Posts in category "Daily Life"

Greyhound Home

I’m on my way home. It’s early morning, and the air is clean and clear. Everyone on the bus is asleep, and eventually I succumb to the drowsiness.

Half-way through is the Log Cabin, a Greyhound authorized stop that’s a combination convenience store and restaurant. Out of the dozens of times I’ve traveled this route, I never get off the bus. It’s some phobia I have of losing my seat, or losing my place, or forgetting to get back on, but this day I grab my camera and step off, giving up to my wanderlust.

This shaggy, old building, located on the side of a two-lane asphalt road stretching endlessly, is surrounded by wilting trees and grass. There’s nothing else around but an abandoned red structure 50 metres away. I walk behind. To my surprise is a frozen river running parallel to the highway, a stark winter scene I rarely get to see. The elevation and vegetation keeps this hidden from my view on the bus.

And once again, I’ve taken a chance, and this is my reward.

Cold And Sterile

The campus life when you’re just a number, when you choose not to party with all the brainless idiots, when university is just another awkward transition out of high school.

I remember this.

A Quiet St. Patty's Among Others

Darren and I had originally planned on driving up together, but the timing didn’t work out, so we arrived when we could and played it by ear. Bronny was the point of my visit, while Darren was there to see Lindsay. After a driving from pub to pub, each one full of St. Patty’s day partiers adorned with green horns and holding green pints, the four of us ended up at a small restaurant, and eventually at Lindsay’s house.

It was Bronny who made the most interesting comment to me afterwards. “Darren needs to be with someone…deep”, she said, “Someone intellectual”. I still wonder what made her think so. What did we talk about? As far as I could remember, there was no particularly interesting discussion, just a bunch of us hanging out.

But she was right.

A Girl's Room

Some of this movie comes from, you know, from me, sure. But it’s not, you know, I’m never going to be able to make a movie that doesn’t, you know. Even if I’m making a movie about the turn of the century, I think you’re gonna, it’s always going to be personal. It’s just in the detailed stuff; the horses in Sheryl Lynn’s bedroom, with the ribbons on the wall, and you got sisters or you got a girlfriend who loves to ride horses and all this stuff. And those little details that you remember, I’ve been loving to put those in a movie.

I think, you know what, when I grew up in the valley, I lived there, I was really embarrassed for the longest time that that’s where I lived and that’s where I grew up, cause I knew I wanted to make movies. And I would look back to my favourite directors, and think, okay, there’s Howard Hawks, and boy, he served in the war. And there’s Ernst Lubich who escaped Germany, you know, and all these wonderful sort of things going on in our lives that you could, you’re supposed to bring to a movie, you know. But, I don’t have shit to bring, I was like, I’m from the fucking valley, you know. And, I was really embarrassed about that for a long time, I guess, until one day I just woke up and said, “Well, I’m from the valley, and I remember things like little plastic horses and the blue ribbon on the wall with the fucking girlfriend, and you know, I guess that’s what I have to make movies about.”

—Paul Thomas Anderson, Boogie Nights director’s commentary

A girl and her things.

Memories of burning candles, shampoo scents. The colours and the smells give me a total overwhelming sense of poignant nostalgia.

Admittedly, it’s been a while since I’ve been in a real girls room, and being there, in the middle of all the dainty things and the different fabrics, I didn’t know what was more embarrassing: the fact that I felt like I was 17 again, or the realization of how much I’ve missed it.

And this is all I can write about.

Greyhound To Her

They call it the red-eye for a reason, and although I’m expecting to sleep through most of the ride, I’m not prepared to wake up every half hour. The bus was supposed to be half-full, being 12:30 on a Friday morning, but when I arrive at the station, the line stretches across the hallway, dashing my hopes of a window seat. The guy beside me watches movies on his laptop, while the old man across the aisle works on an assortment of papers with the only light in the bus on. He sits alone, away from the window, a big fuck you to anyone who may want a seat. It’s his light that keeps me up.

The greyhound is supposed to stand for speed, named after the fastest breed of dog used in dog racing, but for me it stands for freedom. The cost is a stranger sitting next to you, a couple hours of leg cramps, and a little over a hundred dollars.

The layover is an hour and a half. As I sit in the terminal, I think of how close my parents are. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and even though they’re an 45 minute drive away, I won’t be seeing them this time around.

This bus brings me to her.