Home

This has been a blank page for a long time, it’s not because I don’t have anything to say, I have a lot to say but very little organization in my thoughts tonight. I try to not write about my day, because it’s boring and repetitive, and if I told you the exciting things that happen at my job I’d have a lot of really angry Bergen County Ladies try to get me fired. Seriously retail is wild. I am once again at a transitional point in my life, moving again, from one place to another. I lived in the same place for a very long time, and then I lived in the next place for a very long time, so this displacement is uncomfortable, but welcome for now. However if I have to move again anytime soon I think I might just choose my car, I have a good sleeping bag.

I never really felt like this current apartment was home, it is cold and too quiet. It was a place to hang my hat until I figured out what to do with myself. After my grandmother died everything was kind of ripped away all at once. I needed a reset, and that’s what I got here. I know this new place will be better for me, because it already feels better for me. The concept of home for me is so imprinted in my mind as a blue house with a massive evergreen in the front yard, sometimes I wonder if that tree is still there. The tree my brother and I used to hide under and try to climb through its thick branches. I also wonder what color they painted my walls, which I stubbornly insisted on a deep deep red, which admittedly later gave me some satisfaction when I realized how hard it is to cover red. Sometimes I think about the times my friends and I would spend hours in that basement, we grew up there, I wonder if the new owners have kids that spend hours in the basement with their friends.

But that is no longer mine, and it hasn’t been for a very long time, and no I will never go back to see if that tree is still there, because for me it will always be. It has to be. I have become a bit of a chameleon though, it happened very quickly, it’s become almost a game for me to create home around me wherever I am. Whether it’s some small comforts that end up where I do, immediately finding a good bakery, or holding my loved ones closer to me when I need to do a little leaning on them for a while.

I will be back tomorrow with more babbling or a poem or maybe a letter from a fictionalized survivor of the impending apocalypse.

remember that there are people who love you beyond comprehension

take care of each other

with love

bri

Rules because I am too tired to think of anything else.

Yesterday I went out and photographed for the first time in a very long time. You saw those few photos on yesterday’s post if you read it. I think I have a very good memory for useless things but a very bad one for important things. For example, I chose photography over finishing my degree on time. What am I doing? Why do I keep forgetting how much I love it?

Anyway I think since I actually seem to be committed to this writing project I should set some ground rules for myself.

*I am allowed to break any of the rules I want because I am making this up as I go along

  1. I have a bad habit of over explaining statements that I feel might be sensitive. I will no longer use up my space to apologize. If you disagree I would be glad to discuss with you at any length.

  2. I will write every day. *if there’s a crisis, this doesn’t count

  3. I will try to keep it varied, no one wants to read my diary. Hell I don’t even want to read my diary

  4. Photography will have to come with this project.

Resilience

I promised a more uplifting subject matter a couple of days ago and so far I have not come through on that promise. Before I attempt something resembling positive thinking, I’d like to thank those of you who reached out to me, feeling recognized is incredibly powerful.
Today I drove all over New Jersey, I had a job interview, I had to meet a cat, and I started my move to the new apartment, small steps turning into big ones. I feel good about it, terrified of course, but I feel good. I get places early, and today I decided to leave straight from therapy at 10:00 to go to the interview at 3:00 and sit in my car and write or draw or whatever. Then the interview got rescheduled so now I’ve got around five hours to kill before I meet the cat, so I drive there with my dying phone and I find a nature reserve right next to where I was parked. It was raining but I decided to take the walk anyway, something told me it would be a good idea.

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This is what I got, it was quiet and beautiful and even though I got soaked it was definitely worth the being absurdly early to things. This little haven in the middle of nowhere New Jersey got me thinking about the resilience of humans, not only how much we can take, but also how well we bounce back. Being a writer and an artist I collect people’s stories, when they let me in it’s an honor, so I know what people have gone through or are going through and we still live, or we try our damnedest to for as long as we can. I have seen the darkest parts of both my own soul and other’s around me. I do not judge. It is human. I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in things that I can see and hear and touch, and the ability to bounce back from tragedy has got to be one of the saddest but most amazing things about being a human being, and it is certainly something I can see and hear and touch. . I will not pollyanna this though, there are some things a person cannot come back from, and often that ends tragically and painfully. When that happens though, the person is losing the battle to an illness that has been around for a long time. I believe strongly that there are more things that we can come back from. More things that seem insurmountable but really are not.

