Two Blue Shoes

Love letter in prose

2012-02-13T10:00:00.000-06:00

My Dearest Love,

I do not write another letter just to tell you of my feelings.
I do not write another letter just to tell you of my hopes.
I write to tell you that I am well today, as I am every other day that I hear your voice.
I write to tell you that the weather has been okay, but the air is not nearly as warm as when you are near.
But I can also write to tell you that I hope my letter finds you in a joyous state of being.

And so my introduction has been met with all the silly pleasantries, and thus I can write to tell you that without you I am just another acrobat tripping down her tightrope, or at the very least, I am a particle of dust in a windless world.
And yet now, now I would be as the most curious little bird alighting near your window sill all for the treats in the nearby house that have caused me to be so brave in your presence.
And so it is with that that I must tell you that you have captured my heart with your slight persistence, and that dancing glow that leaps in your eyes as laughter trickles from your lips.
And with every passing instance, you make me feel as though every flower in the world could never measure up to the volume of our hearts.

Perhaps this is my most exquisite letter.
And all for you my sweetest darling.

With all my love I must bid you adieu,
but fear not, for my heart's desire of you will never extinguish as shall be the fate of the pen's ink.

Ever yours truly.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

Sometimes you'll fight

2012-02-10T21:12:00.000-06:00

Overreaction
I don’t like the petty arguments,
or the differences that cause such ire.
I don’t like it when we misunderstand,
or when we can’t just work it out.
I don’t like it when I cry,
or when you’re so frustrated.
I don’t like your cold shoulder,
or the way I leave the room.
I don’t want the stupid fights, you know.
I don’t want to cause a rift.
But I’m bad at saying sorry,
or dropping a trivial irritation.
That’s not in my nature, you see.
That’s not how I react.
So sometimes these silly bouts
make me wonder how much you really care.
Just a statement, a fact,
I want you to know,
that leave a bit of fear.
How simply you can turn a cold shoulder,
and how simply I can leave the room.

But even in the end,
I know things will always turn out alright.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2012

Micromanaging your dreams

2012-01-15T09:38:00.000-06:00

Pages of a dream
I dreamt there were bugs everywhere.
They ate at the mattress,
and swarmed across the papers.
They filled the sinks
and covered the ceilings.
I dreamt there were bugs everywhere.
It shocked me awake.
But wouldn’t it be nice
if we could choose our own dreams.
Make a selection
as if they were books,
choosing genres or story lines.
Ones that didn’t bring fear or sweat.
Ones that we didn’t worry
might be true in our waking hours.
Ones that didn’t make us cry.
Wouldn’t it be nice
to pick your dream
right off a shelf,
as if it were just pages that we titled.
Pages turned peacefully
within our dreams.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2012

How to be perfect

2012-01-13T23:42:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I was called energetic. I know at social events I can be what people call "bubbly" or "a social butterfly," and so I've never noticed how energetic I truly am outside of socializing.

When I took my first steps into the publishing world, I thought editing would be my ultimate career—it's something I love, and it's something I'm good at. Yet here I am, two years later, with a career in literary publicity. I love it. (As readers of my blog may know, I'm the publicity director for the small independent publishing company Scarletta Press.)

I'm more passionate about publicity than I've been about any other opportunity in my life. Why? Because it affords me the ability to think outside the box, to see every piece on the chess board as an opportunity, and best of all, to enjoy and to spread the enjoyment of other people's creative works. It only helps that I have a knack for this kind of thing! I'd like to think that eventually owning my own literary publicity firm would be the most wonderful accomplishment, but for now, I'm content.

Yesterday I was called energetic during a phone conference. I've joined up with a small team of entrepreneurs and one writer, a writer that I met not long after taking those first steps into this world. His pen name is Edward Scott Ibur. He has asked me to do the publicity for his debut novel, Teacher of the Year, that will be published this coming June by start up company, December Press. So there you have it, I'm now doing freelance publicity for a book I've so badly wanted to see come to life for quite some time now.

That phone conference went on for two hours, and most of it was a jumble of people talking over each other about crazy-outside-the-box marketing ploys. It was the best phone conference I've ever had in my life. "You're so energetic...you're perfect for this job." And you know what, I don't mind tooting my own horn. I am perfect for this job.

I'm perfect for this job because I'm passionate about this job, and that's the only way to be happy with the every day things that life requires of us.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2012

The color of winter

2012-01-08T14:58:00.001-06:00

The thing I dislike most about winter is how dreary everything always looks. As if killing all the symphonic colors of fall isn't enough, Mother Nature likes to add a bundle of clouds to shelter us in and (usually) a layer of snow which turns to dirty slush. But then I see an untouched field, where the snow has layered in all the right places and the early morning sky glistens at just the right moments, and it reminds me that color isn't everything. And even when you think all the color is gone, something lovely and alone bursts out to say that the symphonies will come again.

