The “As I Sat On The Bus” Compendium – Page 2 – An Occasional Story or Magazine

As I Sat On The Bus Story (#24): A Solution to Writer’s Block and a Song

Send in your stories, photos, poems, songs and other interesting thoughts that start with – or somewhere imply “As I Sat On The Bus”. Just get on the bus and you’ll start writing. Send it in via the Comments section

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People ask about writer’s block: the difficulty in writing consistently, in producing words. It’s not easy to write! Some writers barricade themselves up in a garret, or lock themselves in their rooms, forcing themselves to write at least 50 thousand words a week. Something like that. Some crazy target.

Other writers write for these blogs. They write every day. They come up with something each and every day for the blog. 200 blog words a day. Something. Anything. For a while they’re really into it. But after a year or two they usually grow weary. They ask themselves why the heck they’re writing on this blog thing for anywaze. What for? All the same, the blogging often becomes a bit of an obsession for them. A daily obligation. Bumba, for instance, even began his blog with a plan of “every day another story”- or something stupid like that. That’s what he titled his blog. If you don’t believe me, you can scroll up and check the Header. It says Every Day Another Story. You know, he just figured he’d have a new story every day. He also figured that he could get contributions from other authors as well. What’s more he hoped to present several of his own books that were already written. His intentions were noble. You have to grant him that. But then he winds up using various shortcuts. He posts every other day. Or he just posts some songs that he recorded on the guitar the day before and calls that a post.

Such is Bumba’s answer to writer’s block. What the?

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As I sat on the bus I waited for the inspiration to come. I knew that if I rode the bus I would soon find the muse. It would just come to me. The bus is my muse. I would overcome the current bout of writer’s block. The writer’s block thing would simply dissolve into the mumblings and rumblings of the #20 bus as it rattled its way down Wilshire Blvd.

After passing the LACMA Museum I noticed some new buildings going up at La Brea. Further down there was a shiny new car dealership. Then a series of strip malls. Places to eat. Crossing Highland, the bus entered into a more gentrified stretch of Wilshire. No more commercial stores. Some corporate offices. Some nicely landscaped condos. The drove by the fabled Fremont Estates.

The ride down Wilshire, arguably Los Angeles’ greatest boulevard, might make a swell idea for a story, a saga perhaps, a grand quasi-literary tour of L.A., I thought. Hmmmm.

……..Naah, better to just present a song

If you ever go to Houston

Tell them all I said hello.

A religious As I Sat On The Bus

This is #23 in the growing line (that’s right, the line’s gruesome) of As I Sat On The Bus Invitational stories.
If you look at the As I Sat On The Bus invitational Archive in the Library section to your right, you’ll see contributions by other authors such as the wonderful Dawn (who has put together a terrific AISOTB series), Eric Alagon, Frizz of FlkrComments, Tornadoday (that’s Bobbie of course) and many others who have already hopped on the bus (both literally and figuratively) and who are contributors to this fine and noble mass transportation project. So try your hand too. Send in your As I Sat On The Bus (AISOTB) stories. Don’t be late or you’ll miss the bus.

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Once again a writer’s thanks to the gods at the MTA who grant us so much time to compose epic poems and 500 page novels while we wait for the buses. Thank you, oh merciful gods of the MTA who so generously …….

“Not fair! Why are you always so rough on the MTA?” interrupts a squeaky voice from the wings (or is it from the back of my head?), “Because look! Here comes the bus! Stop complaining, Bumba”

Indeed. It was true. The #16 bus was coming. Life is good sometimes.

As I sat on the bus, as the bus rolled along, as passengers got off at their stops and the bus emptied, I enjoyed several long and sweet moments of calm lucidity. It was quiet in the bus. Yes the bus was chucking along making all of its regular noises, but otherwise, inexplicably, all was quiet. How rare these quiet moments! At least for me they’re rare. Most the time my mind is churning out more words or it’s busy considering some matter of world-shaking importance. The Indians call it monkey mind. Another apt word would be plain old worrying.
But, as a recorded voice announced the next stop over a loudspeaker, I knew where I was. I was reassured. And I knew that I had another couple of stops before my stop to enjoy perhaps another few moments of quiet and of peace. I had time. There was nothing to do or think about.

