Sept. 22 06

just journal excerpt from years ago.

Sept. 22 2006

 

The stairwell at work gets chillier each day as the soft Pacific sun is replaced by misty rains that soak you to the bone, and I’m only two weeks away from another Greyhound adventure across the rugged terrains of big old Canada. Well, not right across, which would be magnificent, but nearly there, going from Vancouver, BC to Fort Erie, Ontario in the blink of a million eyes.

I’m sure by the end I will be drunk with madness to get off the cramped coach, with bleary sleep deprived visions, hairy un-brushed teeth, and the rest of me so atrophied I can barely make those last steps off the bus when it pulls into the quiet downtown of sleepy Fort Erie. But just the same, I am as excited as I was the first time; and the five more times after that.

Today is the day I will purchase my ticket. I buy it two weeks in advance to take advantage of the discount, paying only one hundred and thirty dollars for the whole three day trip. I can see myself now, getting into the cushiony seat while the bus rattles and hums, preparing to gently roll across the tarmac, out of the mad strut of grey Vancouver streets and into the real land of man that is more largely proportioned in size, to give us insight and wisdom into life.

Of course, there is a supreme sadness in leaving behind, for even just a short while, the woman I have lived with for over four years now and who is the only gal who has ever truly loved the shattered mess that I am, purely and wholly.

But as they say, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.” And I can almost taste the fantastical reunion that awaits us upon my return, with logs in the fireplace warming our feet and balls of feline fur snuggled into nooks and crannies throughout.

Well, time to leave this din of motion train station madness of Friday afternoon, cash this check, fax my holiday hours into the office, shower and taste the first bitter gold Redcap beer and greasy fries of Pub340. Perhaps with good friend, and acute conversationalist, Michael of red hair and beard, also known as Miguel. Then more of the same with chestnut cheeks of Buddha wisdom and compassion, Christine, the ethereal heart that weeps in my wake and sends shivers of lonesome leaving despair into the very pit of my soul.

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

ha. if this is true, it's crazy. this is the kind of writing, that when people read, they think s**t why aren't I doing this. when done well, it's the most dangerous type of writing, and in a lot of ways, the sole reason a lot of us write. Journal entries like this are weird to read for me, because you KNOW these people and I don't, so you're trying to convey their character to the reader, while at the same time keeping it a journal entry, or whatever, a piece of your life. A moment or something. I think that's the trick to this writing. Parts of this are great, but for me whenever you brought up other people, it got a little weird. Story of our life, right? Like that part about "also known as Miguel" bothered the f**k outta me. BUT, in general, I f*****g liked it. I'm from Canada, so when I read about it, it connects in a way in a nice specific way. Keep living the way you're living, and I think your writing will get better. There's a trick to this s**t. You'll figure that s**t out. Nice work, man.

[Samuel Dickens]

Excellent. You have a very engaging style that kept my interest all the way through. Its been many years since I took a long bus ride, but will never forget how uncomfortable they are.

[D.L]

You've a way of writing that puts us right into the story. Your descriptions are fluid and captivating. I'm not lying or exaggerating when I say you are truly talented. I feel like you could write about anything and I'd still be hanging on every word. Well done.

[inconsistentsea]

I wish my journal entries were like this. They are pretty much void of description compared to this..... :)