Today, the Magic Bus has been careening into the Bus Stop for a year. Some things have become evident during that time:
If the definition of a writer is someone who writes, that makes me a writer. But I’m not a writer and I don’t aspire to be one. I don’t want to be anything. My best wordsmithing is to the world’s writing as a 40 watt light bulb is to the stars above the clear West Texas sky. There are some thoughts in my head that I’d like to share, and an assortment of experiences for which I want to do the same, and the Magic Bus Stop has become a handy place to do both.
Sometimes I am downright perplexed over the blog entries chosen to be Fresh Pressed. Surely the regular Fresh Press picker was at a doctor’s appointment or the Fresh Press door was inadvertently left ajar and someone rode in on a hackneyed subject sporting grammatical and spelling errors. Then I remind myself that writing at the Magic Bus Stop isn’t about being Fresh Pressed. One of the things I salvaged from the wreck of relocation is the ability to sometimes say or write something funny. If I’ve made someone laugh, it’s a good day for me, Fresh Pressed or not.
My virtual world has expanded in direct relation to the contraction of my physical world. Readers have boarded in Hungary, Nigeria, and India. I’ve gone kayaking with aliens, sung in a choir with more than 3,000 other singers, and added goals (such as huffing insulation) to my list. I live for the absurd, the quirky, the goofy, and even when I get those back into my walking around life I’m going to hang onto the friends I’ve found virtually. For most of my physical world hours I am alone, and it’s nice that you’re here for me in my virtual world. Thanks, everybody. The stardust of your conversation makes driving the Bus a much bigger adventure.
Editing is variously akin to rearranging furniture, cutting off fingers or toes a joint at a time without anesthetic, or taking out the trash.
My photography skills are minimal. The Magic Bus Stop is not a photography blog; I like to include a few pictures to bring you along on our explorations, maybe give someone a vicarious thrill — perhaps that reader seeing the Mummer’s Parade from Hawaii or the follower in India getting the big fin from a humpback whale. I can’t allow the photos to become a crutch because I can’t wrangle the words.
Writing is destructive, enlightening, agonizing, frustrating, futile, helpful, rewarding, crushing. There are circumstances, happenings, situations, emotions, for which there are no words. Period.
There are crowds of people everywhere crawling along walking the same emotional bed of coals as I am. That’s heartening. Sad, too.
I had a very nice childhood, but I got off that carousel horse a long time ago and my Magic Bus is in drive, not reverse. The rear view mirror is where I hang a raccoon tail and a smiling blue plastic hippo. The Memory Lane of childhood is not my destination.
My “aaargh!” quotient is still significant in that things I write trying to honor someone else turn out to about me. Those people I want to hold in sunlight deserve so much better, and they are bigger than my ability.
I get more from the Magic Bus Stop than I give. Commenting on bloggers’ posts, reading what others have to say, and being invited on their journeys is almost more gratifying than telling my story. I’m nibbling at many tables, sampling youngster’s opinions and sipping experiential wine with people my age. Blogging resembles a banquet with its diverse offerings and opportunities to try something new. Or not. There’s no pressure, but there are mountains of encouragement. And I’ve reached the Age of Irony where those 20 years younger than me are dancing the same steps I did at their age. I want to tell them not to let anyone dip them too far backward, but I brushed off anyone who told me that. Sometimes you have to grimace through the back sprain to learn not to bend that way again.
So, thanks for coming by the Bus Stop. There’s always room for you on the Magic Bus, and if it seems to be late pulling up, it’s because I’m packing the cooler so we can pour ourselves a virtual cold one to enjoy together at the end of the day’s ride, along with a little stardust.