The As I Sat On the Bus Invitational (#22): Sad On the Bus

Sometimes it’s sad to ride on the bus. You can’t expect to be happy all the time.

Life is very sad. Yes, it’s true. It’s undeniably, unexplainably, and unquestionably true that life is sad. Sadness is part of life. This is, of course, Buddha’s first teaching, his first principle – sort of like Descartes’ I think therefore I am. The starting point for our consideration of life is that All is Sorrow. As I sit on the bus I entertain these kinds of thoughts. The bus helps you do that sometimes.

But let us not be low of cheer. We can have a good laugh sometimes. Some pleasure, some joy. Some happy blogging even! OK, maybe I’m getting carried away. But life is good too. We have to be thankful for the little moments, those pleasant times, those short waits, those empty seats at the back of the bus at the end of a long work day. Cheer up campers. Maybe you’ll get a seat.

As I Sat On the Bus (#22)

Yes brave bloggers and other miscreants, welcome to this week’s As I Sat On the Bus Invitational. All are invited of course. However, the sole condition (call it a prompt) is to begin the shpiel with As I Sat On the Bus or something close to it. Anything approximating a municipal bus somewhere in the text – and that includes all forms of mass transportation – is more than acceptable. Bumbastories again presents this week the celebrated George Packard, who tells of a very unexciting, but fairly pleasant, visit to the public library. Accompanying music is yesterday’s Key To The Highway, one of George’s travelling songs.

As I sat on the sunny park bench

In front of me the fountain gurgling

The turtles still in the water

I listened as the chimes of the water fell and then crescendoed

The deep and gentle warmth of the sun

Made its way through me

Several of the turtles had already crawled up the steep ledge of the pool

To sun themselves

The morning sun rising in the southern sky

It was a clear day in Los Angeles. George Packard was setting out for the library. He rode the bus of course.

As George Packard sat in the library he read about Kepler and Copernicus. A biography of Kepler was interesting. A book called

Johannes Kepler and the New Astronomy by James Voelkel, Oxford University Press, 1999 call no. 520.92K3855VO

Also George peeked at On The Shoulders of Giants, Stephen Hawking’s 1,264 page tome.

Hawking wrote of five giants:

Copernicus (1473 – 1543)

Galileo Galilei (1564 – 1642)

Johannes Kepler (1571 – 1630)

Sir Isaac Newton (1643 – 1727)

and

Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955)

Just five giants. (Hawking inexplicably omits Willie Mays)

As I Sat On The Bus (#21)

George Packard, roving reporter, had been derogated the task (derogated being a cross between denigrated and de-regulated), of writing the Bumbastories entry for the As I Sat On The Bus Invitational. Yes, every week Bumbastories writes a story that begins with the phrase As I Sat On The Bus, and asks all readers, followers, and bloggers to send in their own happy, mass transportation compositions via the Comments section. Hence the following entry by George Packard into this great, weekly fictioneers Invitational.

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George Packard sat on the bus and considered what great and fine contribution he could possibly bring to the world. As an individual, George was striving to live his life in such a way that the world – even the people after him – would not be sorry that he had existed. Perhaps he could even help a bit. What then could he, George Packard, bring to the table? As the roving reporter for Bumbastories and this week’s delegated (OK, not derogated) AISOTB writer, George wondered where to begin.

Surely the Golden Proportion is somewhere near the top of any list of fine and noble subjects, thought George as he sat on the bus. George had already written some earlier Bumbastories posts about the golden proportion, phi and phi. Readers could check out the golden proportion posts on the Search option.

Today George Packard would simply introduce and conclude his introduction to phi with the following:

The universality and beauty of the proportion are evident. The phi proportion expressed geometrically is images-1

As I Sat On The Bus Invitational (#20)

Welcome once again to the As I Sat On The Bus Invitational. Just send in your As I Sat On The Bus stories to the Comments section. If you want encouragement, just think that old Bumba has already posted 19 of these puppies, and is still going strong. And if you require further inspiration, well, just have a seat on your neighborhood bus. Once again, considerable artistic latitude is granted to those who write on trains and/or other forms of mass transportation. Also welcome are those who stand on buses, wait for buses, or just think very deeply about buses in general.

