps. It might as well be the Grand Canyon now. I hop on another that requires a transfer later. In frustrating fashion, forward progress is delayed by coaches ahead. It is not apparent as to the why, only the what. Moving ahead then stopping almost immediately is what follows. A huge load enters, as if none of this route has come for eons and eons. Arabic seems to be the language of choice tonight, ladies and gentleman. Ahead of me, behind me, and to the side, it fills the innards. All others are quiet, for they read words on their devices of electronic means. Some are books, and others the news, no doubt about those happenings in the Middle East, which never ends it seems. Just yesterday it was said that the leader of ISIS called on all Muslims to wage war worldwide against "Jews, Crusaders, and the Devils." 
"Erupt volcanoes of jihad," he says.
When one reads an instruction like this, aboard a bus, where Arabic is spoken almost exclusively by those who speak, that one cannot help but have thoughts of wonder. Thoughts of wonder which turn to the said instruction, and if in fact any of that sunk into these speakers' hearts. -And if indeed if those words did sink into their hearts, would those words perhaps manifest into obedient action? Many in this country would call such "thoughts of wonder" preposterous, paranoid, or even prejudiced. The establishment might even, with vindication, consider this particular thinker bigoted and racist. The thinker realizes this and buries these thoughts deep, and the guilt settles in, embued by the societal altar of political correctness. 

Monday, November 10, 2014

a product of experience, or something innate

Yes, there is the root of my demographic, a European mutt. For some reason, the Irish or German components decided to manifest themselves more than any of the others. I find it a curse mostly, the freckles and blue eyes for instance. They offer no resistance to the Sun's rays. Fifteen minutes, that's all it takes the burn the shit out of me. Then, there's the Sun's brightness, which the eyes seem to reflect extra light back into the retinas. This causes momentary blindness when looking directly at sun-illuminated white concrete. Afterwards, everytime I blink I see that square of concrete there, branded into the backside of my eyelids. 
Then there's this demeanor that I possess. I'm not sure if it is a product of experience, or something innate. Like here I am on public transit, yet again. Yet again, at least ninety percent of the time, I see passengers look me in the eye and hustle away. They avoid my presence,, I know it, I sense it. I care not, one way or the other. I am simply stating an observation that's repeated itself many times over. I wonder as to the why of it. As someone that makes a living at observation, be it of the animate or inanimate, I feel that I have enough practice to validate this hypothesis. 
For example, picture a car in your mind's eye. It is traveling in snowy and icy conditions. There are other cars oncoming. A traffic light up ahead goes from yellow to red. The car in question is a little too close to the intersection, so the driver must press firmly on the brakes. When he does this, the car begins to go into a spin, since there is a slight imbalance in the calipers, from one side to the other. The other cars, the ones oncoming swerve to avoid, dart around to miss that car. 

It's just like that.

Friday, November 07, 2014

When Mortar Rounds Land About the Place

A man and a woman hobble slowly through the darkness. The man encumbered by a giant old fashioned lunch box, and the woman by a smoldering cigarette. When the bus arrives late, I feel compelled to let them on first. They both disappear somewhere aft as I take a row front of the articulation. I am seated behind two others. One, a lady with thinning hair atop, her pinkish scalp visible as the ferns from a recently logged forest hillside. The other is a man, head bent down over something, presumably electronic. A woman enters downstream dressed in an ankle length red raincoat and seats herself next to the latter.
"Hello Peter," she shouts to the man as she takes the seat next to him.
"Hi!" he says in equally atrocious volume.
They continue a conversation, sharp and loud. Another woman wearing glasses enters the scene, followed by a white-haired gentleman. They all know each other. I get the impression that the woman with glasses is the "glue" that holds this cliche together. She is the only one that speaks to the whole group, and it's the whole group that talks to her. She is the conduit, most of the time anyway.
I am again sat next to by the voracious eater. She glanced at me the same way again, made a beeline for my aisle seat, and proceeded to root through her bag for the Tupperware full of food (I have yet to figure out what it is).
The pace of eating is much more relaxed contrasted to a few days ago. 
My thoughts are interrupted by the previously mentioned man with the sharp voice. The quality of which assaults like concussions from mortar rounds landing about the place like a rain of terror. The whole ride possesses this recurring theme. For instance I learned that a "he" dog was spayed, in harshly announced tones, making me mentally wince.
Next time the ear buds shall be inserted firmly to seal out the the prolific onslaught of absurdity.