The Big Picture

2011-11-29T12:22:00.001-06:00

There will be moments when you nitpick every little thing, just trying to find something that isn't right. You'll go back-and-forth trying to figure out if the grass really is greener on the other side, or if it's just a beautiful mirage. Then, one day, you discover the big picture.

The picture that would be sorely missed were it ever lost. The picture that at one time you searched day and night for just to have in your possession. The picture that shows every grand, lovable fault. The picture that overrides your deepest fears with your deepest passions. The picture that you live for, and could never live without. The picture that tells you that the grass is actually greener right beneath your own two feet.

That's when it all clicks. And you know everything is right—it will always be right. Sure you will always have your fears. But without tasting fear there is a severe lack of risk-taking and learning.

"Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart." — Confucius

I know no other way...

2011-10-30T19:53:00.000-05:00

I love you this way because

I know no other way to love.

I love you in my silence,

and in my tears.

I love you with the voice of reason,

and of nonsense.

I love you without wondering why.

I love you with the knowledge

that the lines that shape your face

will never fail me,

will never waste a sigh.

I love you as I love to write,

as if tracing the letters on your skin.

I love you through the noise of the world

that crashes through my veins.

I love you without speaking the words

as you do.

And even through my deepest fears

I will love you,

because I know no other way to love.

inspired by Pablo Neruda's poem XVII: I don't love you as if you were a rose, the first man to successfully melt my heart, but no longer the only one....

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

Why I write

2011-10-26T12:03:00.000-05:00

I don't write

because I can make

things seem more

beautiful.

I don't write

because I can take

the horrors away from

pain.

I write because the

perfections I've seen

are too much to hold

as just photographs

in my mind.

I write because the

imperfections I've seen

are too much to bear

as just memories

that grow cold.

I write because without

a pencil in hand,

I am lost and confused

in a world of chaos,

a world that sometimes

fails to see

such beauty

as this.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

My house amongst the lilies

2011-10-25T16:49:00.001-05:00

I took mortar.
And I took my bricks.
And where I sat amongst the lilies
was where I put my house.
I cleared it out and made it new.
I built it tall,
and just for me.
And when you called from
such a distance,
there was a howl in your voice.
One I wasn't sure of,
but knew I needed more.
A craving that wouldn't end.

Intoxicating,
like a fast-acting drug
that went straight to my blood stream.
I can't control it.
I try to anticipate each move
just to stay in sync,
without falling through
thin air —
An act in the old story
that I'd rather not relive.

And so I'd gone and hid myself away.
But then to my house
amongst the lilies,
you wrapped your arms around
and crushed it down
until all was as a pulp.
And as you engulfed me,
you managed to kill me
with your kisses.
You knew I wouldn't resist.
You knew I would rather say yes.

Now it's as if I'm fixated.
I see your face
and the crinkles by your eyes,
and I wonder if I can trace them.
How well could I capture them,
and would you even mind?
For in my space
amongst the lilies
I can take all my time
For I know you're ever mine.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

You should know

2011-10-18T16:08:00.000-05:00

I started to redecorate.

I took down all the curtains

and replaced them with

sheer tapestries.

I bought new, soft rugs to cover

the scuff marks in the wood.

I even paid good money

for all new wall decor.

Even the rain that

pitter patters on my window

feels brand-new and fresh,

as it brings the room to life.

So you should know that

these new things

are things I quite adore.

For this is what I gained.

And this is what you lost.

The paint on all your walls

has faded far too much,

and I don't know if I could

further handle its low quality

for any more damn days.

I've rebuilt you see,

with things I quite adore.

And as they say "in with the new,"

I can say it won't include you.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

Wrong from Right

2011-09-23T19:00:00.001-05:00

While I'm practically

in tears of fright

over the whole situation,

somehow I know

I'm happy here.

I'll always question,

and maybe make you

fret with wonder,

but that's just

how I function.

You'll find I'm difficult,

and that I tend to

ask for more than

just a hard bargain,

but the gift has

more than the receipt.

I might just worry

because I can't

see the future,

or I might just

be incapable

of allowing the risk

to sweep me out

from under the rug.

Incapable of letting it

push me into

the dingy sunlight

where what feels

wrong

might actually be

right.

But everything is

still covered in a

thick layer of dust—

an almost impenetrable

layer of dust

with thick trails

of salt.

It's hard to clean

the mess all

on your own,

isn't it?

My refusal to pick

up the broom

hasn't helped you.

But it's only because

I never learned

wrong from right.

I never learned how

to clean the windows

to fully allow

the sunlight entry.

But I'm beginning

to realize how

Cinderella

must have felt

when she

brushed the cinder

from her dress,

and finally took

a step.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

Music that Moves

2011-09-20T12:00:00.003-05:00

Still Silence

2011-09-18T20:19:00.000-05:00

The cinnamon swirls on the top of

the coffee in the yellow mug

during the early

morning hours.

Yesterday's mail lies

unopened on the counter

as I sit in contemplation,

not really feeling the

urge to read the news.

My mind is in another world.

One that's black and white,

with less confusion

and more intrigue.