This week’s message:

A Letter of Thanks to the Los Angeles MTA images-2

Here’s a big writers’ thank you to the Metropolitan Transit Authority. The Los Angeles MTA provides unparalleled inspiration to write, to scribble, to babble and to scrawl to my heart’s content as I bump along the city streets. And it doesn’t stop there! The MTA not only provides inspiration ON the bus. But OFF the bus too, the MTA inspires us by giving us those long, poetic waits on filthy, noisy street corners, the cars and trucks speeding past. The dust, the noise! Ah, those sweet moments….er… eternities waiting for the bus. What inspiration! And so much of it! Ah, the MTA is so generous.

But all good things come to an end. Eventually the old bus pulls up. Ah, to sit, to get a seat on the bus. The back seat no less! Thus inspired I can begin my novel.

This one will be a big seller. Not like my other books, this one will be commercial in spades. A murder on the first page! Strings of obsenities, chilling, nightmarish visions. A page-turner for the modern reader.

Chapter I

As I sat on the bus (Yikes!!! sorry I can’t stop it), I considered who I would murder next. That lady up front looks good. Perfect, in fact. She looks so innocent! So sweet. Nah, too sweet. I don’t like ’em too sweet.

Let’s see. That guy on the right. He looks innocent enough, and not sweet at all. Good. I’m glad. I must admit, I always have such a hard time picking out a victim. I’m glad to get that part out of the way. I always have trouble deciding.

OK now. Let’s move on. The method. Axe again? Nah. I think I’ll use the hydraulic compressor this time. He’s a big guy, though. He might present some technical difficulties fitting into the…. Never mind. I could always chop him up. Nah, too messy again. Damn! I hate all that mess. Ok, let’s see. That older woman over there….

As I Sat On The Bus (#19)

Oh! How I wish I could write an As I Sat On The Bus story for this week’s Invitational!

Oh! How I wish I could sit and, feeling the divine inspiration of the mass transportation muses, begin my masterpiece: my next novel, an ode, a poem of epic proportions.

Oh, how I wish to set out on another As I Sat On The Bus saga – a story of love, of romance, of adventure and personal redemption.

But I can’t!

That’s because I didn’t get a seat!

As Marcus Sat On the Bus (#18 in the As I Sat On The Bus Invitational)

Marcus put away the letter he was writing. He would be mailing that letter as it was, handwritten. He didn’t want to mess it up. Because now he was on the #218 bus.

He continued to write, though. Only not so neatly. He would write for the Bumbastories As I Sat On The Bus Invitational. It sounded like a very prestigious and significant Invitational. He began to write:
“As I sat on the bus, the #218 bus….”

Marcus could write because the bus was standing still much of the time. The traffic was thick on Fairfax Ave. Again he started: “As I sat on the bus I began to realize that my entire life and the lives of everyone I had ever known including sweet Rosa had been….” Here he stopped.
The engines rattled beneath his seat in the back of the bus, and the road started to shake and bounce the little bus to and fro, Marcus was forced to put aside his pen. He looked out the window. They were going up through Laurel Canyon in the small, air-conditioned, commuter bus, the 218. Marcus was glad of the respite provided. The temperature was 95 degrees Farenheit outside, unusual for October. He’d put his bicycle on the front rack. Probably he’d just ride the bus back and forth. Perhaps a coffee or a cool drink somewhere around Ventura Blvd. Or maybe he’d ride further up Laurel Cyn.

The bus wound its way through the shady canyon floor. It was a bit like mountain driving – well almost. You certainly didn’t feel like you were in the city. Marcus always enjoyed driving Laurel Canyon in his car. On the bus he had the freedom to look out the window at the sunny slopes and valleys of chapperal. And they still were in L. A.
Laurel Cyn Blvd was a one-laned road through the canyon pass, usually lined with cars crossing into the Valley and back. It was one of the handful of passes through the Santa Monica mountain range.

