Dane Pong

The bus was an amazing cacophony of love/hate/want/desire/power/shoppers last night. Not only were there opposing forces of telephone based music, battling it out for supremacy but also a group of Danish table tennis players on their way back from a day out in the big smoke. It was all a bit much for my delicate senses, especially with all that has been going on recently.

The two telephones popped out their varied blends of youth music, which incidentally i find to be sub-standard despite not being a fan of the eagles or led zep. It was like a giant game of musical ping pong with the danes, ironically, as the net. As tensions in the match rose to fever pitch, the bus stopped and one competitor got off. It was anticlimatic, but proportionately so.

The danes whittered whooped and chirped in their strange alien language. They slapped each others shoulders and drew Danish penises on the condensated bus windows. They had that which can only be felt by a teenager on a trip away from parental fingers and the prying eye of power. To escape both them and the music i had to enter a trance which can only be obtained when one truly understands the zen of the bus. I say zen, but could alternatively use the word, pork, for such a thing. I watch the condensation group and form into droplets, then rivulets and then fall into the pool of Amonto, just by my resting elbow. It is amazing just how quickly i am home after entering this state.

numbers

are numbers important? are all numbers important or is it just some? Last night I pondered this while waiting for the bus. I decided that if i added up all the numbers of the busses that came while i waited for the one to take me away, that eventually the numbers would, over time, spell out some meaning for me. last night was 124. my bus came after two number 62s. if it is possible to find meaning in a code written through the bible or in some nonsense to do with paintings, then i feel that my lifes meaning might be found in this way. what treasures will tonights journey hold?

i walked past the dark forrest that runs wild, up the hill on my way home from the busstop. i never lived here in my youth. i never ran through this forrest or did the speeder bike run through it on my bmx. therefore i dont trust it. it is always dark and foreboding. obviously there are birds exiting and entering it and that fills me with mild dread too. it means that there is something happening in there. something alive.

dance monkey dance

The weekend flowed through me like a river of angular time, jaunty and occasionally fun, but with a lingering aftertaste of frustration. Friday i managed to eke myself into the crowd of post work revellers, and went for a solitary pint of lager with them to make them aware that there is a human element to me, that i am not purely made of shadow. She was there as well, but not near me, and to be fair I am unaware of whether she even noticed me there. Perhaps i am more made of shadow than i realise. A floating pint in a wispy hand.

The bus provided clammy breathing space and time to wander into my inner mind to ponder situations that may have arisen should i have stayed in the pub. The group listening to one of my tales and cachinnating to a standstill. Her brushing past me with a smile. The walk from dark busstop to home includes a walk through a dark alley. That night i trotted along and the solitary lamp that lights my way blinked out of existence. It was a split second decision, but i quickly started to dance. I scuffed my feet against the shallow puddles as if running on the spot and pumped my arms like rowing an awkward boat. When the light blinked back on, I ceased to do this. Feeling like i had cheated the world i carried on, only to see a middle boy sitting on a swing watching me. Was he one? Probably. The rest of my journey was staring at the pavement

I tried to find the bookshop twice at the weekend. Both times i got distracted by birds. I used to find them amazing before i understood how they work. Now i find them fascinating. I realise the shop does not yet want to be found. I don’t know who the birds work for, perhaps for the shop.

Small World

i was on the bus last night, making the pilgramige from the place of work to the place where i lay my head. the cold nights combined with the heaving mass inside the bus frequently causes the windows to condensate. as i sat near the back of the top floor, something which is traditionally the spot for bad types, but to where the forces that control me always lead me, i stared in a haze at the two front windows. the condensation formed and as it did it left the greasy finger markings of the bus' previous travellers. usually this would spell out someones name, or a 'fuck the ruggy polis' type message, but last night it said 'puerco gordo' i have only visited spain in a dream, but for some reason i am more than aware that this means 'Gordon is a pig'



strange that on a bus travelling through the outer reaches of the scruffy suburbs of glasgow that this should appear scrawled in finger cheese across a bus window.



the world is getting smaller. the world is a box. one that previously contained shoes. probably trainers.



i shall ponder this further on todays adventure to the book shop