An antithesis to say the least.

But it makes me wonder

where you are and where

you've been.

If you opened the mail

and read the news,

or drank a cup of coffee

on the porch,

and if we'll ever meet

again.

The cinnamon swirls on the top of

the coffee in the yellow mug

as I sip the

now lukewarm contents.

The clock ticks

lazily on the living room wall

as I wonder aloud,

knowing the silence

will keep all my secrets.

My heart seems lost in fixations.

Ones that come and go,

with more confusion

and less intrigue.

Just some mischances to say the least.

But it makes me wonder

where you are and where

you've been.

If you looked at the clock

and thought about time,

or drank a cup of coffee

in pure silence,

and if we'll ever meet

again.

So still,

the cinnamon swirls on the top of

the coffee in the yellow mug

during the early

morning hours.

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

learn to lose; learn to love

2011-08-04T00:33:00.001-05:00

I've always wondered what it would be like to have to tape myself back together. I've always put out this persona - this outward appearance - that I'm not really affected by emotional extremes. In fact, I've never liked PDE (public displays of emotion). I cried in public in 2002, and then went 6 years without crying in front of anyone. I hate the way crying makes me feel, as if I've been drained of all my energy and my face has become puffy, dirty, & dry feeling. Even though everyone has them, I can't stand being emotional.

Yet, in the past few months, I've learned a very important lesson: you can't pick up the broken pieces of your life on your own, nor should you be expected to. You're always going to miss a couple shards if you try alone. Besides, the tape appears to be more durable if you have someone there beside you. I guess this is why you're not supposed to give up on love.

I'm afraid to let anyone else in that close to my emotions again, but I'm more afraid to linger on pieces that I can't pick up on my own - the pieces that I miss with my fragile tape - the pieces that are remnants of emotions that crushed me to a pulp.

...Such pain as this
Shouldn't have to be experienced
I'm still reeling from the loss,
Still a little bit delirious...

I'm not quite ready to move on. I'm not quite ready to let all my old feelings go. Maybe I'll never have to, but I'm almost there. I know that some day, hopefully sooner than later, I'll find something.

...I'm battle scarred, I am working oh so hard
To get back to who I used to be...

...Near to you, I am healing
But it's taking so long
'Cause though he's gone
And you are wonderful
It's hard to move on...

lyrics from "Near to You" by A Fine Frenzy
writing © Desiree Bussiere 2011

a fence

2011-07-17T19:05:00.001-05:00

you're only trapped if all you see is the fence that blocks your path

states of wonder

2011-07-17T18:43:00.001-05:00

Through life we experience states of wonder, and not always in the same order, for each passing event or chance meeting.

1. We wonder because there is a state of change.

Wonder (noun): rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one's experience

2. We wonder because there is a state of pain.

Wonder (verb): to be in a state of wonder; to feel curiosity or doubt

3. We wonder because there is a state of 'next.'

Wonder (adj.): effective or efficient far beyond anything previously known or anticipated

The state of wondering is what leads to the state of learning. I'm not really one for surprises, or turn of events type deals, but sometimes we just have to take what comes at us. That is how we learn. We especially learn from things that cause us pain. We learn to walk after we've been broken down. We learn to start again even if it grows out of the bleakest prospects. We learn to replace the pain, the emotional and thus the physical, and put what's bleak behind us. Even if we don't believe it's possible. And with that we will never cease to be amazed by the wonders that plague us, and the wonders that then grow in their place.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

Things I've learned

2011-06-02T15:13:00.004-05:00

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. — 1 John 1:9

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. — Matthew 11:28-30

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take. — Proverbs 3:5-6

I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you. — Matthew 17:20

where I stand to where I am

2011-05-31T08:46:00.002-05:00

“After all these years, I am still involved in the process of self-discovery. It's better to explore life and make mistakes than to play it safe. Mistakes are part of the dues one pays for a full life.” —Sophia Loren

I don't know what it is about New York City, but it makes me feel like a brand new person. It makes me realize the differences between who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. That sounds corny, I know, but truly New York was one of the first places where I really discovered my identity. New York City, as crazy as it seems, is my Walden--the best possible place for my self-discovery.

I'm not the person I had started to grow into and had wanted to be when I left NYC last summer. I'm not far from what I wanted, but I've drifted off the path a bit. I've made decisions to satisfy other people, and not myself. I've let go of dreams that I knew I'd always wanted. I've not experienced something new everyday as I said I would. The thought that I could stray from my own identity all for other people has left me feeling discontent and stressed to the max.

I've needed to rethink some of my choices as of late, and my two-week stint in the city has given me just what I needed. I haven't been sure what to do for months now, but I'm suppose to never really know what is right. I'm suppose to make these mistakes. I'm human, after all, and every bit of trial-and-error will make, break, and shape me.

I'm not certain if the paths I'm ready to take are the right ones, and I don't even know if in the end, when the time comes, they'll be the ones I actually choose. What I am certain of is that I've spent too much time playing an inactive role in my own life, and something needs to be done. The relationships I've formed in just two weeks have taught me that if I'm unhappy, I need to be the force of change. I need to be the person I want to be, and not the person that makes everyone else happy.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

Does it last in love or hurt instead?

