thoughts from the bus

Waiting to move, I am sitting on a bus, tired, and my body is sore from the long day which ended a long week. It is not much different—this day between the last.
The momentum is no different; neither is my routine or me as I am, older, grown, and halfway towards a goal I set out to reach a long time ago.
I am no different in my approach and no less dedicated achieve this thing, which I call, “My trick.”

I am sitting in an aisle seat on an outbound bus, huddled in a close proximity to dozens of strangers that undergo the same routine as me. The woman to my left smells from bug spray. She is somewhat large and dressed in all black with sides of her head shaved and frizzy purple hair on top. She stares mostly through the window, but on occasion, her attention draws towards my screen as I type my thoughts.

My chair is leaned slightly back as I exhale and prepare for my trip home. While I write to you, I can feel the bus moving out from the gate in New York Port Authority Bus Terminal.
Around me, the lights have been dimmed. The tight seats are filled with a mixture of passengers that range from the basic “Suit and tie” business types, to the blue collar, to young and old, as well as the regular and irregular visitors of Manhattan.

This is me now—on my way home to begin a weekend that always seems to end too quickly. This frequent journey of mine takes me to and from Port Authority so I can integrate with the Monday—Friday world and earn my living.
This is me during the week at this same time. I am happily disconnected with the hustle of life and sitting on a bus, heading north in this place we call Project Earth.

My next step is no less a mystery now than when it was before. I am still here, still writing, and still searching for the missing ingredient to “My Trick.”

I am thinking about the miles I traveled throughout my life and the places I’ve seen, which in most cases, are not too extravagant to some—but for me, I can say I have seen a bit more than the average soul.
I can say I have lived from one end of the drunk-tank and cracked-up, dope-dens, to a better part of town. I have slipped in several spot along the way. I have fallen countless times. I have gambled and lost; I have wasted time and energy. I have seen beautiful sights, witnessed the birth of life, and also its end. I can say with all certainty that I have lived,and no one, no one can ever take this away from me.

I have lived in different towns and in different houses with different people. I have seen the city and all its offerings. I have lived through different seasons of our social economy. I have been wealthy and I have been poor. I have unhappily lived in good places and happily lived in bad ones.

I have not traveled as much as many, but I have had the pleasure to see the southern sky at sunset. I have walked along the beaches in Ft. Lauderdale, contemplating life as it was, and wondering what it will be once my Mother passed.

I watched a sunset fall above the Arizona dessert. Below, the sands glowed in the reflection of a colorful evening sky. And there I was, on the verge of a change and shaking hands to a new life while saying farewell to an old one.
I’ve watched the moon touch the ground in a large open field and seen the sweet melancholy that comes with the word, “Goodbye.”

I have moved several times, only to return t0 the basic and beautiful fact that life is indeed a cycle, and each turn on Project Earth, no matter how tragic or wonderful is only a gear in the spinning wheels of fate. And as fate would have it, I have celebrated the separations and reacquaintance of an old friend to resurrect the heartbeat of an old friendship that never ceased to be.

As I write to you, I am sitting in my seat on the bus, occasionally looking out the window. Manhattan disappears from sight. The tall buildings are behind me like the long work week I’ve just completed.

Heading away, the landscape gradually changes from city to suburb; the trees overrun the sights of bridges and congested parkways, allowing me to forget about the tension of walking down 42nd Street, passing homeless with signs that tell the lying sob stories and asking strangers for money.

Throughout my travels and changes, I have always remembered my roots and where I came from. I have never forgotten those I love or those who have touched my life. And whether there is only one mile between us, or thousands, and whether there is years between our last conversation or only minutes, those who I love most know exactly who they are to me.

I know this because no true connection between souls could ever be duplicated or disrupted. Wherever I go, and wherever I will be—no matter which way my travels take me, and whether I find a way to pull of my trick; the ones I love are the ones I will always love.

Moving closer to the mountains and my home on Spook Rock, the early summer sun falls slowly behind the mountain. The sky varies in color from light blue to orange with scatters bands of purple and pink. I am not far now. I am not far from beginning my weekend, going home, and working on this thing I call, “My trick.”

I am thinking about the meaning of this weekend. Since Father’s Day is at hand, I am thinking of a song that touched me when my daughter was born.

“Someday we’ll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on. They never die. That’s how you and I will be.”

Sometimes, I hear from an old friend. And when this happens, my world pauses for the moment. It’s enough to make me smile and remind me there are people in this world that no matter how many yesterdays have passed between us, whenever we speak, we can pick up where we left off as if yesterday never existed.



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