Another Day, Another Bus Ride

From where I am sitting, I can see three laptops (counting mine). My girlfriend is doing her homework and so is the girl in front of her. Every other person has some sort of something playing in their ears, be it an iPod, PSP, or iAudio G3 (buy iAudio products). Still others are reading, and over all, only a select few are sitting quietly, thinking to themselves.

What are those ones thinking about?

The last time I wrote about the bus, I talked about the desire for communication in the form of something as simple as a person sitting down next to me. This time, I’m talking about a desire for communication of another sort.

This is the 586 from Tacoma to the U-District, and inside of it is the occasional professor or day job worker. Most of all, it is packed with anxious college students, both dreading and anticipating the upcoming finals week. We might not have any of the same classes. We might never see each other on campus. But one thing we have in common above all is that we all live off campus. We all share in an outcast sensibility which I guarantee governs our lives to some degree.

What are we thinking about?

I wish I could say. Instead, I’m here on my laptop, and Mr. X is on his, while Ms. P nods off to her medical textbook and little J looks anxiously across the isle at his mothers face, afraid of the stranger sitting next to him. What for?

I’m a kind of social romantic, meaning to say that in my head, life plays out like the movies do. Strangers meet in coffee shops, new friends lend a ten dollar bill at the bookstore, and most of all, most of all, conversations of a very deep nature take place on public transit.

We live in a world of opportunity, constantly passed up by our social rigors. They tell us where to sit and how, they tell us who to talk to and who not to talk to, who to fear and who to admire.

“Hey there.”
“Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I talk to you, my mom might worry that you’re a pedophile. Because we’ve moved beyond the world of innocent conversations and faithful intent.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”

Yet we’re all of us a little bit lonely, if not for the sole reason that one conversation, two, five have just passed us by.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I won’t talk to you later.”
"Cool. Make sure that you don’t let me know about that promotion you’re up for or about your kid’s concert this week.”
“You won’t hear a thing.”
“Great.”

Existing is fun

It's nice to be, you know? I don't mean it's nice to be me. It's nice that you're you as well. Think about it, wouldn't it suck if you were stuck being somebody else? Think how lucky you are that you're yourself! If ever you are in conflict with yourself, it's only a passing thing, and upon closer inspection you're not against yourself at all. It's nice to have somebody always there, just to be with.

You go down an empty stairwell - BAM. There you are. You lay awake at night looking for someone to sit down and think about stuff with - BAM. There you are.

Existing is fun, and so far I can say it's a lot better than not existing. From an existing point of view.

The Teller and the Tale

A long time has passed since I've written anything here, and an even longer time since I've put out anything but poetry. I'm beyond the point where I immediately assume that's a bad thing, but I won't deny that it bothers me.

I used to speak with a voice of authority, and now... do I speak at all? What do I have to speak about? What speaks to me?

As a student, my profession at the moment is simply to learn. I am learning the nuances of text, the crafts of verse, the powers of prose. I am learning the studies of these things, which theoretical microscope to use in the investigation of reality.

I am learning all of these things, but to what end? Where will these studies guide me in my life?

In high school, I had been told that there was no job sustainability for the liberal arts, and I was dissuaded. Choosing instead to pursue the sciences, I spent much of my years tinkering with titans of number, symbol, and formula. To what end?

In college I was told that opportunity was limitless. That no doors would be closed to one who had learned the ways of analyzation, communication, and presentation. I was told - am being told - that my studies in English are every bit as practical as those of practical majors. We tend to ignore that contradiction.

But I am a timid fellow. Those of you who know me will agree. I am not the person I claim(ed?) to be. I am not the hero I wish(ed?) to be. I am a writer who documents the lives of others, both fictional and non-fictional. Their lives. Their stories. Where is the man who tells the tale? Where is the teller's heart? Where is mine?

How is it that I used to have so much to say, and now can hardly reach page 2? How is it that the attempts of the past, the 37s and the 54s have turned into 3s and 1s? Perhaps my standards have changed. Perhaps I can no longer suffer the injustices I had forthwith been so eager to commit to the art.

Perhaps I am busy, perhaps I am lost. Perhaps I am tired, perhaps perhaps perhaps.

What is truth? Can I find it within me, will it aid me to break down this wall of nothingness? Will it let me stand up, reach for the heavens, clutch at the clouds and the moon? Will it let me soak my face in the sun, in the radiance of life?

Will it let me smile again, and let me never forget the warmth of my circumstance?

Perhaps.

Perhaps it will.

For I am the Teller, and this is my Tale.

I Can't Write a Slam Poem

I met a man one day
who said he’d never been
to the ocean
Some people can’t ride bicycles
Follow the leader
Or capture sensation
Some people can’t
Conjure up the fantastic
Or
Build a skyscraper of emotion and
Passionate artistry
Bricks of
Brain waste
Falling out around the ears
Like
Expendable
stuff
And I can’t write a slam poem

I can’t write a slam poem
because
I don’t have anything to say
about race
religion
pol
i
tics
and I haven’t learned how to
wave my arms around
like a windmill
make hand signs
like a deaf man
to em
pha
cize
my every point
throw my fingers in the air
coming up with new ways to count of the three two ones and the one two threes of an algebraically oriented society of ones and zeros,
binary collapsing on my
lungs
getting harder
to
breathe because for every
right there’s a
wrong and
everybody’s talking about black and white like
there’s some sort of
easy line drawn
in the dirt
in the dirt
in the dirt I saw an old man lie down to sleep
never to wake up again
and how do I know?
Because the blood is boiling and the people are tearing at the
Hearts of their brothers and friends and coworkers and partners in crime and business
and lovers fight about who’s right while others stand in the light with black suits tight giving children a fright as they whisper goodnight to the last dream of mankind
and soldiers are dying in foreign lands
as the shreds of truth float away in the wind
and how can a guy like me hope to win
in a battle of the wits as we turn to the pen
What’s privilege?
We live our lives of comfort as each day brings new horrors to the things we used to call people
And I can’t write a slam poem because I’ve got nothing to say
About race
Religion
Or pol
I
tics