So here’s some more pictures from my short but enlightening hike. Enjoy

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I would like to point out the fact that these were made on an iphone makes me incredibly sad, but that fake bokeh looks pretty damn real to me.

It's Only Skin

When I was young and I skinned my knee I winced at the pain but also at the strange contrast between my pale skin and what imagined were some badass battle wounds. As I got older I started resenting that very same skin for becoming tough and hard on the outside, but so so vulnerable on the inside. It was like my own invisibility cloak, woven with carefully chosen words and the ability to make a present story sound like the past. Soon I was writing odes to that same skin about it’s resilience in the face of attack, I worshiped the body’s healing power without considering why it needed so much healing. I bear this well. Now I find my skin is armor, battle-worn and old news. Sometimes I yearn for the time when I first realized I was breakable, horrified and a little proud of my skinned knee, I learned to take that turn a little bit slower the next time I rode my bike. Maybe that’s what we all need, to take that turn a little bit slower the next time we ride our bikes.

Answer the Phone

I did not write yesterday. I think I have a good enough excuse for it, and this is probably the most candid I will be on this blog so if that’s not your thing move along. I think sharing this might help some people so I’ve decided to tell my story. Yesterday, I had a feeling, it was a feeling I had only had once before and it ended up causing a lot of pain, it came on so quickly, intensely and suddenly I could not stop it. It was the feeling that I was not going to survive, that I was terminal. I do not really believe in fate, but I think this time it did come in a phone call that I was, at that point, hoping would not come. In the instant I answered the darkest parts of that feeling disappeared, the interruption, the calm on the other end, and the change of pace in my thought process all pushed out the worst of the intrusiveness.
I think the lesson in this is as quickly as that true valid thought comes it can be interrupted just as quickly. That a conversation that was not pushed to be about what exactly was happening could interrupt the thought process enough to ground myself. Maybe it’s a walk, maybe it’s a long drive, maybe its being reminded you are loved. I don’t know. I got lucky yesterday. I got lucky I made the original call, I got lucky of the timing of the return.
I still don’t know what my long term fate will be, I am incredibly aware of it, I have a disorder that’s incredibly hard to treat, but I’m lucky enough that there are people willing to be that interruption without judgement, and with incredibly good timing.
I hope to be back to somewhat less intense subject matter as soon as possible, but you have to give it to me it’s been kind of a shit run. One that seems to be on a small climb up despite the brain stuff. For now though, I am here, I am aware, I am living.

A Fairy Tale in Progess

I decided to do something a little different today, this is a short story fairy tale that I’m working on about Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. At the moment it’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m hoping to find an illustrator eventually.

Also I don’t usually write fiction, so I’d love feedback on this.

Once upon a time there was a magical land that appeared once a year for three short days, the people who come every year think of it as a home of sorts; despite the fact that the weather is unpredictable and the hill is steep the anticipation of this land appearing starts the minute it disappears again. This year was an especially important for one boy, a boy who had been coming to this once a year land since before he was born. He felt at home in this place, like the many others who made their pilgrimage there he longed to see the sights and the sounds on his own. He had just had a very important birthday, he was now fourteen, the age that both he and his parents agreed was a good age for him to start his own adventure, make his own stories. It meant a lot to the boy that his parents trusted him to go and see all the wonderful things the place had to offer.
After setting up the campsite the boy wandered off, promising to be back right after the last song of the night was played from the big stage. He skipped off down the hill and the first person he saw was a Titan, directing fellow travelers to where they would find room to set up camp, the boy then walked over the troll bridge into the pop-up town he knew so well. He breathed in the smells and couldn’t pick which thing to look at first. The venders were already selling their many wonderful foods. Then he heard a few notes float over his head, the minstrels had started, they played tunes that he had heard for as long as he could remember; he hummed along while he walked down the alley to see the twirling dances, skin glowing even in the bright sunlight. It was then he realized why people called this place home, the magic had only just began. He turned onto another makeshift road only to be greeted by some friendly giants who waved hello and asked how the boy’s parents were doing. They offered him a hula-hoop and invited him to play with them, but he decided to watch from afar and get lost in the music for a little while. He liked to watch, to take everything in.
It wasn’t long that the boy noticed some clouds rolling over the mountain far far away, knowing the odds that it would start raining he pulled out a poncho. It drizzled a bit, nothing to worry about. Then, almost out of nowhere the skies opened up, he could barely, so he ran quickly towards the closest tent there was, the metalworkers tent. They were barely able to hear each other over the rain pounding on the tent, and barely able to see more than a foot in front of them, but they heard one of the giants yell, his foot had gotten stuck and the mud was getting deeper and deeper as the rain poured down. The quiet sweet boy out on his own for the first time, the boy who wanted to listen instead of play told the metalworker that they had to get him out. That they couldn’t let him get stuck any deeper. So the metalworker got the seamstress, and the seamstress got the musicians, and the musicians got the rest of the crowd, and together they all got the giant out of the mud. They rinsed off in the rain, knowing the downpour would end and the scorching sun will return to dry them all off.
The boy left, waving goodbye to the strange cast of characters he had grown quite fond of, a lot more excited to see what else this land has to offer. On his way back to the big stage he met a fairy that plays the harp, and a scarecrow with a top hat who told him all about the bees in his grand yard. As the day turned into dusk he saw the dancers again, this time glowing brightly and wearing even brighter paint around their arms. Of course as the grand finale the moon rose right over the land and the giant jellyfish that visited came out from hiding to sway to the music and play with the crowd. The last song ended and the boy hiked his way up the hill, when he entered the campsite his parents asked him how his day went. He was just about asleep but as his head hit the pillow he murmured “it was like coming home”

