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.
