May Ninth, Two-thousand Nine.
-I sit in the bus station, beginning the two hour wait until my bus arrives. Staring through the glass, between the brick buildings, I catch a glimpse of a park and see petals dancing in the wind. Fluttering back and forth, they look like tiny white butterflies.
-A man buys a ticket for a friend, and spells his surname out ay ell bee ay are ay dee oh. It sounds like El Dorado, like the name of some lost city of gold.
- As the bus pulls out I spot some more of the petals riding the wind. One of them flies upwards, flies over the large brick building that houses the bus station. I don’t think wind should work like that. Maybe they were butterflies.
- The rain drums its fingers on the emergency hatch on the roof of the bus, and trying to peer out of the windows makes it seem like we’re underwater. The world outside is a complete blur, nothing but water.
- Passing by a field, I see a dead dear crowning a rubbish pile. The world is grey.
- Traffic lights hang on cables that run back and forth at an intersection. The wind blows them back and forth and they inform us that we can go as they wave good-bye.
- The sun comes out while we are at the Buffalo Airport. The clouds float over the air like giants. A stop sign motions us back, but we carry on.
- There is a tree, strong-looking yet leafless far below us. It is surrounded by the lanes of the highway, fenced in and dead.
- The clouds before us blanket the horizon, lying lazily above the city skyline. They resemble a slow-motion explosion, like some sort of natural nuclear bomb has erupted at our eventual destination. We head straight for them.
- At the border we disembark for customs. The wind makes the door weigh one hundred pounds- we all become weaklings.
- We wait in line, and as the door is closing it is blown open again- it closes slowly, shakily.
- I see a hill- the grass is long and has been smoothed over. The wind has brushed it lovingly, like a giant palm petting an equally giant cat.
- We are coming underneath the mass.
- A woman talking to someone on her cellphone says the word “beauty” and puts a lot of emphasis on the “u.” There is something in her world that is a “beauuuty!”
-There is a lake and it is probably Lake Ontario. Large clouds dominate the sky and the sun makes its way through like a spotlight on the steely grey water.
4 comments:
hey- wrote this in my grandparents' basement. scrawled most of it out on my bus ticket and much of it was near impossible to make out.
written whilst listening to the tunes of hit radio, ninety-nine point nine virgin radio.
admittedly it is fairly emo stuff; sort of reminds me of john campbell [see www.picturesforsadchildren.com].
there is something in my world that is a 'beauuuuty' and its reading your writing. that was one of my favorite parts as well. just that thought. that in the midst of everyones world there is something that is so beautiful that we can't let go of the word. the snapshot like descriptions were very nice. once again i think your best descriptions are the one that touch on people. you have a way of making them breathe. i was impressed with the butterflies as well. "i don't think wind should work like that.Maybe they were butterflies.'
the world is grey. was a little emo=tastic. ...seriously?
the world was grey- *shrugs* - didn't really know how to describe it. you really just had to be there.
hmm...sounds kind of like how I've been feeling. Very pensive , maybe even a bit overwhelmed and confused. Hence the bulleted list of fragmented thoughts and observations, I suppose.
But still, even though this writing is solemn, you have a theme of continually pressing on. I love in this how the progress is very punctuated...it's a constant cycle of movement, stopping, detainment, and then movement again, sometimes almost defiantly, as in the seventh section. It creates a strong sense of struggling, but also overcoming. Good balance.
The only negative thing I would say is that the personification of the rain drumming its fingers struck me as a bit cliche.
Other than that, I have no complaints. I felt your mood as I read it, and even shared it at points. And that's a sign of good writing.
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