There is no Regular Programming

I’m off today, it’s a much needed no people no plans day. I’m getting ready to move again, this is the second time in two and a half months. I’m a little afraid to find out what the stress level is going to hit with less than ninety days in between the two. We shall see. I’m finally out of my crisis week. There’s some food, and there’s enough gas to get me to work. That’s all I can ask for at this point.

On that point, I’d like to thank everyone who donated and shared to this moving expenses disaster, I’m getting so close to my goal and I think without it I would be in, what is at the moment unthinkable trouble. I don’t know what I deserved to have such beautiful, generous, kind people in my life bit I cannot thank you all enough. Hit me up sometime if you ever need some photographs, we can work something fun out.

I suppose the last few days have felt a little more diary entry type posts, I am at the moment of a weird crossroads in my life and to process it here in a “how do I make this palatable” way has been helpful to processing everything. I’d say we’d be back to regular programming soon, but as history has shown us here there is no regular programming. I like to keep my now seven consistent readers on their toes Ya’ll keep me coming back.

Only the Strong Survive

I’m trying to come up with something that doesn’t sound like I’m making excuses for myself and that doesn’t come across as “woe is me”, because the chaos that has surrounded my life for the last ten plus years seems to have no end in sight. Of course there are really wonderful days, weeks, sometimes even months, but the slew of bad luck even when I’m doing everything right has got me yearning for a cabin in the woods with very little outside communication. Being in your 20’s nowadays is just a strange purgatory where you think you know what you want, but there’s no guarantee you’re going to get it our if you do get it you’re going to have to trudge through miles of shit. Add a mental illness, some poverty, and extreme nihilism and boom you’ve got yourself a 20 something.

I’m lucky though. My circle has closed significantly, but those that are left, well there aren’t really accurate words to describe how much they mean to me. No matter how sad or what kind of mood swing my brain has decided to gift me on the rare occasions the medication isn’t doing it’s job, I know that there are people out there that care deeply and are willing to listen. One of my biggest fears is that I’m a burden on those people, I do the best I can to listen as much as I talk, but for those of you who know me I like to talk, especially if I can get away with distracting from what I really need to discuss.

I joke with my other mentally ill friends that only the strong survive being close with us. We are exhausting. I am the first to admit that, no one likes being around a sad person or an irrational person or a very impulsive person. This is a fact that took me years and years to accept, and years and years more to mourn and resent the friends that could not handle it; I do not resent them anymore. The strong survive though. They bring you to the movies after your grandmother passes. They tell you they love you and you believe it. They force you out of your house in pajamas to bring you to McDonalds because you haven’t eaten. They make a secret facebook group to discuss an issue that you can’t handle and invite you after they’ve brainstormed solutions. They treat you to lunch and reassuring conversation even though they can tell you don’t 100% buy into the future that they are painting you. They know when you need human touch. They know when you absolutely do not need human touch. They speak from experience and hope.

