Wednesday, August 3, 2011

arrival

Finally, there was a bus, an old, wheezing behemoth, rattling apart and without shock absorbers, driven by a man in a haz-mat suit with a gun at his shoulder, filled with what could have been ghosts, beings so vacant, detached, and fearful that they were scarcely human. The bus stopped every few miles at unmarked intersections; there seemed to be an unwritten code of where and when, since even through the randomness of the times and locations there was always a person or two leaving or arriving on board, not speaking a word to the driver, not signalling for other stops along the route. They treated each other with the same wary skepticism I was subject to, there were no alliances between riders, no camaraderie or conversation. Everyone carried the appearance of the forgotten: mismatched, worn, dirty clothes; matted hair; often barefoot; covered in bites and scratches originating from a source I could not even begin to imagine.
reading
The Seamstress and the Wind / C├ęsar Aira

weather
loss of feeling in fingers from swimming in cold New England water