#8 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Returning – Friday, 4.16p.m., 9 December 2011

We’re pretty packed. There’s the danger that as we pick others up along the way, I might have to offer my seat. Usually this is not a problem. But, today it would mean not being able to write down my thoughts. So, fingers crossed, although not mine, because I wouldn’t be able to continue writing. I love metaphors for this reason. You can say and really mean them, but not actually have to do what they entail.

 

An eclectic bunch right now. Real mix of young, not as young, elderly, and male and female. Where are they all going? What’s their story? (Should I interview them?)

People are looking pretty dazed. Probably due to the end of the working week… (we just stopped to collect two people. Fortunately they’re not the type I’d normally get up for, like the elderly or pregnant. That was lucky. Both of them are dressed totally in black, are independent of each other and don’t seem to be servers – what’s the story? – Should I…?)… anyway, these people and their daze. It’s a universal equation. 1 daze = 5 days of work.

The banter slowly rises. Maybe people are nearing their destinations and perking up a bit. Makes sense.

One of the daily sights I enjoy on the bus is the lanky agapanthus dotting the way. Such simple beauty – a neatly arranged and well-formed clump of bluey purple resting on a green, slender, stalky body. They’re so upright looking, and some have a nicely curved stalk that reminds us gravity isn’t persuaded by good looks. Plus, they remind me of my boyhood in mum’s well-tended garden. Her agapanthus are still there, to this pen stroke. I used to get in trouble from mum for karate chopping the heads off a few of them. One day a bee stung my right hand for these callous beheadings.

Some complain about bus travel – I have before. But as a convert I say it’s not all bad. I mean the Brits did base a TV series on buses called “On the Buses” even though it mainly focused on the bus drivers. Still, we’re talking about buses. Have you ever sat down to a TV series called “On the Trains”? Don’t think so.

“Fox on the Run” is playing on the bus radio this second. I never knew what this song title was about. Another detail in life for my eager fingers to Google and discover. Thanks, www dot whatever I choose.

There’s a guy standing right next to the green ticket machine opposite me. He’s in clear view and wearing green shoes and sports (who says that now?) a green cap on his small head of greasy, un-kept hair. Who said lime green wasn’t popular for dressing in? (The ticket machine looks fine, so does Kermit the Frog).

I all of a sudden realise that this bus has become a messy mass of people. It reminds me of a vertical version of a matchbox – matches lying every which way, all jumbled and criss-crossed.

I’ll be out of this tangled matchbox and walking home in about thirty seconds.

#7 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Going – Friday, 7.04a.m., 9 December 2011

Shiny sun. The sun shines at me and the bus’s radio is on – the bus driver is going very fast. A rogue driver we have. That’s okay, we shouldn’t be late then. The song playing is Real Life’s Send Me an Angel from the early eighties – is this bus driver on a suicide mission? If so, with him he’ll take down an almost full load of commuters, including me – but my weekend hasn’t even started yet.

He’s turned the volume down, I think he’s gone off his suicidal boil. My weekend is preserved.

They always have to get out in front, don’t they? Our blue bus rolled up to the red lights. Three motorbikes with madmen squeezed past the halted blue and the surrounding sedans to stop out in front of everyone else. They always have to be ahead. Do they realise they’re only racing up before everyone else to be placed behind whatever lays ahead? So, really they’re always the first to be last.

Stainless steel luggage rack enclosure, moulded rubber wraps the window panes, hard plastics all shapes, painted metal components, concave shimmering rear-view mirrors, sheets of rigid glass and multi-coloured carpet padded seats. You need a lot of materials to construct a bus.

Throw in a tinny sounding radio and a rogue bus driver and you’ve got a killing machine. Add some commuters, a couple of leading actors, a director, a flimsy script and a wad of money and you have a movie.

I hope over the weekend someone sweeps and mops this bus floor – it’ll make me feel so much better. Get rid of the black scuff marks, dried, caked up brown mud deposits, random pieces of what look like desiccated grass pieces and all the boot prints. Let’s begin next week fresh and clean. Whadda you think?

#6 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Returning – Thursday, 4.42p.m., 8 December 2011

There are sharks in there. Bull sharks. They’re particularly aggressive them bulls. We’re travelling over the Harbour Bridge and the gently rippled water is gazing at me with its watery, blue eyes. We’re floating over this salty expanse and it wraps me up like a comforting blanket, memories of good times at the water, any water – the beach. I bet there are some sharks on this bus as well nice people. There are always sharks around – they can be difficult to spot, other times you clearly see their big, white, sharp teeth, their trademark fins and menacing intentions.

