The following is a journal entry by my son, Luke (17)
On my journey home from practicing some hoop, I once again, had the pleasure of riding on the bus home. As per usual, it was filled to its bursting point. I was pressed against the wall while several people breathed down my neck. The bus, with all of its patrons and various articles, assaulted my ears with all manners of noise. I shut my eyes and drank deeply from the ever growing pool of sound. The flavors differed in their extremes, some a hot jalapeño and some a cool and soothing sip of lemonade. A young man, exclaiming loudly for all to hear as he answered the phone. He was planning a party with a friend, making sure that we are all aware of his plans. Behind me, a young mother giving instructions to her daughter on the phone. “Put the food in the oven in about 5 minutes.” She was calm, her voice likewise. A grandmother, sitting next to her granddaughter who was chattering away like a chipmunk exposed to a half full can of Redbull. The bus itself, a machine that had seen many loyal years of service to Sofia, emitted sounds that were evidence enough that this giant, two-sectioned bus was a veteran. The rattle of the windows, the cough and choking of the engine as it pressed on through the crowded streets, seeking out each bus stop in the cold. This is bus travel, a loud exposer to life. In the same ride, once we left the centre and came closer to the final stop, the noise slowly, person by person, waned. What remained after the departure of the primary sound creators, was much more of a simple sound. Simply the bus. The sounds of all the old parts clanking together. The old ladies, gossiping quietly in the corner. This was the quiet time on the bus. An old man’s breathing, bearing the wounds of years of smoking. The car alarm shouting its protest in the distance. All very calming, when compared to my earlier experience. This is bus travel, simple solitude.
