seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from France
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Switzerland
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from Spain
seen from France
seen from United States
Attention focused on matter.
The tree grew despite what events played out around it. It thrived, flourished, stretched towards the sun and became a picture of innocence married to wisdom. Its deep brown bark and hardy leaves met eyes with the fruits of persistence and devotion.
Because the tree appreciated its ration of rays and water, it continued growing, invigorating hope onto worried onlookers.
Free-write // 10 May 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
Impromptu self-reflection in the gardens.
Strolling along the gardens in her tea-length sundress, Anabelle’s brown eyes narrowed under the weight of the sunlight. The deep green grass felt soft underfoot, its crunching inaudible to her ears. The flowers were in full blooms, her favorite being red tulips, thick green stalks barely bending to the wind.
Anabelle gazed in the distance at her home, a countryside chateau. She had been born into this, a tradition set by her great, great, great grandmother. Thinking of the time that had passed since that woman roamed the gardens, Anabelle considered the same amount of time in the other direction.
Passing an old tremendous oak, she pulled her carving knife out of her dress pocket, set out on etching her name into the bark. Somehow the letters instead became an intricate picture, a self-portrait.
She could not help but notice her big brown hopeful eyes and the eager slope of her eyebrows.
Free-write // 08 May 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
The girl who went everywhere in the world.
Bystanders on the right suspected her of running from something. Those on the left thought she might be running to something. They both had in common their silent prosecution of her and her apparent inability to be still, their eyes narrowed with green skepticism. How did she get the funds to do this? An assumption: she had a rich father that supplemented time spent with cash payments. Why does she not settle down and find a nice man to take care of her? Another quick judgment: the issues she inherited from her damaged relationship with her father spilled over into any subsequent relationship she attempted with men, those of her age and those much older than she, until she herself became middle-aged at which point she would acquire a taste for someone younger or maybe that would be when she would try other women on for size. Does she expect to sustain this lifestyle forever? An ill-informed answer: she thinks so, but she cannot because she is only a woman; they cannot sustain independence for any long period of time—independence for the woman can only be a phase that she goes through in her younger years out of which she grows; she must be dependent on the system, on the family, on the patriarch, on her father’s funds and her husband’s anchors.
After decades of speculation they finally came around to see that she was in fact just being herself. She enjoyed traveling so she did it without hesitation or want of a companion. She would meet companions along the way and she would live her life free of anchors and work hard for her funds. She had figured out something that many people fail to ever see.
And for that she was eternally grateful and materially weightless.
Free-write // 04 May 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
The busy bee.
This world is filled with so many busy bees. We busy bee about, forgetting manners, forgetting that others depend on us to complete their busy bee routines, ignoring their calls and emails and then finally lying that we will get back to them. Sometimes we are so busy, we give way to autopilot, going through the motions of our day without ever remembering to live, to love the precious moment for all it is and all it offers us. We simply drone on at our computers and spew words of complaint-masked boasting of our busy lives. That hidden brag and those several dozen intentionally unanswered emails take more of our time than would being in the moment itself, giving ourselves and, thus, giving our best. That is, the ever so popular façade of busy being about is more time consuming than simply being.
While we humans are busy being about, the honey bees are crawling on the ground in their last moments of life, wondering what has become of them, what is going on, disoriented by the brain-melting chemicals we have coated over their flowers, the same flowers that they pollinate, the same pollination that ensures our lifecycles renew.
Busy being about is just what is going to solidify our busy being nothing.
Free-write // 30 April 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
Thinking of the pantless comfort of her home.
The roses were deep red, their scent penetrating her nostrils, a dense fog over the venue. She twisted her hair around her pointer, sighing at the menu. Too many choices.
He requested wine from the waiter without asking her preference. One of those types then.
The flame at the end of the wick licked the air, back and forth like a clock ticking along too slowly for her liking.
Rich reds and mahogany browns surrounded her with a heavy effect on the air, a weight she needed lifted after a long day of work.
Her shoes cut into her feet unrelentingly and she wondered why she had agreed to this in the first place, already tired of holding her stomach in, but not forgetting that if she relaxed it would spill over the top of her jeans: she could not have that.
She was always aware of her body, even when she was not aware of being aware of her body.
He seemed nice enough, she thought, failing to focus. He had ordered her food for her too. Rocket salad with radishes to start, followed by the fish.
Oh, no. That would not do.
Free-write // 26 Apr 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
The woman waning on the beach.
She lay on the black beach without care of the probability of sand getting into her eyes, the possibility of it getting elsewhere, everywhere. The vodka had loosened her tightly wound self and for the first time in a long time she did not worry about the kind of person she had become or was in the process of becoming. As the moon shone unconditionally onto her bare arms and hair-covered face, she just was.
Before her drink darkened into an intense hangover, she would sleep on that beach, her hands kneading the sand with firm grips, crushing into her fists the care that she had spent the last 12 years building into pent up aggression and anxiety.
That night, she purged her fears and dried her nerves. She slept good and well until the sun rose and reminded her that she was not young and wild and free. Not anymore and not for a long time.
Free-write // 21 Apr 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
The siren in a wool dress.
She tried to be who she knew she was not. She knew he deserved better and she tried and tried and tried to be that for him. No matter, eventually she would swallow him up, break him beyond repair, kill the good heart that beat in his chest, beat away that deafening smile upon his face. It was inevitable and the more she resisted the more pain there would be to be inflicted.
Free-write // 15 April 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
What I could be.
There are moments when I think that I could live up to the standards set before me. I could be a good wife. I could give my husband a son and then a daughter, even a third child, the gender of whom would not be of much importance. I could stay home, making that home beautifully spotless and smelling of freshly baked cookies and pot roasts, depending on the time of day. I would press my husband’s trousers for him to throw them on and wrinkle them in his travels and feel justified in so doing because, after all, he had bought the trousers and the iron. I would tuck the children’s lunches neatly inside brown paper bags with sweet notes that they would shove aside if not swallow up in their mad rush to eat their dessert first, which I had explicitly requested them not to do. I would not grimace at my efforts going unnoticed or carelessly cast aside. Instead, I would wipe down the counters in the kitchen and heave and hove the vacuum across the carpeted living room and dust the furniture in the bedrooms, the polish drying out my hands even under yellow gloves that make empty promises to protect. Perhaps, if I had time, I would have a thought or take an action in favor of myself. But as the years dragged, I would wane as would the time for thinking of myself. A glass of wine would help here and there and, then, some pills would turn the vibrancy up on my picture perfect life.
I would have it all.
There are moments when I think that I could live up to the standards set before me, so lovingly crafted by the patriarchy. Thankfully, these moments are fleeting and few and far between and I return to my complicated (by which I mean upsetting and calm, selfish and giving, confused and driven, loving and guarded, scattered and scarred) mind and equilibrium once again settles in.
Free-write // 15 April 2014
xMAlbright Follow @MAlbrightArt Like fb.com/MAlbrightArt