The bus climbed its way up to the top. The crest at Mulhulland Drive lay ahead. The bus pulled and swayed at every S curve. Finally they reached the traffic light at the top of the hill. They looked out at the sweet San Fernando Valley below, as the bus stopped to discharge a passenger, another bicycle rider, at the corner of Mulhulland and Laurel. The bus began its careful descent into the Valley. Lots of brakes. Last stop was Ventura Blvd.
Marcus got off and had an iced coffee at the Coffee Bean.

The way back was uneventful.

The As I Sat On the Bus Invitational #17 ——–Gonna Sing These Blues

Ah, to sing
A story like Ulysses’:
A man
Cast upon the shore
Rescued again by graceful Athena of the grey eyes

For some read-along music, here’s a fun one I keep playing with: Click to hear Bumba accompanied by Preston Maybank, recorded a few days ago.

On with our story ……………………While Odysseus brave and resourceful was roving the great sea wine-colored, our very own roving reporter George Packard was doing some roving of his own. On the bus.

Oh… Ohhh. What? Are we going to have to read yet another of those George Packard sat on the bus things again? Again?

Undeterred by remarks from the peanut gallery……

George Packard sat on the bus.

Yes. A novel.
He would write a novel.
Yes. But this time George would do it differently. His other two novels he had written without using an outline. A big mistake it was, too. The writing had been an endless task of continuous editing: going back again and again, smoothing all the wrinkles in the story, adding some wrinkles to the characters. It was a long and laborious process, thought George.

This time he would decide beforehand on the setting, the characters, the hero. He would plot out the entire story. It would be a story of heroism, of course. A story of heroism, of bravery, of long journeys and dark nights…
How to introduce the story?
Something like Conrad’s Marlowe would be nice………….

Marlowe sat cross-legged on a neat stack of blankets on the deck of the good ship SS Nautilus. Grey smoke bellowed from his corn-cob pipe and lifted slowly into the fog-heavy air above his old, seaman’s cap. It was late afternoon. We were still anchored to the old quai in Marseilles, waiting to set sail. But the fog had rolled in too heavy. The skies on the horizon and off to starboard were thick with black clouds, which rolled slowly toward us even as we sat there.

Mulligan and myself, as well as a covey of other young salts huddled around the old man. A bottle was passed around.
“So boys. You want to hear a story, you say?. OK I’ve got one.”
Marlowe leaned forward from his little perch and peered out into our faces and said “But this one might be a little tougher to take than the usual sort,” he reflected in a thoughtful tone. “There are some things in life that most people, people in general, don’t want to hear. So I’m warning you that this story is only for those who have perhaps been out on the great sea for a while.” Here he motioned with a nod of his head to our first-mate Scratch and Ens. Webster who leaned on the railing a bit aft from us.
“What I’m sayin is that it could be that some of you younger chaps might get a wee upset over some of the details of the story. It could upset your minds.”

“It’s OK, Pilot Marlow,” enjoined Mulligan, “We young fish can take it. Right Foxy?”. Here Mulligan jabbed at me, poking at my ribs and back with easy punches.
Marlowe looked out again into the stormy sky. He remained staring like that for a full minute, slowly pulling on his pipe. In the semi-darkness we could now only see him in profile.The old seaman seemingly had left us for another realm. Finally Marlowe spoke:
“OK, lads. Let’s begin.”
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As I Sat On the Bus #16

George Packard, retired schoolteacher, sat in the Beverly Hills Library and observed the minor goings-on at the check-out counter. In his heart he felt a familiar malaise. George was used to it, this malaise.
He watched the little exchanges. People returning their books, paying overdue fines. George found pleasure in watching people, but eventually would begin to fantasize and make up stories about them in his head. This was generally a bad practice. “Always remain objective if you want to be a good scientist.” George remembered a quote from a science book he had read as a youngster.

He wondered what to write for the Bumbastories As I Sat On The Bus Compendium. George had made a certain committment to Bumba. But George did not feel like writing any more. As a “roving reporter”, George felt the need for additional roving. He was on his bike that day. He went to Gardner Park.

However, the next day George took the bus

As George Packard rode on the bus, the inspiration to write swept over him like a salty ocean wave that sweeps you up and throws you toward the beach. Something called to him. Something called at him.

George would write a novel.