I’m left with a dormitory of sleeping buses and one man on a bench.
#Izoom waterslide driver
But they board the bus without harming me, the driver exhales a last cloud of mind numbing smoke which writhes and twists and floats as if bewitched up into the unhappily glowing night sky, the bus reverses with a screech, shutters forward and it and it’s roar are gone. The driver stands next to the bus, smoking, speaking to the Transylvanians, who though I know are speaking Hebrew still sound as if Cyrillic letters are tumbling out of their mouths, past their blood sucking fangs. I stare at them unintentionally, and they glance at me, scaring me into a smaller ball of myself.Ī bus idles deeply, its fumes vibrating in their own wavy heat as they tumble out of the exhaust and cloud the place in a gross humidity.
#Izoom waterslide skin
Their translucent skin frightens me as I shuck off my absurdly large backpack and slide down the rough cement wall to sit on the ground which disgusts part of me but not enough of me. Some tall long lanky lean maybe Russians speak in their Draculaic language which always sounds like their slurring their words. It is a blurry mural of the unwanted fringes of disparate worlds colliding. We pull into the bus station, which is as scummy and dreary and shrouded in a thick mist of underworld debauchery as every bus station. Something to do with following my dream and with the stars as my witness did I follow my dream. It is warm and close and comforting, a womb nestling and coddling me.īut I am not in the forests of New England, USA, I am on an Egged bus alone being driven through the Negev Desert of Israel in the Middle East and how I ended up here I do not know. Trees, thick and sturdy and ranging from my height to impossibly tall envelope me, their millions of fluttering and waving leaves reducing my range of vision to just a couple of yards. The large leafs of skunk cabbage and the curled heads of fickle ferns sprout endlessly along the water’s muddy edges, drooping lethargically under their own contented weight. The ribbon of the water slides like moving glass over the round pebbles beneath it, glistening in the skinny beams of sunlight that manage to penetrate this thick green world. We had a picnic on that boulder once, my brothers and I. I am sitting next to a small stream that winds past a large boulder. I cross my arms and hunch up my shoulders and squeeze myself in a strange sort of hug. I try opening the window, hoping the hot desert air will mitigate the frigid interior, but the man behind me slams it shut with a skinny, overly hairy arm. The AC is turned too high and chills my sweat, and buttoning my thin shirt does little to help. The cheap upholstered seats of the bus make my back and legs sweat. But perhaps that’s just the desert and I. Nothing feels natural, it all feels dead, or worse, that it never was alive. The desert flashes by left to right and I zoom down the straight black ribbon running flat through this bumpy place and I can’t help but feel I’m just moving through some sort of overlayed grid, being taken for a ride. The sun sets on its vertical axis while its colors stack in their horizontal layers. Why are they sad? Is it just the condition of the sunset, a slow, steady march towards the inevitable death of the day? They are soft and pastelly and sad, endlessly sad, and I cannot figure out why. Its purples, oranges, yellows, and all the colors in between blend and sit atop one another in vague horizontal layers. Slowly the sun sets and its brightness dims, and dims more because of the strange desert haze. But they look disconsolate and withdrawn, contorted in their hermitude, a blemish upon nature, and aware of it. It extends and expands and that’s all there is, except for a few dusty bushes and twisted trees.
The empty beige desert rolls past the window, just hills, rocks, and sand.
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