Has the bus become my second office? Although only three days so far, it seems like I’ve been writing for a lot more. So enjoyable and sure beats being a cardboard-like traveller.

I hope the guy to my left is extremely important or very well paid because he’s working on this bus like he’s in his office. Laptop’s open and on. Already three mobile phone calls. The first one was, “Thanks, Alex, can you shore up a time for that meeting?” Shore up. There’s an expression new to me for this context. Sounds like bullshit office talk.

The next call he thanked someone for their “great efforts”, and the last one included, “Okay, can you keep me up to date and let’s see if we can finish it by Friday?” I guess he’s saying all the right things.

He’s been very busy typing and just now checked his mobile phone for messages. Has God left a message for me?

Christ. Now it’s Dave. “Hi Dave” he answers – and without me even noticing, somehow he disappeared the laptop and the iPad is now nestled between his pin-stripe-trouser-covered legs. Modern technology is so wonderful and portable.

It’s also a fucking pain in the arse. Put all your toys away and be quiet.

Is hypocrisy sneaking in here? I did say the bus seems to have become my second office. I’m only putting my jottings to journal – can’t see how that would annoy anyone. Would it?

“Psst. Look at that guy over there scratching away in his lame, little journal. Why doesn’t he join the 21st century and get himself an iPad or something”

We’ve stopped at Warringah Mall. People file into the bus like a stream of dedicated ants on a mission. It does’t seem to end. Standing room only now.

Mickey Mouse just leaped out at me from an Asian lady’s white T-shirt. Mickey’s got a huge smile and is looking confident, he has a politely purposive appearance. I’d love even 50 cents for every time I’ve seen Mickey Mouse somewhere.

#5 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Going – Thursday, 7.07a.m., 8 December 2011

It all feels pretty ordinary at 7.07a.m. But my head is clearer, because I had more sleep than the night before. And only one more sleep until my weekend starts. As we all know, the weekend actually starts on or towards the close of Friday in anticipation and celebration of two days off.

It’s still raining, but I’m not hungry like on the journey home yesterday. Yet, hunger for me is never far around the corner. It’s a short corner to turn before I arrive at Hunger Place.

The bus is very peaceful this morning, and as I now, this very moment, lean forwards to scratch my back, I read a slogan on a building for a mattress retailer: “Where Dreams Begin”. Quite apt, I think. Peace and dreams combine very nicely.

Is Thursday the magic day? Will Thursdays always be peaceful and begin with dreams? Will the media never report any bad events on Thursdays?

Even the bus itself seems dreamy-peaceful this morning at 7.22a.m., 15 minutes after I joined it. It opened its generous mouth and I stepped into its bowels. To carry all types of people, like those angry, aggressive or annoying ones, the bus has to have a cast iron stomach. And it does. They do. The bus has a better constitution than me.

Can I learn something from the bus? – that I should fortify my own constitution? Is it a state government owned metaphor on wheels I should pay attention to? A metaphor for how I could become a more tolerant and socially adept person?

This bus is nice ‘n’ warm. I draw this warmth inside of me.

How does the bus driver get on with the bus? Does he treat her well? Do they communicate or have an unspoken rapport? In the end, the bus has the upper hand, because if she won’t go, nobody goes, anywhere.

And if she has to be towed away, she’ll just have the day off and relax while she’s mechanically attended to. She’ll enjoy the tow because for once it’s a ride for her.

She just opened her cavernous mouth open for some stragglers. A lot of stragglers. That was good of her. But, like me, she just wants to get downtown so the day can end. We both want the weekend to come and that can’t happen until today and most of tomorrow passes. I’m assuming she has the weekend off. I get the impression she does as she’s too warm and relaxed.

It’s still peaceful and the Harbour Bridge is seconds away from feeling this girl’s supple, rubber tyres.

#4 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Returning – Wednesday, 4.56p.m., 7 December 2011

Chatty, steamy, humid. Foggy windows and plenty of facial expressions – query, smile, relief. The rain is pretty steady as we head over Sydney Harbour Bridge.

The guy sitting with his arms folded across his chest, next to me, has coffee breath and somehow it’s alerted me to the fact I’m hungry.

