Peeking Through Weary Eyes

Trained

2016-08-26T15:14:00.000-07:00

I thought I caught a glimpse of her yesterday, but it is hard to say. So many things have happened in what one would deem, "many years," but then time is warped. Trains are the way to go these days. Seattle edges day by day into a snarled and inescapable metropolis, spreading outward even when there is no other place to go. So this is it now. Except of course, when there are landslides.
***

The breeze was constant, until I made my way downstairs into the stillness of the platform. Those waiting are always the same, with a few straggling odds and ends. The scents and smells of the temporary loiterers are strangely less repugnant (than the bus), although the surrounding could be considered opposing. As I am constantly reminded, "beauty is in the eye..." -yeah, you know how it goes. Even still, the conclusion then is that I do not possess it, at least in this particular case. My eyes reflect crumbling pillars of a graffiti facade. Those outer layers exhibit blue, black and green swirling worms depicting puffy typeface. Various refuse littered the tracks as large BNSF locomotives barreled through straining from the mile long weight that followed behind them.

I entered the last car on the right. It was already mostly full. I made my way up the stairs to the second level. The commuters were all spread out like peanut butter on toast. I feigned an intent at one chair directly across from her. She had placed a large shopping bag within the leg space of the rearward seat directly across from her. I am not one to ignore signals, no matter how subtle or insignificant they seem, so I smoothed out my hesitation and walked by in a typical professional way. One row down I sat in the first available seat that faced back toward her and her androgynous companion. I was startled a little at this particular development, honestly.

"So strange" I said, shaking my head.
Why such the lowered joust JB? You always are so belligerent.
"Well, I have been busy, and I am used to things."
You and your excuses. Busy. Like no one else.
"Sarcasm was never your forte you know. You should keep at what you're good at, and nothing more, but perhaps less."
Oh! Who put a pin in your pillow JB? After so long too! I'd hate to come across you everyday.
"Exactly."
Is this what has got you in a tizzy? Listen. I have always been here.
"Sure."
You see my dear, you have become one of those "fringe elements," as 'they' say.
'They? -And who would that be?"
Don't you consult that little electronic device every half-minute? Ha!
"I try not to pay attention to idiots, but then, they are hard to avoid when you keep reminding me."
Isn't that how all of this started from the beginning?
"If you say so."
Let me ask you something. For you, it was always the harshness of things that helped. When things go splendidly, you forget about me. Yes? Admit it.
"Perhaps."
You know it's true. You are the anomaly, the opposite case to everyone else.
"What do you mean by, 'everyone else'?"
What, you think you are the only one? Oh, don't look so defeated JB. It isn't like you didn't already know. After all, you do think of yourself as 'one who enjoys to point out hypocrisy,' so be careful. We all walk the fine line from time to time, and some more than others. I wonder about you though. You hardly tell me anything, anything at all. It's no wonder actually.
"Yeah, well-"
Yeah well, just look at what you're reading nowadays! The Provisionals? Really?
"Of course! What choice do you think I have?"
I sure hope you're still around the next time JB. I am worried about you.
"Well, if I don't continue, then I sure as hell won't be, and that is the truth."
Ah, well is well. <i>Such as it is JB. I am here at your choosing. But that deadness you feel, isn't what you think it is. </i>

I just raised my eyes for a mere glimpse, and then shuddered my gaze away. Her companion was starting to glare at me, and she turned away from me, looking down into her shopping bag. The time had changed, or the change skewed the time. The dreams had intertwined with reality and the other way around. It had been confounding and petulant. Next thing I know the tunnel had sloughed away that purchased a harsh blue sky, mountains on the horizon across the steely blue saltwater. Over those the fiery pink to red to purple clouds deepened. Closer and nearer they became, always following.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my book. As I read I am even more convinced of my current course. I looked back up to her seat, but she was gone. In her and her companion's place was a medium-build man with a beard and dark cropped hair reading the content of a computer tablet.

The Cowardice of Academia

2016-04-20T14:23:00.001-07:00

Pacifism is a paradoxical arrangement with an unrealistic ideal. For instance, if a pacifist's only option is to use violence to save another from violence, both action and inaction violates their ideal. As a result, I think the "pacifists" among us are actually insipid cowards; for it is easier to exist within esoteric smug ideals than it is to live within the cruel reality of life.

The Utopia of Misspent Tax

2016-04-20T07:54:00.000-07:00

This morning I pass by the King County Administration Building, of which every square inch of its plaza is covered completely by a homeless encampment. As I pass, I am watched with intense and brooding glints from two unintelligible waifs on the street below. After a full minute, as I wait at the crosswalk, they decide that perhaps other potentials are more deserving of their interest. A few blocks down at the corner of 3rd and James, a junkie pisses on a parking meter in broad daylight.

All this, in a misty cloud of doubage...