The most terrifying thing about having a mental illness now is that the future was always uncertain, there’s not a zero sum chance that I won’t end my life, or end up hospitalized long term. I do not want to now, and I have not truly wanted to in a very long time. I like living. I’m about 70% stable and that’s pretty fucking great (if you knew me before you would understand), but illness is unpredictable. On top of that uncertain future we are also dealing with an uncertain future on this planet.

But I have my people. When my mind twists and turns like it has been for weeks now, I still have my people. Maybe they give me a joke, maybe some reassurance, and maybe some real understanding. They are the strong, they have survived this particular storm.

My $25 Month

I don't know what to write about today because there are so many things going on in my personal life, I'm having a hard time separating that from these supposed mini art pieces where I am not supposed to be using it as a diary of sorts. But things the past week and a half have been kind of scary, I think I finally know what it's like to be in true poverty. I've been poor for a long time, but the past week and a half I've been experiencing real poverty. It's exhausting. Between being hungry all the time, and being at a low energy point in the cycle that is the chronic illness inevitable fate. I'm ready for a large meal and a nap. 

I think the good thing is that this level of poverty I will not sit on for much longer. I think about the fact that others are not this lucky, that the next paycheck after two weeks is going to put me back on track. Not everyone is quite so lucky, many people have to pick between food, shelter,  and healthcare (sometimes life saving drugs like Insulin). I think about how lucky I am to have even the little bit of a fallback in friends and family, because not everyone has that fallback. 

This was not a political post, but of course it ended this way. Vote in the 2018 election, and push those democrats to adopt a much more progessive platform then they are currently holding. We need people who are working full time to not feel like one mistake or accident would cost them their security in life.  

Boring Beige Buick

I would like to point out that I did in fact write yesterday, but since it was just an "I'm exhausted" excuse so I did not share it with the world.

I spend a lot of time on the road, and definitely not in the romanticized Jack Kerouac kind of way, in the "holy shit I can not look at this part of route 17 ever again" kind of way. Yet, I love my commute, sure I could do with the extra sleep or the shorter gas mileage that living close would grant me, but it gives me time when I'm by myself and there's no chance of me being not by myself. It is here where I have the most intense arguments with myself, often about morality, sometimes about politics, but almost always about art. I consider this blog, I consider plans I have for the future, I consider the fact that I am usually not acting on those plans. I love those rides because I can digest my day. Once someone told me to give myself the time to feel stuff, but to put a limit on that time, so if I need to feel stuff I give myself my car ride home (I do a book or a podcast on the way to work). They aren't always weird meditations on myself and my deepest darkest feelings, I also use them once a week to talk to my brother (so I guess there is a chance they are not always alone), most of the time I use them to write. 

I'm not sure what this one is about other than the fact that it's kind of a good thing I like to drive or else I'd be a miserable person always. There are few things less depressing than NJ 17, but moving, even if it's back and forth on a miserable stretch of highway, feels good. I hope I hit home about how ugly Route 17 is, I am not kidding, we can do better than that, we've been to the moon. I digress, I guess I have a thinking spot and it's a boring beige Buick. 

I've literally got nothing tonight. I am exhausted, but expecting a really good nights sleep tonight. So I'm going to go to sleep. 

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i blink and time has passed
and for a moment as my eyes adjust
i do not recognize the cast of faces
in my crowd, below me i find is falling
fast, my heart jumps up into my throat
my fists close tightly around a rope
that crowd throws down to me, and
tied the other end to a tree, familiar
faces now in sharp view, those who were
there i see anew

This is mostly about the weather.

This is my favorite weather, it's pretty specific. Right before or right after a storm. The pressure changes so the world gets quiet. The calm before the storm. I love it in the winter before a snow storm, or immediately after it ends. Something always draws me to that silence. It is a joy to walk around in, and I love having brief encounters with the other people who are venturing outside right before they are sure to be stuck inside for a while. Then there's those of us who like to venture out as soon as it's finished to poke around before life starts again. I like pauses, breaths in my day, and a storm that keeps us all inside for a day is a pause, but right before and right after there's a burst of life. I like to live in that burst for a minute. I also like the idea of bracing for and coming out of a storm, there's some discomfort on both ends for sure. The temperature drop does not hurt the matter either, I am made for the clouds and the cold. 

