Trip One (Pt. 1)

Ja. says it is thin.

-

I was going to write last night, but I was just to tired.

I've been drinking for, four days, and my body is just tired.

I can't be hard on myself like this.

I made it to Den. I realize that I can't find my phone charger. I'll have to buy one, because that is my only contact with potential employers, and my kids. At least I timed the bus right. I'm on my way in to the heart of the city to find a job, and to really make my way.

The bus is far less busy than I would have anticipated. It is almost like the world is still half asleep. Waiting for the snooze alarm, and fresh coffee. I am part asleep still myself, so I ramble away in this note book.

I woke up to C. and his mom talking Rockies. And then some Bukowski, The Dirty Old Man invigorating me for the day. Finished Women this morning. It is an interesting end to say the least.

I'm going to watch out the window now.

-

This woman gets on the bus, and sits behind me. The scent of her is intoxicating.

-

By noon I have 7 applications in, and decide to have bus adventures to find a place that says they are hiring. The first bus I catch, then I transfer onto the right line, but going in the wrong direction. I have no idea how time consuming of a mistake this will prove to be. But I'm off my feet, and it has started to rain. So it is a strange kind of blessing (I hate using that phrase).

The scent of rain is always cleansing. It washes away the heat and grime. And with the newness of this place for me it is a perfect scent. More so than the clean hair smell of the woman this morning.

And then, I can't help but think of the roving bands of women that I saw earlier in the day. Two or three cliques of the moving down the sidewalk, five across and six deep. I couldn't help but look. I even saw a couple look back and smile. In Gre. I'm a tattooed freak. Here I'm just another guy. A guy that some women may even find attractive. One can only hope.

The sound and movement of the bus lulls me. I'm nearly asleep and I'm going to be on this thing for a while. I'm out of smokes, and I need coffee, but I can't help but enjoy the shit out of this.

-

Four beers with C. and P. means no writing again last night. I have no tolerance for alcohol anymore, which can actually be fun as hell some times. At least I haven't forgotten what I wanted to write about last night. It is the women here.

There aren't normally good looking women on the bus system where I'm from. But here. Good God.

Two that stood out yesterday in an amazing way.

The first. This tall, thick, but not fat bird. Just perfect curves and red hair. She had on this tight green sweater that hugged each curve just right. She sat in her seat and pulled her bag out. Then pulled out a nice thick book, that she was almost finished with. I tried not to stare but failed badly. She was beautiful, just sitting there reading a book. Amazing.

I wanted to get off on whatever stop she got off on, toucher her lightly on the arm and beg her name, so I could write about her forever. I happened to be getting off on her stop, and so was her friend. I said nothing and walked in front of them for a few blocks. They talked about books, and I couldn't help but think about how fantastic that was. It was pure and simple beauty.

The second had that same kind of body. Tall and think and built of curves. She had cuffed up capri pants and a purple plaid shirt buttoned over a dark purple shirt. She sat and ate some dinned on the ride. And that alone was endearing to me. I watched her eat. And then I just watched her sit quietly. So much peace and calm, it was enough to break my heart.

We made no eye contact. So when she went to get off the bus I was just daring myself to say something. She pulled her bag onto her lap and she had PBR badges all over it. That said enough. It said, "Here is the woman for me!" So I said nothing.

-

There is always something new to see and hear here. Some new restaurant., or store I've never seen. Some person reading or writing. Some beautiful woman. Some interesting and angry voice.

We are all so isolated that we don't realize how profoundly fascinating we are. Each one of us in our own way. But I have to observe it, and to do that I have to turn myself up. A part of me loves that feeling of nerves clicking into place, and words coming out of my mind onto paper. A part of me wants to stay just as isolated as the rest of the world.

A part of me feels older than I am. Like 30 is some how 60, and I missed out on all the things that I would have really loved. It is time that I enjoy now, that I enjoy here. And a part of that is observing and writing and having awe and wonder. That is the child in me that I need to keep alive, but docile with booze.

File under Virtue for now.