To beckon the bus:

First you have to be lonely. It doesn’t matter if you’re
alone. You know what I mean.

Examine your wardrobe. Choose your most adventurous
apparel. Dress yourself in these items. Leave your
other clothes in a lump on the floor.

Go to a looking glass. Move your face close enough
to your reflection that you can exhale over it in a fog.
With the tip of your finger draw a wheel. Whisper a
secret no one knows about you directly into the center.
It is impossible to lie. You can try if you want to, but
the bus will never come.

Walk outside. Notice the color of the sky. The position
of the sun or moon. Th e voices of animals. The
hairlines of sidewalk, of gravel, of the street. Every
moment is a song. What do you hear? It doesn’t matter
if you’re deaf. Or if it’s a ballad from the radio. Sing it.
Whisper it if you like. Or whistle. Or hum. But you
must make a sound.

And you must dance. The steps are easy: Move four
times the way a flower bends in a breeze. Th en six the
way a stray piece of toilet paper becomes a streamer on
a shoe. Keep singing. Repeat.

Where we are going you are already being. Your life
was hers mine theirs and a big macbook. Believe nothing
or everything. Move four times then six.

The bus is coming.

It is already here.