Two elderly ladies, each with wavy, grey hair, are amongst the chattiest, hardly turning away from each other, words dripping down the front of them and piling up on their laps. The one closest to me looks like she could be Wallace’s (from Wallace and Gromit) mother – she resembles Wallace. Wallace and Gromit had an episode called “The Wrong Trousers”. Well, I think this lady is starring in her own episode called “The Wrong Shoes”, because her feet are hanging out of her shoes right now. They’re bulging over the sides like lumpy custard that boiled over the rim of a too-small pot.

The tall guy sitting directly opposite me has a bald head shaped like a turtle shell, it’s unusually broad and looks very hard. Even his mouth forms the shape of a turtle’s. He seems completely detached from his surroundings within this rain smothered bus. He’s deep in thought. I reckon if I flopped myself out he wouldn’t even notice.

I’m finding it difficult to write while I’m hungry. People do eat turtles. Flop myself out or eat the turtle? Think I’ll eat the turtle.

Almost there.

I’m hungry.

Thursday is tomorrow. Almost the weekend. My wife, Erin, and I plan to try a local Japanese restaurant where we’ve never eaten at before.

Food. I’m hungry.

We’re new to the Dee Why area. So, in fact, there are lots of restaurants for us to try. To eat at.

I’m hungry.

It’s still raining and I’m still hungry. It continues to rain and I continue to feel hunger.

Hungary is a European country. I’ve been there, it was 1990. I remember eating some wonderful food in Budapest with a Canadian I’d met by chance. Mark was his name. And it still is. Some things never change. We were hungry in Hungary and we ate.

I’m hungry.

This journal I’m writing in is hungry for my thoughts, my perceptions and my words. I feed it.

I’m hungry and I need feeding, too.

Time to finish writing. We approach the bus stop – or it approaches us, depends how you look at it.

I am hungry. I will eat.

#3 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Going – Wednesday, 7.16a.m., 7 December 2011

It’s hard getting things in sync, isn’t it? I feel like crap, I’m really tired and my left eye is red and dry again – an ongoing problem since late 2001 when I started a two-and-a-half year period of doing shift work. I’m feeling that it would be very difficult to talk to or interact with anyone right now.

The bus folk this particular morning seem an easy-going and friendly mass, assembled in their right-angled allotments. And the sun is shining like a welcome smile through the bus’s large window panes, warmly settling on my cool corpse. Everything else and everyone is okay but I’m out of sync.

I know how to fix it – just jump ship. Get on board the good-attitude-ship and don’t go down with the bad…and go to bed earlier tonight. I knew that extra hour up last night would screw me.

There’s a guy sitting perfectly upright with his eyes closed and sort of smile. He’s got a tuft of thinning, wispy hair atop his head dyed a tacky, brownish red. I imagine him thinking: “I look good. I like the colour and no one will notice it’s dyed. It was a good idea.”

“Wrong. You don’t look good and I did notice. Bad idea.”

He’s still smiling. He must be supremely confident.

I’m noticing I’m a bit more in sync now. When I feel my sense of humour rising and cheekiness kick in, I become all-powerful. Adults shrink into feeble children and I run rings around them. I’m crowned with confidence. I’ve just never been able to keep this switch on. It’s a loose switch with a mind of its own and turns on and off at whim.

Anyway, it’s not about me it’s about the bus, its trip, its people. Nice trip. Good people. I should just keep it this simple. Leave it at that. Then my day will be good and everyone else will have a good day.

What about the bus? How does it feel? Was it serviced with love and care, properly as it should’ve been? Does it mind all these bumps and jolting stops and starts? Does it mind bearing big, bold posters on its side advertising ridiculously titled movies as it circles the streets of Sydney, like We Bought a Zoo? (I just spotted a turning bus with this poster). I bet it does mind.

Bit of a cheap premise for a movie. Bound to be great though, right? Throw in expensive name actors like Matt Damon and Scarlett Johansson, delight us with cute and interesting animals. Hollywood machinery at work.

Scarlett – does this word mean a small scar? “I don’t have a horrible scar, it’s only a scarlett.”

Go well, bus; see you or one of your siblings again this afternoon on my way home.

#2 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Returning - Tuesday, 4.41p.m., 6 December 2011 

About ten minutes into the journey along the route: “Do you stop at Dee Why?” asked a man to the bus driver.

“Yeah”, but only when I get there” I said in my head.

“Yes” our driver responded.

I guess you get tired of having to answer that question all the time.

