March 7th, 2002. 5:40pm. Killing Time.

I was digging through some of my stuff here and came across lots of things that I don't even remember packing in the first place. The astronaut pen, for one. A stack of old papers, for another. I looked though the stack and found loads of stuff that I had written years ago. Fragments of Wing Chun theory on scraps of paper, brief travel logs on stolen hotel stationery and random thoughts written on napkins of whatever eating establishment or coffee shop I happened to be in at the time.

It was like finding a time capsule. I could remember the exact moment I wrote each piece, a door in my mind had opened and the memories flooded back with vivid clarity.

Wrote this on the way back from a NYC bus tour I took with Frances in 2000. She was asleep and we were on the highway, in the middle of BFN, USA.

Sept 4, 2000. 10:30am.

Ah, solitude. Who would have thought that I would find it aboard a crowded bus? But here I am, and I am alone. For once, the time to myself is pleasant rather than agonizing.

The hum of the bus and the gentle brush of the air conditioning are soothing like the touch of cool silk over tired skin. And the sights! Nothing but lush grass and thick masses of trees. There is no ground here, the mountains and valleys are composed solely of treetops, fused into a single blanket of green by our speed. It dips, rises and dips again in a familiar pattern, reminiscent of our own heartbeat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Not a soul in sight. Occasionally, we encounter a car or two going the opposite direction, fleeing (it seems) to their respective destinations. But the meeting is brief, as we fly past one another. And in a moment's time, I am engulfed in sweet solitude once again.

Suddenly, my sanctuary is razed, as the silence is shattered by the crackling speaker, overhead. "We have to stop now," a distorted Chinese voice squawks. The bus pulls over, the other patrons awake and I am thrust into chaos.

I know now what my room reminds me of. I don't feel like a criminal in a prison cell, rather, I feel like a heroine junkie on his last legs. The dirty concrete walls, the cold dark air, the mattress on the ground...it's a scene straight out of Trainspotting. Thank God I have no cats.