Wednesday, November 05, 2014

the tree that falls in the desolate forest

In the bus tunnel. Someone sings in desperation to catch a stale sitting light rail train. Some of the geriatrics amble from it slowly towards the escalator appearing like recent airport travelers. Lots of people milling about, waiting for their ride to come. A route 41 arrives, taking forty percent of these proletariat, then a 77, then another 41, and finally routes 76 and 74. Through it all, two pleather-jacketed males pace to and fro with suspicious countenance. I keep an eye on them through the peripheral. An older gentleman stretches his calf muscles, between me and them, using the wall as a leaning support. 
After all this, it all starts over. There is a lull, a quiet dwell. The yet another 41 comes with a 550 right behind it. The two pleather males stay in-place. They remind me a little of Jay and Silent Bob, however they're both incredibly small-statured. 
A 71 pulls up going toward Wedgewood, and it is here that they finally give up their loitering position.
What am I still doing here? One might ask.
I catch the very next one. I don't choose the seat equivocal to this morning's. It seems to be guarded by a stander that looms by the backdoors. Someone sits behind me. They just had a smoke, or two, or three. I sense a restlessness there. It doesn't last long. He removes himself and waits to disembark at University Street. It's surprising to see an anticommuter here like this, especially post "Free Ride Zone." The elimination of which has decimated their ranks amongst public transit. For someone who writes, it's bittersweet. -But then, for someone who writes without anyone that's the tree that falls in the desolate forest. 

To Reside within the Interior Realm

It's one of those new articulated buses. It's a hybrid-electric, harder and more durable seats, more handlebars, and lower profile. The driver however, is the same. I wonder as well, being at the start if everything else will be a "déjà vu" experience. As yesterday, I see identical patronage thus far. -And yesterday as well, where this one bespeckled woman quickly glanced at my overall shape, decided that I was a safe choice, then had begun to eat out of a Tupperware with the gusto of a sumo wrestler. On the other hand, she appeared naught. She is not here yet. I only sit here in suspense at my own making, if I shall indeed witness a repeat performance. 
Currently, there are not many passengers. All are very occupied, mostly with electronic devices. Some busy themselves with books, or a zipped sandwich bag of crunchy snacks. I direct my eyes out the window and notice that we have stopped in a "downtown area" of a local neighborhood. This is where the voracious Tupperware eater was found to be yesterday, with no Wednesday appearance. 
Ugh oh. I suddenly have the urge to place my pack on the aisle seat adjacent. I sense an "anticommuter" stumbling down the aisle way, replete with bike helmet and a splotchy red-dyed beard.
These thoughts are interrupted. A woman unexpectedly sits next to a male-suit within the articulation. Her voice is sharp as she insists on conversation. I've never been one to be amiable to this sort of thing. Except for a select few, I would rather reside within the interior realm.
At the first stop downtown, the resident "anticommuter" rings in an intention to disembark. He goes out swiftly, and the backdoors close behind him. Some commotion in front with new passengers ensures. A young kid emerges out of his reverie with a start. He bolts upward toward the closed backdoors. 
"Backdoor please!" he yells up to the bow of the coach.
No reaction.
"Backdoor please!" again and again resonates within the confines.
More and more bus occupants join in the verbal salvo. The engine roars to life. Frontward progress is detected.
"No?" the boy asks the air in front of him.
"BACKDOOR PLEASE!" a chorus of passengers sing.
The bus jerks to a stop.
Finally, the doors open. 
I hear one man say, "A group effort, heh heh."