2011-05-16T23:38:00.004-05:00

I once told a random stranger a sad love story. A love story that didn't have an ending yet. It wasn't a way to seek advice; it was just a story I happened to tell. But that unfinished story took that avenue of approach and received this in return:

"What good is the relationship if it becomes more stressful than happy?"

It's a question that now haunts me because I can't figure out the correct answer. You can't just end something because it stresses you out. Doing that makes you a quitter. Relationships take work, a fact we're often told, and sometimes that work is more stressful than happy. So then maybe the question should be rephrased.

"Is the outcome of what you are working towards worth the stress?"

What if the outcome happens and it's not what you expected, or maybe it's not what you want at all. Does this mean you move on, or do you try another route--stay and strive for compromise? After all, we've always been told to try, try again if at first we don't succeed. I've always wondered if a limit existed for this saying, or if a person is just expected to try past the point of exhaustion. So perhaps this is where hope has to come into play.

"Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today." — Thich Nhat Hanh

Without hope, or the promise of a better tomorrow, it will always be stressful. So how do you know when something isn't worth the hope anymore? How do you know when something is meant to be let go if it doesn't tell you straight forward? And when you do know, how do you release it without hurting yourself?

I can't answer these questions. I don't know how because I don't know where the answers are; I only can find more questions. I don't even know if these are the right questions. So maybe the stress isn't caused by the relationship, but rather by the questions and feelings we submit ourselves to for the sake of the relationship. All because we don't want to give up. All because we don't want to lose.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

Fragile Hearts

2011-05-09T20:42:00.004-05:00

I'm not a very religious person. I mean I believe in God, and I grew up attending church. I still go to most holiday services, and I do pray--not all the time--but I pray. It seems to me that more often than not, people choose to believe in higher powers as a means to find comfort in this unforgiving world. Sometimes people need a little bit more strength to make it through each day. I get that.

I too find it comforting to pray when I'm down-and-out, frustrated, stricken beyond belief, et cetera, et cetera. But it's also at these fragile moments of life when I question why God made things the way He did. If there is one thing I don't understand, it's why He made our hearts so fragile. Why give us something that can break so easily? We're human, after all, and we tend to break easier than expected.

Feeling as if your heart is being shattered in two (or four or twelve or 187 pieces) is not a pleasant experience. In fact, heartache is the worst pain I can ever imagine experiencing. It's worse than choking on a square piece of hard candy. It's worse than breaking an arm. It's worse than slicing off a chunk of your pinky. It's worse than falling into a shallow pool with only rocks to break your fall. No pain, no matter how mind-numbing, could ever top heartache. It's a pain I would wish upon no one. In all honesty, I'd rather be heartless than know this experience.

I suppose I'm not really sure why I was given such a fragile thing to tend to.
I do my best to keep my tough exterior strong without any breaks in the chains, but sometimes I get tired, and I fail to keep either my heart pent up or the wolves out. Other times, I fail to hear my head through all the noise, and I end up listening to my heart. Yet, there is no sense in listening to something that can't even protect itself from the tiniest of cuts. Why put such a thing in our bodies, and then give it a voice of its own, when all it does is eventually lead to trouble?

Is it possible that God left out a key ingredient during creation? Did He do this for everyone's hearts? Or did He accidentally make just my fragile heart with an extra dose of fragile? How can I be expected to protect something that's apparently meant to be broken? He didn't make me strong enough for that. It's not fair to give me something this fragile and then make me incapable of safeguarding it, because eventually I'll run away from the pain. Then all the pieces will come crashing down in the middle of the floor and no one will be there to pick up the train wreck caused by such a fragile lump we call a heart. And that is how I'd rather be...heartless.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

I keep watching the distance

2011-04-30T13:59:00.002-05:00

More than a few miles
The clouds look nice today,
Changing shapes with each bit of breeze.
Almost fake, but in a nice sort of way.
The clouds are never the same,
Coming and going.
And you…
You’re more than just a few miles away,
But you do the same,
Changing with each passing glance.
I never know which way to look
Or where to find you
Maybe that explains the loneliness
How else do I put into words the aching
Empty pit that replaced my stomach?
I’m on my own.
I have been for more than just a few miles.
My yellow shoes are all worn down.
The steps I take sink deeper as I go.
I’ve been more than just tired
For quite some time now.
Maybe if I rest here,
Then you’ll find me instead.
I’ll be the one watching the clouds
Pass overhead.
All because they remind me of you
And the few miles between.

Silence

2011-04-27T20:04:00.001-05:00

When I speak

I'm tiptoeing across a

field of eggshells wearing

all the wrong camouflage.

I don't dare voice my thoughts

for fear

of losing them in this

crowded white space.

They're all I have now,

so I'll fiercely protect them.

