Time Lapses

"To look life in the face. Always to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it. To love it for what it is, and then, to put it away ... Always the years between us. Always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.”

- Michael Cunningham

I could write a whole paragraph bemoaning the last six months and wondering where they have gone, offering apologies I do not owe (I've become an expert at that), but instead I'll just dedicate one sentence to it: I'm sorry, where has the time gone? 

The last six months have been, well, a hell of a six months. But I've done a lot of new things, a lot of nice things, and a lot of the same things. The one thing I haven't been doing much of is writing -- I guess you could say this is a haphazard way of starting again -- I guess you could say I'm grasping at straws.

 I've been trying a lot of new places and new things. Lately it's been takes on latin food, interesting food fusions (this cool little place in South Town called Hot Joy has become a favorite stop), and remodels of a good 'ole eggs benedict.

I've also been cooking more than I've ever had much interest in before. I think I've got a pretty good idea how to make a carbonara, though I've only ever been allowed to assist; I've established I can make a mean biscuit and gravy dish from scratch, but everyone is tired of it; and I can utilize the crap out of goat cheese.

Okay so maybe I'm not a master chef, but my boyfriend is pretty good at it and he's been getting me out of my comfort zone ... like, making me eat veggies and stuff (even though I usually just feed them to the dog).

But I still frequent coffee shops, indulge in a good espresso shot or tea brew, and scarf up fresh and flakey pastries accompanied by a good book (lately Michael Cunningham has been the author of said good books, 3 down 2 to go).

So I'm very much the same, and very much different -- perhaps more evolved would be the term for it -- and I guess you could say this is growing up. Who'd-a-thunk I was capable of it, yeah?

Follow me on instagram (@littlemissbleah) if you wanna see how old these photos REALLY are, and see some other's I thought were less remarkable/applicable. 

Lovely: Here and There
11 years of fiction.

Chapter 3

Some say it’s pretentious, some say it’s just our generation, and maybe they’re right and the truth is I care too much about the perceptions to pursue writing properly. That's why I'm not okay passing the same judgments on fellow writers, generational categorization aside.

I wrote my first novel with my best friend Hannah in a dimly lit bedroom on steno pads when I was 9 years old. We huddled on the brown carpet, backs to metal frame bed. It was our secret, and our greatest accomplishment. We continued working on this novel until we were eleven years old and collected some five or six notebooks.

In the seventh grade I’d copy it all onto into a Word document instead of doing math homework. This is a decision I’d regret in college, but that’s a story for another day.

We’d created some 500 pages of pure, relatively cohesive, fiction. It was about two best friends, a blonde and brunette, who shared a creepy resemblance with their creators. The difference? They fought crime. They saved litters of kittens from creepy scientists who wanted to use them to rob banks, they saved handsome boys from Chinese panda smugglers, and had super cool (pink) gadgets.

I started a daily blog when I was 12 that spanned four years, and people actually enjoyed reading it.

When I was 13 I met Alyson, and we wrote short stories and convinced our parents to print them on their computers. We poked holes in the sides, bound them with ribbon, and stuffed them into manila envelopes. We spent our Christmas and birthday money on postage sending them back and forth to each other and editing each other’s work.

When I was 15 we got smart and started sending USB ports with our typed work instead. I still don’t know why we never just emailed them to each other. It was probably because our work was super top secret. Or something.

I once spent 12 hours on the phone with my friend Anna in Kentucky during Christmas break planning, writing, editing, and compiling our collaboration on a fantasy trilogy. There's a blog dedicated to it floating around the universe somewhere, and files on an old computer with more than 70,000 words we wrote over two school breaks.

So when I’m sitting in Starbucks and Mr. Thick Rimmed Glasses types away at a novel while I serve him coffee, I don’t get judgmental. I don’t think to myself that he’s a waste of time or breath. Because I don’t know him. I don’t know how long the urge to write has been flowing through his veins.

And hey, at least he’s doing it. I have a computer full of stories, prose, poems that I wish I had the guts to compile and release for someone else to enjoy.

Until then I pursue journalism, and I write stories about real people and real events. Maybe one day I’ll find a home for all of the other stories in my head.