To Not Envy Your Children

2016-01-20T16:31:00.001-08:00

I find it difficult to focus on those things I used to. Those nonsensical, whimsical things that entrap the mind and petrify the will. I was just about to write a little silly vignette you see, that may or may not have brought a smile to your face. Tragically, I see these things as an opportunity cost of the utmost: reading fiction, watching the television, writing poems, playing music, "going out," worrying about pages of glossy pictorials at the end of the grocery line...seriously, the whole world is on fire! There's no time for that. The world now, as I can finally see, does not allow the free indulgence in such things. The seriousness of what is and isn't happening in Europe. The Middle East, China, North Korea, Africa, Iran, and most importantly, within the US is a total reckless catastrophe. Never are we citizens more divided and irresolute to compromise. In all my life I would never think to myself to actually admire the <s>Soviet</s> Russian leader over my own, especially being one born into the Cold War. Never would I have believed that leftist principles that so many fought and lost/messed up their lives against would seem "mainstream." Never would I have thought that living in a city to be the worst possible idea, EVER. Never did I ever realize how incredibly fragile every action and interaction between each person, group, society, and country is.

Perhaps I'm just naïve, you tell me. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I do not envy my children.

Little Big Miss

2015-08-20T06:36:00.001-07:00

Hesitation is the rule of law for the weak minded. When it happens, near-accidents result, if not full-on ones. -And when it makes itself known, it only is capable of illustrating the lack of something, and never the antonym of this said concept. For, I did follow the short fat one into the bus this morning. She is one of those that must come to a full and complete stop while scanning the bus pass at the reader for payment. Then, because I am the opposite, had ended up tailgating her down the aisle.

"Why would you do that JB?" you might ask.

Well, if you know me, you know that I am tall, and that most of my height originates from the legs. So, when the legs are responsible for above-average height, of course the gait's stride is much faster than your average fellow's. It's how I was made, the way I grew, predisposed by my genes and possibly childhood diet without a doubt.

When walking in enclosed and crowded spaces, I must exert a directed mental a effort to shorten the distance between steps so as not to run into all the slow walkers out there, which I sense is great and powerful number. Said in another way, one could say that on the normal probability distribution for slow walkers, I am most likely in the bottom fifth percentile. The exact inverse is also true.

Returning to the present state of affairs (having illustrated my condition to satisfactory comprehension), we have myself tailgating little-big Miss. -Who, at the very last moment, after veering right, comes to a halt, hovers for half a second, then swerves to the left to finally choose her seat. Seems like a pretty normal thing, right?

Ridiculous.

blurred features across the curved surface of space

2015-07-21T08:04:00.001-07:00

To lose interest like those raggedy remnants that flail in the wind, sloughed off under the countless treads upon the infernal drag of this place. Once seeming important appears now as seagull guano smeared across ocean invading jetties, fading as long-gone and blurred features across the curved surface of space. The void that they filled has now perished. A violent carving and chipping away at the soul renders it to its essence:

Attending movies and concerts, watching television shows, musing personal history, indulging once admired cousins, aunts or uncles, the quest to write that perfect story, trends, the endless pursuit for the latest electronics, gaming, liberal politics, jamming on the guitar, celebrity, reading fiction, parties, bands, cd's, cars, videos, sports...

These and more are gone. Lost into the annals of Unimportant Things. Their memories are but mere flirtations and infatuations of the miniscule. Losing them does not instill grief, sadness, joy, or hate. Where they existed, there is nothing. Where they were, they are no longer.

The world changes, grows more hostile, apathetic, corrupted, distracted and inane. Time passes and heralds ominous futures. Thoughts and efforts converge and focus anew.

Survival.

A Flock of Butterflies

2015-06-06T03:59:00.000-07:00

To not envy the lives of our children is a sobering thought indeed. I admit, I do indulge all too freely in this philosophy, perhaps. I know that my own generation is already better off than the next (contrary to established intuition), having tasted a morsel of the life before all this...they will know pain and ruin and hardship like no other. I feel as if their lives will be cut all too short. I can only be thankful that I have lived this amount of time so far.

There will be war. It has already begun, in fact. The stage is set for the justification of our impending and full participation. This taking part also has already started. We were there even before, to push a button here and flip a lever there, to then set it all into motion. At a preconceived time, we will be sucked in at such a horrific rate, that blood will eventually stain the walls of our homes. This too, has already commenced, initiated by our modern-day psychohistorians*. Little by little, bit by bit we are divided into givers and takers. We are polarized so powerfully thus, that the potential literally tingles in the gut akin to a flock of butterflies, ready to energize at any moment. Invaded, attacked and our world on fire; ourselves irrevocably weakened, we shall become the literal slaves we currently emulate in a figurative sense. First, to a dictator, then to the unfathomable, appalling, and abominable. None will escape this consequence. Its coming is a smooth glassy swell. It appears friendly and comforting, and beckons us into its warm embrace. It promises to protect, include, and take care, whether we like it or not. However, it shall grow to a monstrous height, carrying us all with it, while it crashes against the rocky shore of reality.

