This is my brother’s photo from a bathroom in East Berlin. I have perhaps 600 photos that need to be processed from my trip. I don’t just upload, you see. I filter myself. That takes time and effort but it spares you the horrors of wasted time. 

Or perhaps I’ll just choose a few and pair them with some words so you have context from which to judge my misbehaving.

You’re pretty.

Forgetfulness and the agony of fake breasts

I probably shouldn’t write this. Blame the absinthe, right? Of course, I’m kidding. Proceed.

I had a friend. She was beautiful but she wanted to be something different. A deal struck with a relative that traded superb grades for surgery landed her in bed, chest wrapped in bandages, changed. 

I hadn’t thought of her until recently when I sat across from a stunning creature who, in a fit of ridiculousness, apologized for her lack of bosom. She mentioned implants.

I was pissed. And I was sad. As somebody who isn’t at all second glance-able in the looks department, perhaps my umbrage was unfounded and uncalled for. But I looked at her and I said, “let me tell you what it’s like to get implants.”

And I did.

I told her about how I’d sat next to my friend and held her hand as every breath she took shook her little frame with pain. Her pain tolerance was high but so was her resistance to pain medication. So there she lay, awash in agony, barely occupying a big bed on the second floor of a stunning farmhouse in the country. 

It was perhaps 15 hours after leaving surgery that the screams began. Her body had realized what was happening and as nerve endings registered WTF?!?’s regret rolled in. 

“Please,” she screamed, “please take them out. Please take the pain away. Oh, God! Please take them out!”

But there was to be none of that.

Three months later I was waiting for her to finish getting ready for a night out. Her ex was playing at a local club and she wanted to make an appearance, just to bother him. “Is this too slutty? I should probably wear a bra, yeah?” She said, walking into the kitchen in jeans and a tank top. She’d forgotten about the pain. 

We forget about the pain. That’s the truth.

Hold to that inasmuch as it’s possible when you’re thrashing about, pleading for it all to be over. We forget about the pain and it’s such an amazing thing to behold after the fact. We forget and we move on. All except for the few who remember and wonder and conjure those memories into moments when, for a split second, there’s a chance to show another just how beautiful they really are. 

Cling to what’s good. Stay blessed.

Sounds

The urge to sit down and write has, so far, escaped me. That’s okay. I have time, you see. For once, I have time. 

I have all these stories and emotions and bits of knowledge all in a heap inside and between listening to music like this (http://www.thesixtyone.com/s/NMNVm8n0IvS/) and miles upon miles of running and biking and swimming and random things my trainer comes up with for me to do, it seems things are shaking down into place. 

The words will come, I know. Because I have time, you see. For once, I have time. 

Listening to this and wondering if Jonah ever missed the warmth of being inside the fish. His life was so, so clear then. The problem was being inside the fish. The goal was to get out.

Jonah didn’t need to think outside the box. He needed to get outside the fish. 

everywhere…

photos, memories, lost causes, dreams half-breathed, and not a drop of satisfaction.

YES!

I’d fished here as a child. Just me alone in a rowboat with a pole, some lures, and so, so much time. I caught so many fish and netted even more dreams. I figured that my life was just like that water and though it had banks some part of it was connected to other rivers, lakes and oceans.

It’s possible that I spent too much time thinking about things as a kid. 

A soft-shelled crab that died a horrible screaming death after its best friend was feeling spiteful about a minor disagreement and dared the doomed crustacean to ride the crab trap only to lose a best friend and live the remainder of his days on the ocean floor, feeling guilty for saying such a stupid thing. I know what that’s like, Crabby McCrabberson, word. (Taken with instagram)

A time for wearing

Skies over Boston are bursting. Raindrops smash vigorously onto the pavement.

It’s cold, friends.

It’s a time for wearing things. Cashmere hoodies. Corduroy pants in seemingly accidental colors. Leather boots. Perhaps a hat if you’re one of the people who looks good in hats.

There’s light at the end of the tunnel! #happyfriday (Taken with instagram)