Today was good. It was a good day.

how the hell do we respond to this with work?

I wrote a long time ago that I felt that for a while nothing was going to matter, and then everything was going to matter at once. I think we might be swinging readily into the latter. I've been trying to decide what to write about all day, I am extremely distracted by our democracy's impending demise, but I'm going to try to write through it anyway. It is feeling extremely apocalyptic at the moment. Like the grab as many canned goods as possible kind of thing and if the hurricane's don't take you hope that it's not the lack of healthcare that does. 

Anyway, Art, right. How the hell are we supposed to respond to this with work? Everything I come up with (at least I have ideas now right?) feels kind of trite. I feel like I need another art education, with professors to tell me how the hell to respond to this with work. Or a complete news wipe (which is not going to happen) so I can can concentrate just on work and making work. It's a wild ride to be so full of other information that there's just no room left for doing anything with it. 

The sketchbook is my friend right now. I think that's what I'm going to have to stick with for a while, it's like going back to square one. Reviewing what I was taught in college but with the frame of 2018 around it is I think my only answer. The transition moment for me was odd, I stopped working for MSU in 2016. I think what I need is a really good contemporary art history update. I don't go to enough galleries. I don't see enough work. 

Also this seems like this is going to be a central theme to these blog posts. Which makes sense because of the chaos that we're in, and the lack of formal preparation that I feel I have for it. So I guess thats you're official warning on that.

Some Politics Tonight

I'm having a hard time steering away from politics on this one, so here it goes. Yesterday, and this morning I watched the Senate Judiciary Committee's confirmation hearings of Justice Brett Kavanaugh, and as the periodic screaming protestors were dragged from the room by capitol police I thought to myself a thing I think a lot now-a-days "we're in real trouble". Now, here's the thing, Masha Gessen told me to be the hysteric in the room, and now I think is a really good time to be the hysteric. A President who's own senior staff admits he is not fit for office (we don't have time to get into why this article is a whole new level of terrifying)  is being allowed not one, but two Justices on the Supreme Court. Two people supposedly in line enough with President Trump's agenda for him to pick them, now have a lifetime appointment (granted Kavanaugh has not been appointed yet, but they supposedly have the votes) to vote on laws about women's bodies, LGBT issues, voter suppression, racial equality, the environment, the economy, and so much more. 

Here's what I saw, the democrats calling for a roll call vote to adjourn. Three republican senators recused themselves so the Judiciary Committee was 8 GOP to 10 dems. Grassley ignored the requests multiple times before saying no. All the while there are screaming women begging them to stop the hearing who are being dragged out by police. They spoke often about the constitution, but not about silencing the people who are afraid for their lives, and the lives of their loved ones. 

We are all tired. We are all marching towards the midterm elections, but we are tired. We've gotta stay awake for this one, because if it feels like we are going to be working the rest of our tired lives to undo the mess this administration has already created, imagine what it'll feel like with two lifetime appointees to the highest court. 

Call your senators about Kavanaugh. Vote in November. 

What I Owe to My Audience

I told my therapist about this project, and one of her first reactions was "oh so you can't skip a day". It's creepy when someone knows you that well. Today I spent a lot of my session talking about performance art, because I when I don't want to confront something I talk about things I know a lot of weird little facts. Usually she doesn't let me, today she let it slide, but that got me thinking about art and the relationship between audience and artist.

I spend a lot of time in the folk music world, and as a professional fly on the wall one of my favorite, albeit creepy, things is to do is to watch people come up to musical artists after the show. It's such an intense and strange relationship, when one side has watched the other unzip their chest and leave it open on stage, and the other side has to take responsibility for unzipping their chest and leaving it open on stage. Those artists give so much of themselves to their audience, it's impressive, but the thought of it scares the living daylights out of me. 

I do like a good honest post, and for sure the blog entries that are more personal do better than other ones. I think we're all voyeurs, we're all curious, and we're all ready to whisper that next thing in another person's ear to keep life interesting. I am also heavily edited on here and have the entire internet between me and any readers (even if those readers are close friends), so I think what I'm getting at is we all owe our audiences exactly what we want to give them.