In ever-increasing disposition, I find my response to the daily stimuli inversely proportional to time. Less and less is held with a sense of importance or interest. Most of what I see is diversion from Truth. Images, memes, lame attempts at humor, stories of fiction, innocuous celebrity, hollow electronic gadgetry, treasonous politicking, hedging bets, incredulous lawsuits, asinine economic analyses, duplicitous derivatives, senseless sports drama, inundation of vocative ideologues, and ineffectual chatter ad nauseum: pixelated bits of our extinction.

What to do?

Pick a side, and pray.

And if I am opposite you, I will not hesitate.

Nor shall I expect any different from you.

*Isaac Asimov The Foundation Trilogy

Insomnia Magna

2015-05-31T23:04:00.001-07:00

All too often, with more and more frequency, its period of occurrence increases. The momentum has already reached its escape vector. Of course, I find myself going upstream. I'm beginning to think that perhaps I like it this way, but one never can tell the truth about themselves. It's almost as if we are all both Schrödinger's Cat and Schrödinger. We can only gaze at what we think we see, but our essence does something else entirely, right under our very noses.

Can't you feel it? It's a wave of a wave. A tsunami that will sweep us all away. I mean, it has only been reported more than a dozen times, and only then a dozen times more. So loud it is, it blanks out all hearing. Well, for those that have not picked a side anyway. -But that's no excuse, don't you think? By all accounts, I will be against you, you, and you, in all probability. I gather that you don't feel it. If you don't, you most likely won't, or ever will. It's never a question of can't. It's all a decision, all of it. You can beg some exterior distraction, but that again is a decision. You do not decide, ever, and there is nothing more hated than indecision. Indecision is cowardice, and cowardice is fear, and for which fear cannot be mastered through hesitation. So, it's out of the question.

There will be that moment in time that I am truly sorry, and it will be a single moment in the present-eternal. This too will pass along so that the next moment can begin. So goes conflict, so that another can take its place.

"Sorry no more," I'll say.

And you'll say nothing, because nothing isn't, nor might as well have never been.

The Incredulity of It All

2015-05-28T06:44:00.001-07:00

Beset by memories of yesterday, I might as well be blind to the present. Inundated by answers not answers, to simple questions. The exchange one-sided, and more a projection of the answerer than the "answeree."

The incredulity of it all, my own perceived notion, which lambastes my thoughts. The recollection of unalterated self-imposed handicap, with irony mixed in. For example, can someone claim they were "poor," when they, in the end acquired a masters degree and at least was able to attend high school, didn't sleep on dirt floors, or had more than one pair of underwear, or had more than one meal per day, or, or, or...?

***

All interrupted by smell. Instead of odor derived from glands, portrays itself as heavily doused cologne with a thread of sodium sulfide. The bus is like this. The hammer against introspection.

The "offender?" Male, pale green polo, jeans, carefully styled hair, stares insipidly down at his electronics; all the while erupting SBD's. [If you're unaware of the acronym, then think back to elementary/junior high. If still unaware, then I've already wasted too many words on this parenthetical.] He shifts over, creating a sort of makeshift sardine can arrangement. The comfort level increases to abundant levels. When I look ahead, I am witness to many empty seats. It's time to sigh, grit my teeth, and count to ten.

Where the Wind Blows Gnats in the Face

2015-05-15T23:32:00.001-07:00

"Wow! That's a nice screen saver you have there," I said, pointing at his desktop monitor.

There was a photo of the latest Mars rover gathering samples on the brick red surface of the planet.

"Yeah, that's from my brother-in-law. I like space stuff."

"Did you hear about that ion propulsion where you could shorten the trip to Mars to forty days?"

"Why would you ever want to do that?" he asked in superior tones, adding, "-such a waste of resources..."

Every Morning Is the Same

2015-05-14T06:30:00.001-07:00

Every morning is the same.

I approach the bus shelter, breathing in the moist air. There is a chill biting at the ends of my fingers. Grumpy Old Man (GOM) hobbles across the street in mock haste from the opposite direction. The canopy is how it usually is: trash strewn in all directions with the refuse container in the middle of it all. It's a picture. At first, that's all it is. Then it registers yet again, likened to a waterfall whose pour is mysteriously not heard until that proper moment. It is a portrait of replete irony. Perhaps I delve all too deeply into these things. They appear as simple implements during the path of life. However, I cannot help myself to think there is a certain asymmetrical symbolism to it; synonymous to the culture of what we've become.

