Week 3 - August 2016 (reflections)

by MB


I've been in Hong Kong for three weeks. I haven't been in New York for four.

These numbers seem small and insignificant, but I have found myself playing with them anyways. Only 23 more of these passages of time until this life experience is over. Who knows where I will be in 23 months? 

I'm inspired to write but am afraid I have nothing to say. I'm afraid that what will come out of me will be wrong, or not what I want to say, or maybe too much what I want to say and therefore not at all what I want to say. 

Gabrielle told me the other day that one day the disordered part of my life will become something that I will share with other people. That I will recognize it is as a part of my past, a vital part of the thing that makes me me and I'll be ok with sharing it. That I'll want to share it. 

It's part of the fabric of my life but it is not my life - a distinction I'm having trouble making. It's the piece of myself I recognize the most. It's the place I go back to when I'm afraid or tired or vulnerable or alone. It's the voice I hear when I look in the mirror and hear the whispers of "you're too much" swirling around me. 


Conversation weekend

by MB


The lazy days often turn out to be the most exhausting of them all. Introspection, a side effect of solitude, breeds emotions from deep within.

Yet for the first time, legs resting on the snoring body next to me that makes me whole, I do not feel alone. I am not alone. The loneliest days are never as alone anymore.  

This isn’t a love letter. But it’s a real letter. I love you G. Thank you for this weekend with me.  


Day 2: The Day that Wasn’t

by MB


Se me olvido. It lost itself to me. 

Day 2. Still writing.  

A belated but well intentioned attempt - a display of resolve. 

A resolution lost in transit. Above the earth, transcending the crevasse that separates yesterday and tomorrow that is not today  

Back in this city streaked by pink sunshine and lit by the brightness of the moon. Next to my beloved, again in motion - always in motion - communicating as though we are miles and not inches apart.  


Day 1: Every Damn Day

by MB


The birth of a resolution.

Write. Every. Day.

Every. Damn. Day.

Even when you'd rather not. Especially when that's the case.

When you're so overwhelmed you can't think. When you're so creatively focused and inspired that the words pour out of you, thick and steady, like the honey you found at the farmers market whose taste was surprisingly bitter, but finished sweet.

Because it is a muscle meant to be worked, craving the burning sensation meant to indicate growth. 

Because you can. Because you must. Because you know it's inside of you, this passion. This itch.

Because the person you love more than anything - who loves you more than you understood the infinite capacities of love to be possible - encourages you to. 

Because you have a story and it's beautiful and boundless and so very messy. A story that turned out, in most respects, to be entirely different than the one you wrote for yourself. Because you are imperfect and human and silly and flawed and a little cocky and wildly, madly, deeply in love.

No excuses.

Every.

Damn.

Day.


Grief and Synapses

by MB


December 27, 2017 // Los Angeles

I often wonder if by thinking in words and sentences I have enough to make myself whole.

She was suddenly aware of silence, as though silence itself could replace what it came to represent. The two clicks of opening the door - one for the key to enter the lock, the second for the lock to turn, grudingly, into itself, - shold have been met by frantic nail scratching, the sound of the dog jumping up and down on the grown, anticipating her arrival. Instead, after inserting the key in the lock, the quick click followed by its slower companion, she heard nothing.

No one came to greet her at the door, and, when it opened, she found no companion waiting at her feet, nothing there to greet her with a lick and a flamboyant if not utterly useless tail-chasing performance.

The house felt wrong too. It felt continents and oceans away from the the home she once knew as her own. Walking into this familiar but unwelcoming structure, she was struck by the impersonality of it all.

Distancing herself from the structure, she imagined she was entering a home that had been abandoned by its owner, but whose contents he had left perfectly intact, as if not to disturb the inhabitants whose lives would be forever changed by his abrupt departure. 

Each night as she sat on the couch, each aimless flick of her thumb summoning another TV show no one cared enough to watch, but cared even less to to turn off, she was aware of the cold space between her knee and hip. How the two pillows closest to the end of the couch did not sag under the weight of a living, breathing, thing, his four pound body rising and falling with each simple inhale and exhale. The couch had stopped moving. The triangle of her leg - foot against upper thigh, became cold and she covered it with a blanket, methodically though unintentionally writing over that time in history that always had been but never would be, when he crawled into her leg and kept her company.

She caught herself calling his name sometime. This was less an act of wishful thinking than it was a failure on her part, an inability to retrain her synapses not to fire a certain way. She had become so accustomed to calling his name when she entered and when she departed that she could not rid herself of the habit in one swift motion, as though she was shedding peeling unwanted skin from her body, shedding a layer of her past life along with it. Often, especially on days when she was exhausted or feeling insurmountably lonely did this bother her, her inability (or was it unwillingness) to forget his name, cursing her stubborn ness (she had never excelled in rote recitation)  for reminding her of the things she no longer had. 

The grief was heavier than the absence. 

 


Sunshine

by MB


We will love and miss you every day  

Moses, pose of record

Moses, pose of record


Minutes before my 30th year

by MB


reading about change. Waiting for a change. Debating a change.  

28 was a year of emotion. Not an emotional year. A year of Emotion. Of love and sex and sadness And hurt and anxiety and anger. It was a year of saying yes even when I wanted to say no.  

it was the year I said yes  

it was the year of new beginnings. Of the beginning of the rest of my life.