And I'll hide them deep

in a dusty corner

locked up and impenetrable.

That is how I keep

myself whole.

Each egg shell carefully

wrapped with tape so

the cracks are barely visible,

hiding everything

that has become nothing.

It's wrong, all wrong.

None of it is full

or good.

Just an empty casing,

hollow of months of work.

White shells that are so easily broken.

This is why I hold

my tongue.

Somehow I ended up stuck

in the middle of this field,

where everything looks the same

and nothing is heard

except the sound of ripping tape.

The ones that matter get you through

2011-04-15T15:12:00.000-05:00

waves

2011-04-07T09:18:00.001-05:00

I don't need you to sweep me off my feet or catch me when I fall.
I need you to stand in the water with me--to steady me when the tide goes out.

Photography & Writing
© Desiree Bussiere 2011

fairy tales are lies

2011-04-02T12:43:00.000-05:00

"Some days are worse than others when I can't hear your voice. Sometimes I wonder if you're real, and then my feelings and thoughts become more confused. So this is love? Well then, what a nuisance love can be."

I stopped believing in fairy tales several years ago. Nothing really happens like it does in the books. There are no towers. People are too afraid of heights and crumbling foundations. There are no knights. If there are any knights, their armor is more grimy than it is shiny. Besides, you can't trust something that canters around on an expensive steed making wild claims of chivalry.

So you learn to build your own fortress, one with tiers of reinforcements and a moat to boot. You learn to rescue yourself. You keep out the emotions that attempt to break down your boarded up doors and windows. You've learned to keep every emotion in check until you're sure no one is around. You understand that true love, like that of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Philip, doesn't actually exist. You don't believe the hype.

Sure, along the way, some patches need to be made to your fortress. You patch up the little holes where people attempted to break in. Sometimes, you almost allow people to walk through the gate, but then you catch yourself and shut it in their face. You've learned to trust only yourself, and you struggle to keep that in your control. And then, somehow, almost miraculously, you meet someone.

You meet someone who, instead of attempting to break into your fortress, coaxes you out into the unforgiving and unprotected world beyond the moat. And you finally decide it's okay to let your guard down and trust someone else once in a while. You forget about the upkeep on your carefully built fortress, and you almost don't mind as you see it crumbling from afar. You think it must be okay because you're not within its walls anyway. You learn that love could be a real thing, and you make the decision to finally take a risk. Your fortress was more important than you realized, because now you're stuck in a flood and have finally become the damsel in distress you never wanted to be.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

because sometimes you just have to leave

2011-04-02T09:52:00.000-05:00

What gets you going

2011-03-11T17:53:00.001-06:00

I absolutely love her voice--so real, so raw. I just find it so moving, especially the video.

We become like strangers

2011-03-08T23:06:00.001-06:00

The winter weather honestly brings out the worst in me. I'm not satisfied with decisions. I'm second-guessing every detail. The thought of going out with friends is rarely on my mind. The lousiest of all is that I start imagining worst-case scenarios for everything that makes me happy. When I'm in one of my "wintry" moods, I'm not me. It's easy for anyone who knows me, good friends or acquaintances, to see that I'm more of a stranger in the winter months compared to spring, summer or fall. In fact, sometimes I hardly recognize the changes in myself--and they're different every year.

I didn't recognize me.

I pulled my hair back today

And I looked different.

I pulled it back

so I could see

but then I couldn't see me.

Something else had settled there.

Amidst the lines and

freckled dots

I wasn't whom I thought I was.

A complete stranger

in the mirror.

I thought these tired eyes

must have had enough

but I looked again,

in a mirror three,

and I just wasn't there.

Some fine brown strings

lay curved around my jaw

and my eyebrows managed a

different line,

but my lips sat firm, closed, not taut,

as if on the verge of speaking.

My eyes had a slight tint to them.

A color I've never noticed.

I had to turn away.

I looked away.

I couldn't stand the thought

of being different.

This isn't me.

I wanted more than ever to

go back--

Not pull my hair back.

Not see the changes hidden there.

Not recognize my differences

from what I was to what I am

amidst my brain of

new ideas.

© Desiree Bussiere 2011

Too Reality

2011-03-03T19:14:00.005-06:00

Reality strikes like a snake in your heel;
a venomous itch you can’t ignore
All just to say
This isn’t a fairytale

anymore.

A little apple tree that dies a bit before each
blooming spring.
It can’t escape the winters
that stunt growth and
lock its roots in a place of

nothing.

Too out of touch to feel
What’s missing—
A flower, a laugh, a song from
the mockingbird that’s moved away—
All because of a dead poison that
Whispers nothing but sweet nothings
About

[this is] Reality

Copyright © Desiree Bussiere 2011

White Noise

2011-02-09T20:00:00.002-06:00

It'd be awful if the

whole world were white,

in a fog,

and I couldn't see

anything,

not even you.

Just a mesmerizing and distant laugh.

A memory too faint to really grasp.

A cloud that altered

it's shape far too

fast for me to

guess.