It’s the same as this morning for the most part. Their silent heads and eyes fixated on the latest gadgets. Although, I see three people reading crumpled newspapers. Well, two and a half people – one guy with a big nose and grey, spiky hair keeps nodding off. Good effort though for trying to read when you’re so tired.  

There’s also a hard, lizard-looking blonde lady with a Russian accent, who – on our slow and jolting departure – launched into a frown-driven, and loud conversation.  She seems the type of person who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, or what people think of her – exactly the kind of attitude that might have allowed me to be more successful in my own life. I’m sure she’s cold-blooded. Unfortunately, mine is free flowing and quite warm.

They really aren’t a very bright looking lot of travellers. I would’ve expected a happier bunch, I mean they’ve all finished work and are going home right now. You never know, though, do you? Should I interview each person to see what’s going on? To find out what their story is? Sometimes I wish I could.

By the way, the guy with the big nose and grey, spiky hair – the nodder – he’s got thinner lips than John Major. He makes John look like he’s had lip enhancement work done. You know, like those ageing soapie stars that all of a sudden one day have much fuller looking lips.

Funny that I’ve just noticed a teenager wearing a “Giants” baseball cap. It contrasts with three midget looking guys – dressed in Santa outfits – who two minutes ago boarded this rolling brick to a destination unknown to me. Should I interview them?

What was my destination today – Dee Why bus stop, or the above irony? Well, it’s my choice because we all create our own reality.

It’s just good to be home.

#1 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Well hi there. Has it really been since 18 April that I posted? I suppose that's not too bad, it just seems longer. Time's a funny thing, isn't it? So regimented and specific, yet so relative and variable at the same...errr...time, I can't escape from saying.

Now, I do like the feeling when it swells and becomes engorged. My fan base, that is. Slowly, slowly a fan base is rising for my cartoon blog. But, wouldn't it be good to feel the same throbbing sensation for, this, my writing blog? I like a throbbing, not a sobbing.

So, to get it rising here's another post for you. Help spread the word about my blog, help me achieve a rock hard fan base. Thanks, my Loyals!

Here's the first installment of some bus trip writing:

In August of 2010 I discovered writing. The magic and the joy it gives you. Like everyone else before me I soon realised that writing is something you have to keep practicing – a lot – in order to improve. Practice. Keep practicing. Then practice some more. Everyone will tell you this.

During December 2011, it occurred to me that my almost two hours on the bus each day could be put to good use. During this time I could practice my writing. Perfect. Except for the fact the bus’s rough riding often made it very difficult to actually write. But, apparently I adjusted or compensated somehow, because I don’t remember complaining that much about it.

Anyway, what follows are five days’ worth of bus trips, each a return trip from Dee Why – where I live – to downtown Sydney – where I work. Think of it as a kind of “thoughts diary” – a diary of my thoughts each sleepy morning, and each I’m-tired or I’m-glad-the-day-is-over afternoon.

What sort of things do you think about when you travel to and from work?

Going – Tuesday, 6.57a.m., 6 December 2011

I sit down and pull out my writing kit. It’s a hardcover spiral journal, a pen and well – my mind. As I look around and peer through my thick sleepy haze, I see a lot of these commuters have got their silent heads and murky eyes fixated on some kind of electronic gadget. Everyone’s immersed in their own world, segregated from the person they’re merely inches, even less, away from. We’re all here together, yet everyone is alone and separate. I feel I go unnoticed. Or do I go unnoticed?

They’re all so ordered, perched in their seats. Some are slumped but they still appear organised, it’s the layout of the seats on both counts. Who designed these seats, anyway? Because they’re too small – the space is cramped. All the different shoes – robust boots, dirty sneakers and clean sneakers, sexy glossy high-heels, the almost-always-the-same men’s black dress shoes – the various  colours and styles of pants and dresses and shirts and jackets, somehow, side by side, they appear unattractive. Yet, if you examine these gadget-gazing monsters individually, the shoes, outfits and clothing can make sense, are pleasing even.

A girl sitting right next to me just slid her jacket off, as if lined with lube – better than Houdini could’ve done in such a confined space I must say.

I know what some of you are thinking sitting in your bus seat, you’re looking so composed and in control, yet you have your insecurities and worries.

My pen’s been busy and now you all start scattering off the bus as it reaches its final stops. Scamper to your demoralising desks. I have to rush to mine, too, I caught one of those damn buses that terminates further out from downtown than I wanted – it was an L180. Mental post-it note for the inside of my head: Don’t get on the L180 again.