Fuck around and find out Plus liquorice moods in the morning.

 “It falls sir” , she says this more than once, eyes leading, as her breath is almost gone. There are blue lips ringed, that spread to a mottled hand, held out and pleading. There were four of them before, three now long departed- mustered hearts that fought great and brave wars. “ we were close sir” she says it, as if to acknowledge them, as her lips slip words towards some other time- away from the poor gates of this bleak dark house and all it's under crowded things. She will rattle loose, with these final clotted breaths; a dreary aspect, drudging up some old, long forgotten hill. These are the last rites, which like a ghost, move through papery walls in fast and fading light.“Oh sir”, she says, lips half moving, as for one last time she searches his tall kind face. For he is a gentleman physician, used to such things, and she - only one of the lowly and dim witted;  who foolishly give their hearts and souls away/ in play. MB

The friend.

Dark inversions

 The moon was quickening, or at least that is what she had heard it called, down in the old streets, at the low of the harbour; were across the years, many tales had come in on foreign tides, with even stranger men to bear them. Back in the half century, these dark ships had sailed under crescent moons, with mysterious crews, that never spoke, and were rarely seen. But the whisper of them, spread, even as their strange ships had sat low in the waters, often for days at at a time, before they left.. These ships had runners, men of other parts, who would do their bidding during the waking hours, other than that, whilst in the belly of the port none other than the runners exited or entered this black carved boats; and no one was seen on deck. But those things had not been seen for many a century or more now, until all thought of them eventually passed away. Lowton in time had become a quaint and sedentary town, with a harbour master, and a wife, and two children that had grown fat. It was a civil pace that  now docked at the shore, or was carried in land by porters and men. But still somewhere, within the old, stones, that lined the sewers that moved in other currents below, knowledge of what was old and lost and buried beneath, continued to exist.

Merite had been an outsider, her family like all the others, brought in on the gossip of prosperity, and the rich trade plied by the unique position of a bluff of land straddled, between too great ranges- the low east and the great western high ground. Low town was a place where the aeons had carved out a great centre piece of rising toppling land, half jettisoned into the ocean, in megalithic dark and ague d rock, drawn out like the long terrain of an accusing finger. Here low-town had been tossed, beholden to all the strange vagaries of water that had stormed, molten and melted,then eventually cooled, into a territorial drift, never quite comfortable with where it stood. Here for 4 centuries the two great terrains had traded, the harbour acting as a conduit, for all that had stood , even further to the west and east. Places where strange, wanderers had come and gone and gathered and ungathered, hurled across great tapestries of water, in undulating currents and ships. MB

Tell'em Pam!

 

Making choices again..

 

"when it doesn't hurt, it doesn't solve" Daniel Lacalle

Tie him to the table

 

Market day, heart of the valley and boundraying the boring brits.

 

Leopold: The lost count.

“ Give me your hand” she had said it as she fell fully into the moment. A surrender that she beckoned him to join. But his hand was rough and old and wizened- a too dead corpse. He knew that, as he pushed it further within the soft lapel of his robe. Shame coursed through him in little tributaries, that soon merged into a gushing river that threatened to hurtle all things over. “ Fool” he thought to him self; an agonising chasm now writing it's self heavily upon his face.

In these his best things, on this his best day; he had convinced himself that he could pass, and that somehow he would at least be comparable with the rest . So he had risked it, and for a moment he had hoped; mostly because She had been so pretty in her asking, and in the way her eyes had threatened kindness, with a softness like the downy hair upon her face. For months he had imagined all the the warm hours of sun it must have taken, to turn those hairs to white. But then the moment had come when they had left the main body of the group, filing down to a matched pace of impending intimacy. And so his mind had leapt to other things, like too hot beaches, and the handsome men of value that had so adored her that summer. And then like icarus he had fallen; and all at once he was a dreaming fool who was deformed again. So he said it “ NO”, this time with an ice that was served full- frozen, even as her face and trust still stood wide open; as his eyes kept pace with the ground, and the smooth stones and the speckled gravel of the path. The twist in his hand a constant ache, reminding him that in things of the heart, he should proceed with caution. MB

Death Light Monday, cameras arrive, beanbags go.