People demand a lot from artists, and a lot of what they demand is emotional labor. There are people in my life that I'm sure only share things with me because of how honest they perceive I am in my art. There are other people in my life that hand me their burdens as if I asked for them and am qualified to help them with them because of how honest they perceive I am in my art. I know so many other artists who have those exact same relationships, some are better at managing that that I am, others are not. I do not mean to complain about this, because trust is so precious and rare these days, but it is often overwhelming and strange. 

I know artists that share absolutely nothing about their lives outside of what is carefully curated, others like me are a little messier and share a version of ourselves for public consumption, and still others are willing to share more of themselves whenever the public asks for more. None are wrong. As per my posts about art practice early on in this blog I don't actually have an answer for what's right.

Maybe I shoot this one out into my friends list that is full of talented artists, what do we owe our audience? 

A Less Focused Day

It's been a long time since I've had off on Labor Day, I work retail so any holidays off are rare, but I happened to be off today (as in Monday the third, not Labor Day). So I did the thing that we all do when we have a day off, napped, watched TV, and took a short walk. Eventful right? I did not spend hours today contemplating my first line of my entry. In fact I didn't start thinking about it until I cracked open my journal and searched my blankets for my pen. I guess we can add this to the things I'm learning about myself and creating, I need to be doing to be making. Even if "doing" just means the structure of a drive to and from work. Makes sense to me, I am not good at doing nothing it makes me sad, but once I start I have a very hard time stopping. Maybe it's time to start going on those long walks I did for suburban woods. Those were good hours spent wandering. 

Anyway, this has been a less focused entry than yesterday's at least, possibly because of the complete lack of structure in my day. Maybe the posts are a mirror, or maybe it's just a fluke because I fell asleep in the middle of the day. 

Anyway, happy Labor Day. Support Unions. Support workers. 

Tentatively Inspired

You know how I know this time this little "thought experiment" of writing every day is working? I thought about my "first line" all day today. What could I use to grab someone, even one person. When I wasn't engaged with another human I thought about the rest of the story. Let us all accept right now, while very honest, I am still a storyteller, this is a story. I think it was the decision to make this version of the writing project public, the other one was supposed to be, but it never worked out that way, and what's a better place than the internet to make your performance art seen? I'm not exactly sure that's how I feel about this one, while the other project had incredibly vulnerable part of me in it, there was no way anyone way anyone was going to read the whole thing and to be honest there was no way I would ever remember everything that was written on there. But I guess I'm leaning in, at least for now. 

I've noticed I've been listening to less in the car than I used to. I used to fill it with podcasts and books, but after some crazy drama with one of my favorite one's a couple of weeks ago I started listening to radio again, and now just the five CDs I have loaded on my phone. They are traveling companions that for some reason I bought or went out of my way to download they've just survived the various phones and computer mishaps. My CD player in my car eats real CDs so I have to save the listening to those for home. Besides these tunes are comforting to me, I can leave and come back mentally and never be lost, I can write. I think what I'm saying is I'm feeling tentatively inspired and I hope I can make these pieces something. The bizarre thing is I really think I've just been meditating wrong until now and now these exact circumstances have led me to not have a choice but to just be. There is too much chaos in front of me and behind me so I really can only just be right now for my own health. So in the now I've been writing, and it feels good. 

a migraine, some music, and a really bad poem

writing is not coming easy today, I have been hit with the kind of migraine that means I can't exactly see what I'm typing right now, so Mrs. B from Wanaque Elementary School here's how we find out if I actually learned to type. There aren't too many thoughts going through my head right now other than 'ow' and 'don't throw up' so I'm just going to see what comes out. The first week of September is never an easy one for me, but last night I went to see good music with a good friend and if I were running on even one cylinder right now I'd probably talk about the importance of surrounding yourself with a creative crowd in order to create things, but I cannot do that thing so instead here's a bad poem.

it's a strange pain
deep in my head
i'm really really trying
not to rhyme head with dead

This was weak but I'm trying not to apologize for me being me. 

i wrote this post ten times

there is a girl who lives on my shoulder
she is sometimes jealous she is not living the life of a child
she wants to run and play and get dirty
she found a thirsty turtle once
she gave it water and fish food
until it was well enough to swim
but now she sits on my shoulder
my tiny guardian fighting my demons for me
for i am not strong enough to fight them alone
there is a girl who sits on my shoulder
and she is jealous of the other children
but she is also a child and therefore
loves unconditionally, passionately, and without apology
so she does her duty with enthusiasm
and without complaint