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Not Worth the Bits of Cyberspace

I notice that the ultra-fast driver is back. He blasts out of the bus tunnel like a rocket ship achieving escape velocity from Earth's gravitational pull. It doesn't take long for me to pick up a row-companion. He is an odd one of course. I hardly attract normalcy. In my periphery for instance, I mistake him as wearing a hat. However, when I happen to glance to my left out the window, it's a mop of an afro splayed into a thousand different directions. He sits dead-still, as if he had just met the gaze of the Gorgon Medusa. His satchel is clutched in the three-pronged clench between his arms, legs, and trunk. Everything important to his life might exist within those confines. I wonder what he sees through the thick horn-rimmed glasses directed straight ahead. I'd bet fifty bucks he's a code writer. 
Just as abrupt as he arrives, he departs. Like a robot, he charges to life and stands straight up within the row. How odd, how very odd it is. With militaristic intent, he extricates himself to the aisle, then eventually out the rear doors. All that's left of his existence within this time and space is a smattering of words not worth the bits of cyberspace they're written of...

Friday, October 31, 2014

You're So Quiet, They Would Say

What is it about traveling? Especially by air; witnessing the throngs of human cargo that go this way and that. I sense an overall lack of purpose. Purpose, a word in this world used all too loosely. 
As each second passes, I become less and less amused. There is this part of myself rooted in seriousness, and it calls me back to my child-self. In those days I used to listen, incessantly, for instance. -Listen and observe through time warps of my own creation.
"You're so quiet," they would say. 
I would only gaze at wrinkles twitching in their faces, the drop of sweat streaming down from their temple, or their jaggedly cut fingernails, and wonder how each became that way. I'd notice their eyes frozen away from the rest of their face. Always hiding some crucial point. Their words, constantly flowing, belching out into the a realm of space-time unhindered, only to dissolve into oblivion. That child-self has always stuck by me, pulling at my sleeve from time to time, to remind me, The voice is not one of your senses.
I focus on the excessive extroversion that envelopes this life. I wonder if they know what the hell they are saying. I discern repeated monologues purported to be a citizens of dialog. 
...Then the unending marketing that unleashes its onslaught onto each sense. Lives that subscribe to perpetual distraction and suggestion. They respond with their voices, their arms, fingers and eyes darting, legs not taking them anywhere, unaware of their own truth. 

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Excessively Too Long

Standing in a line. It's rather long. It seems many try to break through perpendicularly. As it happens, these occurrences happen adjacent to my front. There is an airline employee pushing a wheelchair of a cantankerous old lady. The airline employee appears ancient, much older than the subject being pushed. In fact, the word "subject" is probably not entirely accurate. It is more likely that the subject is the pusher rather than the "pushee." The old lady keeps barking orders, like, "KEEP GOING PLEASE!" when the decrepit pusher pauses to take a much needed break. Breathing heavily, he labors onward with a look of weariness on his white haired-framed face. "THERE HE IS! RIGHT THERE!" the old matriarch shouts across the terminal. A tallish, bald older gentleman waits by the people-conveyor belt, lips twisted at the sudden sound that pertains to himself. He shuffles to and fro in anticipation as she is pushed haphazardly in agonizing deceleration closer and closer. I want to say my impression was that he has been at this for excessively too longAnd here I thought that fifteen years was a long time!

Wednesday, September 03, 2014

No Refuge, No Peace

The mind is a curious thing. Obviously. Sometimes I ride upon it, as if it were a roller coaster, up, down, round, spin, and flat. It becomes in essence, a mind of its own. Yesterday, I am one person. Today, another. Tomorrow, yet something else entirely. Sorrow ends, and elation begins. All the while, wrath permeates the open spaces, the pores of the world. The world. An enemy to the soul. The soul, seeks to destroy the world. I am attempting to solve the unsolvable, the insoluble. I know for a fact, there is no rest, no recompense, no freedom, no refuge, no peace, no safety. All that is illusion. More of a goal, lofty, to keep each spellbound. Safe, nothing is. The sooner this is realized, the sooner actual living can occur. Too many think they've made it. The world takes itself for granted. Nothing will hurt, nothing will dare cause pain! 
Putrid, puritannical poshweed, nothing but. Gauranteed nothing, owed nothing, dealt nothing, in the end. Look outside and see! In truth, all is dismal. Sure, there are fragments of light, pure, and plain. That's all there is. Savor, collect, and absorb. For darkness will, and perhaps even has come, and hardly none shall prepare.