 

Death light

She didn't want to walk. The only thing she felt these days was the broken that had worked it's self all the way in; like a far reaching load straddling all sides, that then emerged in the many fallen lines upon her face. Lines that had formed the day of the blaze.

The house had burned evenly, charcoal to dead wood, in less than 45 minutes; till all had been spent, and  left in a charred clearing, of dead space.

This morning, like all the others, using a well gloved hand as a barrier to shield against the light, not stopping as she approached; she tried to look away. But it was no use, it's absence dominated everything - a hollow evanescence calling all things in. Each day the fallen outline looked different. Each day a little less. The weather of course, and the towns folk, had carried most of it off; till what was left stood angled and defeated, like a ship wreck. The remains of her life, objects that she would occasionally recognise or glimpse in the newly patched fences of neighbours, or blown willy nilly to odd landings by the wind; these scattered pieces, unlike her, seemingly finding renewal and redemption and purpose; whilst each morning  she would pass the site of the crime- not because she had to, but because there was no other way. And so each day, buttoned up in old sensible shoes, neat and shut up like some old maid; she battled to keep going, and then battled  to keep all things in - hat on tight against the world as one defiant loose lock of wilful amber hair,  fought to escape, and then  stray away from her mourning. It was always the same- the drudgery of  the low distant horizon, and another house where she earned a wage.

Later, She would return in the solace o the  dark, pain obscured for another day. And it was  then and only then, that she could fully bear to look past the silhouettes of old carbon blacked out falling beams;   through an old square red door made of cherry wood, no longer there-  towards all the things she used to be.. MB

Deflecting Josillio and the Galera stories/Writing again after morning pages.

 

Unholy

There is nothing to say, nothing that hits, nothing that soothes the soul or wipes the pain, the deep mark of red, the great stain. It is printed across her chest, in heavy hard to reach places, deep inner recesses, and misplaced folds, the locks, that only open one way. She had closed her self, bruised upon the earth, in one solid motion,where the wounds were formed, and the deed was spoken; by his hand. One blade. A through cut. She had watched how the first drops had fallen, amazed by the purity of it. Her own hand, half suspended. Half surprised. Recklessly, enthralled. He had cut her- taken the action; and in one fell swoop, their love had fallen. Their histories, had moved like little pieces, in foul motion. like men who fought and swore. So many wars, so many unholy reactions, that sat rough hewn ,closeted,half mourning, and gazing across the waste; as each night  her prayers took flight, stumbling their way up to God, in rough spilled tears, and increasingly coarser and more desperate displays, that first froze, and then bled for pity.,in the full  glare light upon her tongue. MB

Big ugly II

 

The big ugly Part i

 

World views and death by bitcoin

 

Artist: simon staelenhag

The high country/ music with yoga/fluctuating into the grave.

 

I woke on the sofa, alternating through impact, as the dead kept watch. He is everywhere these days, simultaneously crushing and cursing me, pulling me into his grave. At times I fear I will slip all the way. But then I try to rationalise the light, his life his choices, until it all falls down. Today I didnt punish instead I meditated  encounters with the high terrain, the wide, clouded, light of the rim, the high, wintering mountains, which are distant enough to cause comfort. Horizontal focus, strong.( but not so close). I let them guide me, through the out back of the rough lands, the bad places of beauty, that marks this place, until I am stopped, on some distant point, stepping through the grief, doing  more Truby. I have to let him go,because it is all too unbelievable. 

Tonight I did yoga, with no distractions, just music in action, till I sat at my own dinner table, and ate right. The slowness, did something, putting the brain right, because now  I can write. I just have to keep avoiding, Francisco's open windows.  MB

Today my office was benamaurel/ Fluctuating into the grave.

She wanted  the feeling of drowning into ground, following it deeply, following it down. Deep into  still folds, dark where the life stopped, and  breath drained away.  A place where all things stopped,  a place she could stay; falling  and deepening, keeping to her self;  no longer registered, no longer carried or felt.The  Deep waters of forgetting, dark like a lake, a place where the heart stops, no longer awake..MB

Straight talkers.

