Journal: NYC Friday July 11, 2008

July 11, 2008



Left Portland. Heading south on 295 to Boston. It seems the driver has his young teenage daughter riding with him to their own private destination. I’m in the second row on the right taking-up two seats. Across the isle, is a middle-aged married woman, mumbling and fingering her bus ticket papers, with her reading glasses propped-up on her head to read again on this shaky bus.

I board the Greyhound bus. I don’t make eye-contact with the other strangers picking their seat by the unspoken lot of first-come-first-possess. My hope is, by closing my eyes and looking asleep, I wouldn’t get sat next to. The bus starts to rumble. I’m victorious, at least at this leg of the trip.

The bus is quiet. Only the light above me, and two others, down the dark cabin, are signs of being awake. Since I don’t notice a special driving light above the driver, other than his wheezing-cough or two, I’ll assume he’s nocturnal and he can master his way safely to our next stop.


South Station Boston. Last night and today’s work-out, pushing the lime spreader all over Falmouth, Maine, is starting to give my legs a growing uneasiness. As much as I wanted  to sleep, I was only able to sink into a half hour on the bus. Agony at best in seats which don’t allow leg room, nor a pillow.

I sit here inside the station watching the myriad of shifting-people walking across me – to my left, to my right -stepping at their own beat and rhythm. Tonight there is no bias. Each person has their own identity: pace, hair color, waistline, height, shoe size, shirt design, pant lengths, pitch in voice, hair style, travel bags, etc.  I’m noticing all of the faces. How a quick glance at a stranger’s features summarize their existence.

What’s my curious attraction to identify the human race? What’re the nuances from each creature in order to form a character? I can only believe in being a sponge and squeeze out a new type of blood when called upon to act and write.


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