But yet we're still stuck in white.

So thick, not

even a melodious strum

of a guitar

played on the corner

of 1st and 9th

could cut through the

noise.

I'd be forced to put my mind at play,

and let it run away

like they told me not to do,

all for a brief reprieve,

an escape,

if you will.

News! News! News!

2011-02-09T10:13:00.000-06:00

I've decided to do a daily thought everyday on this blog. Sometimes it might be just a random thought that I find funny, or it might be a fact of the day, or possibly something new that you didn't know about me. WHO KNOWS! The sky, as they say, is the limit. Oh, but that's silly...someone will eventually give that a limit with all the technological advances these days. So I'm going to say the dark space we've yet to explore out there is, you got it, limitless.

Check it out over there -------->

Also, check out the Scarletta Press blog for news on great books by a small, and THRIVING, independent press in Minneapolis (and I work at it!).

New faces come, but don't always go

2011-01-05T20:21:00.000-06:00

I like to think that I'm easy to get along with. I don't complain often, and when I do, it's usually concerning something trivial. I end up taking tasks and burdens upon myself so as to not cause unnecessary irritation. But I am picky. I like things done a certain way--usually because I want to make sure things are done correctly--and that alone can be a turnoff to some people.

Yet, I know I can't do everything myself, and that is how the people I care most about in the world come into play in my life. I once read that friendship isn't a big thing, it is instead, one million little things. Thinking about this, I've realized that my quantity of close friends has shrunk in the past couple of years, but my choice in friends has grown more qualitative.

I shouldn't say that I am picky, or even that I consciously choose my friends. I more or less gravitate towards people who have similar strengths as me: independent, good-humored, stable people. I like knowing I am surrounded by people I can be proud to call a friend, people I can talk seriously with, and people I can be entertained with and by.

Over the years, I've grown away from some of these friends. The forks in our paths just didn't circle back together fully. I miss them, and irreplaceable as they may be, I've met others that meet my need for affection.

That being said, when a good friend does come along, it is hard to ever truly say goodbye. So I cherish the memories I've made with these friends and I go on knowing myself a little better, even when we have to part ways (if just for a short while).

Some people I've come to know and love more recently, and some people who continue to make a difference in my life:

Parallel to Pablo

2010-12-22T17:15:00.000-06:00

I like it when it Rains

It's as if the world were melting

And the earth became like new

I like it when it Rains

And all I can hear is the

Sound of the drops

Beating a pattern on our roof.

Each and every other sound

Disappears in the shower

Creating a solitude or two,

Bending and testing the

Flexibility of this

Understanding silence.

I like it when it Rains

And the water puddles form

Where the mirrored bits of

Your laughter strike a ripple

Or three.

I like it when it Rains

It's as if the world were melting

And we disappeared with it

As the world became like new.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Tying knots in my laces

2010-12-01T05:44:00.001-06:00

Bootlaces

The dream spills outward,

Waking me from an agony I can't ignore.

The boots I'm lacing up

this morning are probably

a facade.

One caked in dirt and dead leaves;

the muddiness of a guilty conscience.

Once again I let it

soak in.

And the puddle I know

I'll step in this afternoon

will only pretend to

wash it all away,

then dry up with every other tear.

Your inspiration is my smile,

so you say.

Your "Bright Star" in true

Keats fashion.

It causes a dilemma

that runs away with

my imagination,

threatening to turn me

upside-down

in a whirlwind sort of style.

And suddenly I'm not so sure

if I should make a change &

lace these boots another way,

or if I should continue

on with old routines

that will eventually cause

broken ankles

on rocky, slippery slopes.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Restless hearts

2010-11-28T22:37:00.001-06:00

A Woman's Shortcomings by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried -
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling;
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
From her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving;
But her silence says - what she never will swear -
And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries -
But dare not call it loving!

Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" -
Oh, fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past -
Oh, never call it loving!

Recipes

2010-11-16T18:50:00.001-06:00

As I clicked through some old photos on my computer, I came across some that reminded me of my best friend in high school. Even though I still consider her to be one of my best friends several years later, our interactions are not like they used to be. After high school, we went in completely different directions for college, and chose different lifestyles. Slowly, over the course of our freshman year, we drifted further and further apart, only maximizing the physical distance that was already between us.

I've come to the conclusion that friendships, or maybe any relationship for that matter, are like recipes. A solid friendship from secondary school is similar to the family recipe your grandmother hands to your mother, and your mother then hands to you. With each preparation, the recipe changes; with each passing year, the dynamics of the friendship changes.

As I sit here wilting away

I drift into a lilting scenario

of bygones being bygones.

I play the movie

in my head,

and miss the

times we laughed

at our own stupidity

and inside jokes.

Black-and-white moments

of memories

stuck in a photographic mode.

That's a reality to ponder

in sequence.

The purple clock ticks

on the wall above

the desk,

eliminating the silence

of yesterday.

I continue to ponder

where you went,

or maybe it was me,

or both, that left.

