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Category Archives: real life

Life is a cliff-hanger
some of us are the cliffs with clingy grievances hanging from our shoes and ankles
some of us refuse to let go of these people we feel sorry for
some of us are escape artists
built with strength and emotional power to pull ourselves up
and onto the cliff
not knowing there will be more cliffs
not knowing there will be more people and events to hold us down
like the string of a helium balloon tied to a chair or to a wrist
I am small and bound to burst
I am full and cannot flee my purpose

Britta B.

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Stewing in the skin of my inward eye
probable and prone to tunnel vision
I satisfy
the perversity of repetition

When impulse takes me by the hand
we give substance to silhouettes
We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

Out to seek
what is seeking me
Hunting for a higher Truth

People hand the best they can
not the way
you want them to

When I say, I have no words
I’m not trying hard enough
When I say, I have no choice
my mind’s been made up

We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

With my voice, I collapse
I’ve never had my heart broken
only an ego scratched
and my desire requires many reminders

Harmonious woman, you deliver life
everything else passes or purely assists
Don’t try to make love
it already exists

And excuse
my imposition
but consider the privilege
it is to consider the position

you’re in

Forgiveness
isn’t as much as what you leave
as it is
to where you return

When will you learn you have so much to learn?

Oh, we do what
we
must

Britta B.

 

Special Thanks to: Paul Janicki, producer/editor

For pictures from the shoot and more eye candies, check out Andy’s blog: http://andyjuma.blogspot.ca/

A white truck, delivering expensive gardens, swings
around the corner of the house where
two twenty-something year old females glowing
from foreign backgrounds, kneel over
spoiled soil.
They pull over-grown weeds from dry
dust-ridden
dirt
The sound
feels like a good scrub
One of the glowing ethnic empresses
pricks her thumb on something sharp
and goes inside to wash it off
as I watch it all, sitting
in the soon-to-be
garden of
Eden.

Britta B.

I recently realized that my parents got married
during the week of the year that holds the record for highest
rates of suicide and depression.

Isn’t that lovely?

Romantic?

Intriguing?

How often is a foreshadow supposed to fly over your head?

They got married that week to cure their desperation –they eloped. Therefore,
my life was fixed; I was born into fear, naivety
I was raised by two children who never grew up because they were raised by
children too
and never got to feel mature love
affection
attention
even when it wasn’t deserved

They needed each other;
they were still at the stage where they had to hold hands to
cross the road
because they were too afraid of losing control of each other

(Maybe that’s why I’m still sitting here on a curb
waiting for someone who is never coming to get me)

…I think about how my Ma text me today saying she was
in a ‘grumpy mood’
and couldn’t grasp a clue as to why. I staple the facts
that they separated a year and a half ago and their 23rd anniversary
is technically this week to a memo-memory
and put it in the
“Re: the worst week of the year” files of my mind

I come across about a hundred more weeks living at home 
tucked into the folder…
It’s sad to see they missed the clues

It’s sad to see I miss them too, together
And now

Never again.
 
               Even if it’s for the better
it’s still the ‘Never’ that taunts you.

Everyone wants their parents to be the ones to prove
that people in this world
can keep a promise

Because when your parents get a divorce

                                you start to believe

that there’s a possibility
somebody could stop loving you.

Britta B.

When I was young, my parents were the Superintendents of an 11-storey apartment building on Leroy Grant Dr. in Kingston, Ontario.

The basement had a garbage room, a party room, storage rooms, and of course, a boiler room. My dad was the only person in the whole building who had the key to every room save for the large, steel bolted door at the very end of the hall that nobody even at Head office had a key for. I convinced myself that it was the door to Hell.

One day, my dad and I were cleaning up the garbage room and he decided to play a game of Hide&Seek on me. As I’m walking down the hallway towards the elevator, I catch a dark man peeking at me from around the corner of the boiler room. “Haha, I see you!” I giggle.

Right then, the elevator door opens up and it’s my father, standing in the flesh with a smirk on his face, “Who are you talking to?”

I sink into confusion and demand him to tell me how he got from the boiler room into the elevator so fast without me noticing. He assures me he was never in the boiler room.

Goosebumps cover my skin.

My dad gets out and walks down the hall. His eyebrows raise as he looks at me to say the boiler room door isn’t even open. He jiggles the doorknob and it’s locked…

So, what did I see?

Britta B.

feels like

cold showers with hot water

the weight of responsibility, devoid of forgiveness

laughter disturbing the peace

homelessness
loneliness, homelessness

loneliness feels like the blinders they strap to racehorses’ heads;
curbed peripheral vision…

too often we find ourselves alone when we are indeed
surrounded by the rest of the world.

Britta B.

All of this neglect,
all of this avoiding.
What do you do when you remember me?


My naked, skinny fingers curled around your charms
as absent minded
as a child
clinging to the cold, steel chains of a swing
rusted from years of unintended contact.

You needed me to touch, to feel,
confirm something you won’t allow yourself to believe in.

I needed you to need
anything from me.


My palms, wrinkled
with patches of red and dry
burning from Eczema,
“It’s stress” –No, wisdom, you’d say.
 
You didn’t say it but I recognized your voice
impersonated by an older man I never met before
one midnight 
when I was sitting by the harbour, 
attempting to be alone
because I had read in my fortune that I would meet
my soulmate near the water.

It confirmed everything I allowed myself to believe.

I tell strangers I miss you, sometimes
like I’m proud of the oozing scabs formed
on my heart from trying to love you.


I want to transcribe you
into picture books, in Braille.

Share my memories of you with the blind,
and squeeze an honest conversation out of someone
else who couldn’t see where you were going
when you said, “I’ll be back.”

What do you do when you remember me?
All of this neglect,
all of this avoiding must give you stress.

Britta B.

…5th floor hallway of our apartment building is unusually quiet, cold
There should be people coming and going from their homes
There should be audible noise disturbing the peace
He’s tactful, despite the fact he’s been loosely bolted to the paper thin walls of social norms his whole life,
I’m just the glass menagerie someone desperately placed onto his shelf

He’s holding a hammer in his hand
The absent tool belt tells me it’s not for construction
I contemplate escape,
but am sucked in by the two black holes protruding from his face and I surrender…
Perhaps the art of survival is losing the battle before it begins.

Britta B.