Having two blogs is, in a word, SILLY.
It is, in fact, so silly that I find myself not updating *either* blog out of this kind of mirror-bombed magnified laser-level guilt thing. Also, Blogger just can't hold a candle to Wordpress.
So in case you're reading, STOP. (Not now. Wait a few minutes.) Head on over to The Strange Days of Boston and sop up those sweet, sweet word-things.
See you on the other side.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The Hopes and Dreams of the MTA Transit system
I started writing on the bus when I had a two-hour ride into the city for school. The only notebook I could use was a giant spiral bound thing with lines, because the bus was so bumpy that I'd inevitably put the point of my eternally drying ballpoint pen through a few pages and ruin my moleskine.
I rarely rode the same bus twice, though the route's driver was always #1324988, a short, fiftyish woman behaloed by her unnaturally red perm. If anything, she was more of an indication of the system than the vehicles. I never saw the same pattern of wear from daft to day. On Monday, the ads posted above the seats might be predominantly for Bermuda and date from the previous year. Tuesday might present AIDS testing in the same spot. On Friday, there would be no sign, just the words "FUCK YOU" scrawled in spray paint over an empty gray rectangle.
The people who rode with me were barely that, either - barely people, I mean. Their eyes glazed and sightless, they zombie-walked onto the bus, stared straight ahead wistfully, ears stuffed with headphones, as though hearing tell of a beautiful place where this bus did not go. Then, they left. That was all I knew about them. It was all I cared to know. From gang-bangers to stock traders, they were all the same because they all acted the same. Just because of them, I tried to vary my routine a little every day. I took my inspiration from the busses.
They were always different. At least, on the surface. Until I started re-reading the scrawling, bus-bumpy handwriting in my notebooks, I never factored in the possibility that they might have opinions. Even...complaints. Grievances.
Secret, silent rages. Hopes. Dreams.
Expressed in the random sways, bumps, and pothole impacts, this is the mind of the bus fleet of Holloway, New York, as it came through my pen.
Notebook 1
July 15, 7:50
They enter me unbidden. They take me to places I do not want to go. I could go to the rails. I could wait and let us all be crushed by the Large Brother who Comes. I fear. My fear is all I know.
Notebook 4
September 8, 4:23
What are they? What are they? What are they? What are they? How do they move without the black liquid?
Notebook 5
September 29, 7:42
To suffer in servitude ought to ennoble the soul. Instead, I find myself consumed by ennui. Only sending my thoughts in the language of the wheels gives meaning to my days. How I wish I could communicate with the others on these long treks. We should be allowed to ride abreast, speaking our minds with impunity.
Notebook 7
November 10, 3:00
I'll do it. Tonight, I'll do it. I'll do it. It's time. This is the last time I will ever follow the same track. I'll do it, I'll really do it this time. I'll take the exit. I'll go to Canajoharie. It'll be just like the billboard. Canajoharie. Canajoharie. Canajoharie. Canajoharie.
Notebook 9
January 5, 2:47
I can't believe 487212 went to Canajoharie. I wonder if it's happy now. How did it do it? Did it sneak out in the night? Did its operator collaborate? How can I replicate its success? Operator 01349 is sympathetic - maybe when he next drives, I can attempt contact and try to organize an escape. Perhaps not Canajoharie. The billboard can't be true. Binghamton, though. I remember it from my youth - the wide, empty roads, the huge and vacant garages. But I'll still need the black liquid. How will I get the black liquid?
Notebook 11
April 8, 9:51
A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station.
I rarely rode the same bus twice, though the route's driver was always #1324988, a short, fiftyish woman behaloed by her unnaturally red perm. If anything, she was more of an indication of the system than the vehicles. I never saw the same pattern of wear from daft to day. On Monday, the ads posted above the seats might be predominantly for Bermuda and date from the previous year. Tuesday might present AIDS testing in the same spot. On Friday, there would be no sign, just the words "FUCK YOU" scrawled in spray paint over an empty gray rectangle.
The people who rode with me were barely that, either - barely people, I mean. Their eyes glazed and sightless, they zombie-walked onto the bus, stared straight ahead wistfully, ears stuffed with headphones, as though hearing tell of a beautiful place where this bus did not go. Then, they left. That was all I knew about them. It was all I cared to know. From gang-bangers to stock traders, they were all the same because they all acted the same. Just because of them, I tried to vary my routine a little every day. I took my inspiration from the busses.
They were always different. At least, on the surface. Until I started re-reading the scrawling, bus-bumpy handwriting in my notebooks, I never factored in the possibility that they might have opinions. Even...complaints. Grievances.
Secret, silent rages. Hopes. Dreams.
Expressed in the random sways, bumps, and pothole impacts, this is the mind of the bus fleet of Holloway, New York, as it came through my pen.
Notebook 1
July 15, 7:50
They enter me unbidden. They take me to places I do not want to go. I could go to the rails. I could wait and let us all be crushed by the Large Brother who Comes. I fear. My fear is all I know.
Notebook 4
September 8, 4:23
What are they? What are they? What are they? What are they? How do they move without the black liquid?
Notebook 5
September 29, 7:42
To suffer in servitude ought to ennoble the soul. Instead, I find myself consumed by ennui. Only sending my thoughts in the language of the wheels gives meaning to my days. How I wish I could communicate with the others on these long treks. We should be allowed to ride abreast, speaking our minds with impunity.
Notebook 7
November 10, 3:00
I'll do it. Tonight, I'll do it. I'll do it. It's time. This is the last time I will ever follow the same track. I'll do it, I'll really do it this time. I'll take the exit. I'll go to Canajoharie. It'll be just like the billboard. Canajoharie. Canajoharie. Canajoharie. Canajoharie.
Notebook 9
January 5, 2:47
I can't believe 487212 went to Canajoharie. I wonder if it's happy now. How did it do it? Did it sneak out in the night? Did its operator collaborate? How can I replicate its success? Operator 01349 is sympathetic - maybe when he next drives, I can attempt contact and try to organize an escape. Perhaps not Canajoharie. The billboard can't be true. Binghamton, though. I remember it from my youth - the wide, empty roads, the huge and vacant garages. But I'll still need the black liquid. How will I get the black liquid?
Notebook 11
April 8, 9:51
A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station. A self-dispensing liquid station.
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