The simple chance

that we aren't the same

as several years ago.

We can relearn our ways,

but the fact remains

that the recipe

for our monster

sugar cookies

continues to change.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Missing Minneapolis

2010-11-10T21:59:00.003-06:00

Photography
© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Self-realization

2010-11-03T20:23:00.001-05:00

"Veni, Vidi, Vici" (I came, I saw, I conquered) - Julius Caesar to Rome & the Senate, 47 B.C

I've been thinking lately about what it means to be successful. At my age, it seems silly to be thinking about how successful I am. I have plenty of time to conquer every goal I have--to beat every obstacle in my path. These thoughts come while I'm at yet another army training course: Officer Candidate School (OCS).

This course has so far been one of the most difficult challenges of my life, physically that is. The classroom instruction is not mentally as taxing as basic training...yet. I could easily compare that to Advanced training or maybe even some fast-paced college courses. Everyday is more of a struggle of "do I really want to be here? Do I really want to further my army career and become an officer?" Everyday I remind myself of how proud I was on the day of my initial enlistment, and how much more proud I will be when I commission--how proud my parents, my family, my army friends, and regular friends will be.

Julius Caesar, although in a completely different context, had the right frame of mind. I've conquered many challenges in my life, and I want to continue conquering challenges. I find it satisfying. I would not be content without a challenge to face; I would not be who I am today if I hadn't pressed myself to come, see, and conquer many times over.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Separation Anxiety

2010-10-24T21:11:00.003-05:00

Being in the army, I have to go away a lot for long periods of time. Communication with the outside world slows. I should be used to it by now, but this time seems harder than ever.

Your lips graze the back of my hand.
Your fingers wind their way to interlocking with mine.
Pulling your arm tightly around my waist,
I breathe in your cologne.
The deep cinnamon-like scent fills my lungs
as I rest my forehead against your chest.

Remembering the smells and feelings
as you hold me tighter.
I live in the memory--
--the moment--
when I last felt your touch.
Now all I can hear is your voice
through the phone.
And I can't handle the distance.
It hurts, physically, to miss you this way.
I need you.
I need everything about you
because without you I ache
with a loss I've never known before.
Worse than any loss before,
this takes everything and blinds me
with tears.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

My way

2010-10-12T22:54:00.003-05:00

We can't always have our way, but I'd really like it if I could...

If I had my way

I don’t like it when you leave.
A part of me goes with you

And I just can’t function

Without it or you.

I’m not the same you might say.

I’d rather be wrapped in your arms

Standing in the drive

For hours

Than watch you open the white car door

And see you drive away.

I know you’ll be back

It’s really not an issue.

I just don’t like it when you leave.

Everything goes with you.

Bits of your cologne

And the feel of your right hand

In the small of my back

Just don’t last long enough

To make up for the absence.

The time lost.

It’s a misery I unwillingly deal with

As I tuck myself into bed.

I don’t like it when you leave.

Permanently, I’d rather have you stay.

I missed you even when I didn't know you.

2010-10-04T21:55:00.001-05:00

This is what it feels like.
An infatuation,
to say the least.
But more.
I quite enjoy the rush
when you make these
innocent implications
concerning you and I together.
I don't mind.
I find more pleasure
in the small connections
to you
than I do in any
other wishful situation.
You talk as if you
know me,
and you perceive
the little things
that make me tick
like the hands of the
purple clock
that hangs on the wall.
And you're the one
who patched the hole
in the tire of my
green bicycle.
You came in the nick
of time to save me
from myself
and the damage
previously done.

I didn't know it felt like this.

Take a lesson from this pup...

2010-10-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

'Tis the season...

2010-10-03T20:33:00.002-05:00

My favorite season that is. Fall is a magical part of the year. It's a beautiful time when the air begins to cool (this year it's more welcome than most), the leaves begin to change and fall, and the smell in the air begins to grow crisp. To describe it so simply: it's perfect.

There's no better season to enjoy a trip to the apple orchards, a bike ride through a park, or a hike through the woods. This time of the year is when I find myself sitting on wooden benches under trees next to open meadows or glassy ponds--toting with me nothing less than my camera, a book, & a pen and notepad. The contentment I live most for exists right in these moments, these beautiful, refreshing, quiet moments.

Every drifting leaf reminds me to quell the chaos of everyday life and just breathe.

Photography & Writing
© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Corner of your heart

2010-09-22T21:49:00.002-05:00

I'll write a song for you.
I'll paint it on a wall for everyone to see.

And they'll all say,
"So this is love?"

It will stay intact through wear and tear,

And it will be as if we never were apart.

Photography & Writing
© Desiree Bussiere 2010

With these hands

2010-09-20T23:20:00.001-05:00

Two years ago my dad's side of the family experienced heartache that knew no bounds at the time of incident. My gramps died of cancer, and one week later my grandmama followed him to heaven in her sleep. It was heartbreaking, and although I dislike crying I thought the tears would never stop flowing.