"C'mon!" GOM yells at the oncoming bus. Its slow acceleration thorough the stoplight not to his liking. When the coach finally arrives, he shuffles over in front of the bus doors and peers inside through the reflective glass.

"Another different driver," comes the per diem declaration.

Every morning is exactly the same.

The Ill Use of a Chefs Knife

2014-11-21T16:01:00.001-08:00

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.

An Encounter with a Singularity

2014-11-18T22:23:00.001-08:00

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 www.physicsoftheuniverse.com

Thoughts of Wonder

2014-11-13T18:06:00.001-08:00

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.

a product of experience, or something innate

2014-11-10T16:20:00.001-08:00

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.

When Mortar Rounds Land About the Place

2014-11-07T06:45:00.001-08:00

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.

the tree that falls in the desolate forest

2014-11-05T16:08:00.001-08:00

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 reads...it's the tree that falls in the desolate forest.

To Reside within the Interior Realm

2014-11-05T06:48:00.001-08:00

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."

Not Worth the Bits of Cyberspace

2014-11-04T16:23:00.001-08:00

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...

You're So Quiet, They Would Say

2014-10-31T12:45:00.001-07:00

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.

Excessively Too Long

2014-10-30T05:28:00.000-07:00

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!

No Refuge, No Peace

2014-09-03T23:11:00.001-07:00

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.

The Underuse of Synonyms

2014-08-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

A place to sit. There is air conditioning. There are voices. There are keys tapping, boring music, and what else? –but persons staring at electronic devices. Oh yes, and I cannot leave out the snorting sound of mucous being sucked back through the nose so that it can be swallowed down a dress-shirt encased throat. It occurs to my left in a fairly even period of thirty seconds. His cell phone rings.

He answers, “Hello Kev!”

A pause.

“Actually no! I am downtown now–”

His one-sided continuous discussion is loud. It is loud beyond loud. I’ve always had a theory about loud talkers in public places. –And now that it is accompanied by sucking and swallowing snot, the theory is even more solidified. The explanation into the back-research for coming to this conclusion is beyond the scope of this…whatever this is.So...

A couple sits outside. They have their sixteen-fluid ounce hot-covered beverages in hand. They both hold onto them as if they may jump off and run away at any moment. Their palaver is one of smiling and amusement at the random passerby. I can only discern the movement of their respective mouths. Whenever this happens, my brain likes to play like it’s a puppet show. I look away, and when my eyes return to their spot I find that they have vanished. A young man takes their place, looking like the student-type. He feasts on a sandwich held by a foil wrapper.

SSNOOOORRRRTTTTT!!!!!

Again, but this time there is a string of them. The twang of a slow-moving country ballad is the snort’s accompaniment.

BANG!!!!

The snot swallower drops his cell phone. He has been hastily been going between this and his laptop, messaging on both. He is like the tennis ball and his devices are the players. His phone, John McEnroe, having a fit for volleying the ball into a pile of snot.

Ok, enough of him. There is more to life than a loud talking snot snorter-swallower. There is more boring music, for instance. And then there’s going home.

The Fumes of Death

2014-08-11T07:48:00.001-07:00

"Excuse me," he says after bumping into me taking the side-facing row.

"No problem," comes my automatic reply.

He wears plaid for the shirt, gray slacks, carries a backpack, and inserts white Apple ear buds into place. It isn't anything in particular, it is just a twinge of uneasiness in the back of my mind. I sit here, subconsciously contemplating what is the cause. Forget it. I look down at this phone's screen at the weather report. It's warmer than usual. The inside confines of the bus feels like stagnation. The driver doesn't appear to be interested in ventilation. This one wears an "extra, extra, read all about it" hat. Seriously, what is the actual name of that hat anyway? I can never remember trivial things.

Then it hits me. In the nose. Like a slug of rancid soap inside of a moldy sock. My brain does a backflip, my stomach does a somersault, my sinuses run like a river. I know where it comes from before it even arrives. A pause in the dead-zombie phone stare has elicited an open mouth, blowing, exhaling, annihilating, protruding, expelling, excreting, exacting, and enabling...

The Fumes of Death.

The Solar System Label

2014-08-07T16:43:00.001-07:00

The sun burns its photons into the side of my face. It brands me with its unique solar system label. Although, I am not sure what good it would do. Being identified as part of the "Solar System" seems to be an exercise in irony. How can a member of the human race be considered as a part when they are in themselves, apart?

There are two to three conversations going on at once. That last one I wash into like the tide; flow and recede. The periods of disconnection increase and increase. I can't tell if I am evolving or devolving. An overheightened sense of reality, or that "downward spiral" into the flames of cynicism? This is the question. I wonder constantly if they are one in the same. For, I hear words that are hard to believe with ever-expanding fluidity. Motives are constantly being doubted as genuine. The more I live, the deeper the discountenance.