 Sorry to hear that he passed. However, he was your builder, not your ex-boyfriend. It seems that you feel that you were more important to his life than you were if you think that a client acknowledging him would have made things different. People do that for various personal reasons like the debt you mentioned. It had nothing to do with you.

Sounds like he wasn’t the best businessman

He brought it on himself and your speaking with him may not have made a difference at all

He wasn’t a man of integrity, and he was the one who didn’t fix things and threatened you

I’m sorry he passed but I hope you’ll find peace knowing that this was not in any way your fault. He was who he was, he was a grown man who made his choices

He wasn’t your ex or even a close friend, he was your builder. Send up a prayer and move forward. This wasn’t your fault at all.

Nothing to feel bad about. Life goes on. His bad choices have no bearing on you speaking to him. You clearly weren’t of any relevance to him because he didn’t open his mouth to speak to you either. Move on

He was in debt. That likely played more of a role in his decision than you not speaking to him. Don't blame yourself; you're not the cause.

He probably would have still killed himself even after your heartfelt "hey how are things." You shouldn't feel guilty at all and I'm genuinely confused as to why you do.

It’s natural for you to feel the way you do. But I think you feel that way because you recently saw him. If you hadn’t seen him since he fixed your roof and then you heard this news, it wouldn’t have affected you as much. Don’t dwell too much on it because most people that unalive themselves have family that loves them and tries to do everything to make them feel that love but mentally, they’re in a different place. Trust me, he would’ve still done what he done even if you had spoken to him

Life is too short to hold grudges, make up with ppl while you can

Barely walking

 

Horrible day of guilt and blame, and shock and disbelief, as the horrible reality tries to sink in. It's incomprehsnsible, so I try to walk the line, but self punishment means I cannot meditate. I cannot believe it, so I search for realities masquerading as clues, but everywhere is blank, as if he has been scrubbed and so I cant believe it all over again. I speak in words but nobody understands what it is like to have seen him for the last time, and because of childish stupid, to have turned my face away, and so I cannot believe it some more, and I want to erase my self, just to some how square the blame. But I didnt, I stayed home, and fought to walk my structure; singing lessons, guitar lessons, piano lesosns, bounce, then write; even if it is only morning pages, just get it out, before the wiriting lessons of the afternoon. It is Truby. 

Ive been doing horse quigong to try and find my chi, and make bad Hammond gone. It helps sort of . I am more here, but I am no happier in the heart; and now with francisco... it's as if a film of darkness, has formed over what was  becoming bearable and clear. It's all too awful. This most maddening inabiity to  properly take it in. it's as if soemone keeps erasing the tape, and each time, I have to learn the news, all over again. It just won't dawn, as it  keeps riding over me, each time returning with an increasingly horrible-sad  reality, that poor francisco has gone. MB

Franco dies.

 Guilt.

The rosary, a string of silvery beads, entwined between fingers, nails,polished, and finely trimmed. She is looking to the light, past the reality of the hard wintery spaces, of the place where she is. Bleak hard mountains form the back drop, a view she cannot see. Glinting hard like white, sharp, stakes, protruding through high difficult ground. She pauses, her sad face a beauty, whittled down by the cold morning that also takes her breath away; as silent inward thoughts struggle to find place, as they bleed upwards from the space freshly reached below. A place where the wound of the news went to settle. That was five minutes ago, and even now the cruelty of the delivery still hangs in the air. His was a truth that was not whispered, as it watched her crumble. Instead It took pride in it's hatred, a malicious sneer, preaching triumphantly across the face. So now unfocused, she looks away from him,down to the dark earth below. Everywhere there is fresh turned sod, each depth waiting to receive,..There will be no escape. She will die here, perhaps many years from now. Like an empty plot, in a beckoning grave. She feels it - the arriving melancholy, which will layer on through the years, as her capture and isolation becomes complete. And as each moment passes she knows only that his darkness will deepen and grow.  MB

  

showed up to therapy for the first tiem in six months..then varnished the garden chairs.

https://ny.curbed.com/2017/11/7/16616314/old-penn-station-history-photos-mckim