Lovely: Here and There
Making Decisions Shouldn’t Break Your Heart, But it Still Can

Chapter 2

I was sitting at work, that 150 year old building sitting on the corner of Third and Avenue E. I like this job. I love what I do. Everything else is worth it. The walk, the bus ride, the dull and quiet afternoons.

On such a dull and quiet afternoon before the new year, before 2016 caught up with 2015, yet was still on it's tails, I was thinking about college. College has been something I procrastinate, keep out of sight and out of mind. It's too hard. I wish the tests and term papers were the hardest part.

I had it all planned when I was 13, and then all planned again when I was 17, and then all planned again just a year ago. And all of those plans have fallen through like a brittle second-floor ceiling. Because they didn't just crash, or burn, but they crumbled. And I've been living with the rubble, unable to clean it up completely. The dust is making me sick.

I don't like thinking about college, I don't like thinking about it at all. But I've been in school for three years, and I know it's time to get a move on because I can't keep wearing thing the same patch of floor beneath my feet. I'm done with the pacing.

I have no solution, no plans that bring me peace. My options are vast, really. To be honest I through some things to the wind, and meticulously planned them. None of my carrier pigeons have returned though, and I'm getting worried.

Lovely: Here and Now
Love Your City

Chapter 1

First things first,

My name is Bleah (Blay-uh) Briann (bree-ann) and I'm a barely-20-something whose love of writing and people will hopefully culminate this year, through this new venture.

Lovely, Here and There is a project to motivate myself and inspire readers to live in the moment, and to enjoy the place you're in. Whether it's vacationing in your own city, instead of always needing an escape -- or making a point to explore places outside your county lines.

This project will also keep me in practice, writing, as I explore creative non-fiction.

I hope you enjoy everything you see here, and if you’d like to make any contributions to this little space I’d love to highlight how you’re loving your own cities.

It was Christmas Eve, 2015. Crushed leaves hid between the cracks of red bricks on the sidewalks downtown, trampled underfoot by travelers and last minute-shoppers. I carefully balanced a water bottle, convenient store latte, and my lunch for the day while weaving in and out of frantic bodies. I watched and smiled to myself as they jaywalked, hurrying to the mall to my left. I dodged and they ran past, headed to Starbucks for a reboot. And I looked up at the dreary, sleepy sky, grey and awaiting a storm to push through and wake it up.  

I was working tonight downtown at the more than 100 year old newspaper, anticipating another slow and steady night of – well, not much. I spend my evenings at the paper sitting, checking emails, and answering the phone. I also write obituaries, or “Life Features,” a tribute to influential San Antonio residents who have passed away. It’s a morbid task that I didn’t anticipate undertaking, that I didn’t expect to enjoy, one which exceeded my expectations entirely.

I find a lot of solace in my work. I talk to families for an hour or so and just listen. They’re always hesitant to start, they ask me what they should say. My answer is always the same, “whatever you want.” It seems like a flippant thing to say, but that’s not how I mean it. So I explain.

“I just want you to tell me their story, I want you to tell me their story as it relates to you so that other people can experience what you experienced by knowing them. I just want people what it was like to know your mother/father/husband/wife/sister/brother/coworker/friend.”

Or something like that.

I’ve found joy in this little thing I do on Saturdays and every-other Sunday. I feel like I’m doing some good, if only for the family members who read what I write. It doesn’t take long, maybe three or four hours of my shift. The rest of the time I just wait for edits to make their way back to my inbox. I read a book or study for a test.

But on December 24th, 2015 I forgot my book. And school was out. And no one was returning my call for interviews because it’s Christmas eve. And all around me people were frantically trying to finish up their projects, meet their deadlines, complete their edits, and get out of the building. And here I was, until late became later and 2pm became 5pm and the sunset and the stars came out and it began to rain.

I like it there, alone in a 100-plus year old building. It’s a little cluttered, and very old, and surrounded by windows and strange sounds. But I like the solitude. I like the way the not-so-silent-silence induces the kind of thoughts you don’t usually get around to thinking.

San Antonio is nice, it’s calm but rhythmic. It’s exciting but low-key. The people have etched their signature into my heart, and I’ll remember the sound of their footsteps on the red-brick sidewalks long after I leave. And boy, guys, nothing takes your breath away the way a Texas sunset does.