I must exercise the mind. I must exercise the mind, I keep telling myself.
Just pick it up and let the thoughts roll. Just breach the sluice gate for the words to flow.
-Easier said than done, with the brain on pause and the clientele a bit faceless to mere to mundane.
It’s all me, I know. I realize this - for I am the filter and interpreter of a conveyance to the local arena, or the only one that chooses to do so, whatever.
Today I barely make it to the route, having been preoccupied with my occupation. It having possessed my ongoing consciousness with a certain unaccustomed ferocity based on prolonged and forced absence. I won’t get into details, for this thing here has never really been about me. This has and is and will always be dedicated to the ambiance of the moment, the gift of the eternal present and all those that choose (or not) to participate (or has it?).
I end up on 3rd and James instead of 4th and Jackson where I spot Little Man lurking about without his dual female prepubescent escorts, or “chaperonees.” He walks to the extreme end of the stop, then executes an about-face and marches back to the severe opposing end. It’s almost all by some well-rehearsed and practiced design, for he seems to quite explicitly intersect the bus arrival with utter exactness. “Prescient,” would be the best word to describe the set. Of course he selects his favorite locale: the seat behind the glass or rear doors, where it happens to coincide with my own. I end up not minding so much. I sit next to my neighbor from my home street while finding a stunning girl that ends up seated across from me wearing a dark coat over a willowy frame. She possesses these electric blue eyes that pierce the flesh and rail into the soul; for they are in terrifying contrast to her otherwise caliginous locks and exemplary countenance. It makes this side-facing ride a little easier to deal with, although not completely sure why from a logical standpoint, but there it is like a brilliant scribed lexicon in the midst of the illiterate and dumbfounded.
She directs a harsh stare out the front windshield once she completes her foray into texting upon her mobile device. She is unwavering, and does not dignify any such once-over, at least not one of conspicuousness toward any passerby. Perhaps she is used to such things, or has grown complacent or desensitized against these common occurrences. The latter wouldn’t be too far-fetched, and in fact the law of probability would state that it is of the greatest likelihood.
As the driver announces, “Jackson Park,” as the next stop, a whole line of commuters file down the gangway to disembark. She scans this group carefully, thusly avoiding eye contact by twisting and stretching her neck notably and rolling her eyes to the ceiling as if certain musculatures were just out of sorts to be worked out rather than these same-as-always-passengers becoming worthy of even the mildest observation.
It’s a funny thing, these humans. I am not sure what to make of them, or better yet, myself.
2 comments:
IS VERY GOOD..............................
(1) It's funny. Sometimes people write down what they wish to remember, but fear they'll forget. Most people don't write about stuff because they don't want to remember, but fear they'll never forget.
That you "choose" to be the scribe seems interesting in that regard.
(2) As you have described Little Man's movements at the bus stop, I'm reminded of Buckingham Palace, for some reason.
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