I was the last in my family to hear about grandpa's cancer and his projected time to live. In January of 2008, I joined the Minnesota Army National Guard, and left for basic training at the end of May. Basic isn't as bad as you think, but the letters and the every now and again five-minute phone call home really keeps you going. With one week left, I received a letter from my mom (no surprise; I received one almost every day from her), but it was extra long because it was the final one she sent. That letter held the news of grandpa's illness along with an explanation of why they didn't tell me sooner: no one wanted to distract me from my training. Although I fully understand and would not change their decision, I can't help but feel resentment as I had less time than anyone else.

I came home and immediately visited my grandparents. At first I was afraid to go near gramps. He was so frail and I couldn't handle seeing him in such a state. But it didn't take me long to get past this, and I soon found myself at his bedside holding his hand as he slept. And as I held that hand I felt the strength that still coursed through it. Gramps was an upholsterer; he spent his whole life working with his hands. While his body--his organs, his veins, his bones--failed him, his hands remained stronger than ever. I will never forget the feel of that strength.

Through my experiences with them and with their deaths I've written several poems, but never one about my grandpa's hands. I felt it was a memory for just me to cherish, but I realize that if I never write down my memory it will eventually be forgot. So here's to you grandpa, and the strength you gave through your hands.

Your Hand In Mine
I sit beside you in this hot, busy room.
The energy buzzes around you.
You barely move--
You're as still as a cloudless sky.
I've stared helplessly for more than a good minute.
My eyes search your face--your body language--for any recognition.
I try to hold myself together
While I wonder if I'm the one stuck in still life,
But I fear to touch you to find out.
I fear how easy it appears to accidentally
Break your already fragile frame.
The palm of your hand faces up,
and so I gently place mine in yours.

As much as I have to say my words stay behind my lips,
Suffocating my body with their pain.
I close my eyes and gasp as tears trickle from the corners.
At that moment, nothing matters but your hand.
Your fingertips twitch against my wrist
Until your hand fully clasps mine
and a string of recognition forms in your veins.
Your strength courses through me
And your hand,
the same hand that I held for eighteen years,
Teaches me to speak the words that fill my throat.
Your hand brings me back to the moment
Your face, so still, hasn't changed.
Your hands, still strong, tell your story.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

If I were a Shakespeare

2010-09-11T08:16:00.004-05:00

Someone once told me that when you fall in love, your writing gets progressively worse. It becomes sappy, and always ends up focusing on just one thing: the other person. When you fall in love, 'me' becomes 'we;' you find yourself only thinking, talking, dreaming of the other and nothing else.

Writing, then, would not provide me with any comfort if I were to write only for one other person. I could not be like Shakespeare with his sonnets or Petrarch with his sestinas. Even the love letters of Lord Byron or Alexander Pope offer up something different each time. But I could never write if my focus was so narrow--my boredom would get the better of me, and I would end up reading one of my Vanity Fair magazines instead.

I think I would write short and to the point, and only if something had seriously moved me.

When Hearts Break

A leaf fell from the tree and landed in the river.

It settled for a moment, letting the ripples subside.

Then it drifted away with a tug on my heart.

Then again, if I were to fall in love, I don't even know if I could say the words that portrayed my emotions. I've always been a writer--and I write out my important thoughts before I speak them. I never feel very articulate when I speak before writing. I find myself stumbling over words that hold importance because I'm speaking too fast--trying to collect my thoughts before I forget the point of my sentence. (Okay, it's not THAT bad.)

So maybe a love letter, one that's short and to the point wouldn't be so bad.

Love Letter

If I were to write you a love letter, it would be short and to the point. There would be no sappy lines comparing thee to a rose. It would not drag with insignificant details. I would not talk about your hair.

Instead, I’d tell you I love nothing more than the company you provide (and no less). And when you’re gone I feel slightly emptier inside. I’d inform you of the heat that spreads through my veins at the sound of your voice. I’d declare my wish to have you at my side—so I could never forget your face.

If I were to write you a love letter, it would be no longer than a page. So many words can’t express how I feel; the act of writing should speak for itself.

If I were to write you a love letter, it might be this. It might be this and a piece of my heart, because I can’t send you a letter without sending something of me as well.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

You carry my heart...

2010-09-06T12:25:00.005-05:00

My sister, Alyssa, is now married. She no longer carries the surname "Bussiere;" instead, she holds the name "Kelsey." And so where there were two Bussiere girls left in our little family, there is now one. How weird to think of her as actually legally bound to another person, even if it is Brad.

I love that I have a brother-in-law (or officially and finally can call him so). As Alyssa walked those long-awaited steps down the aisle, it took a huge effort and a few steadying breaths for me not to cry. Her beauty was above and beyond that of a bride--and the look in her eyes as they could only hold Brad made for a perfect moment. She positively glowed, and Brad could do nothing but stare at his glorious bride.

Their love for each other is something to envy. How amazing and perfect they are together. I have never seen a more beautiful bride who carries her lover's heart and he the same.

^^ © Desiree Bussiere 2010

I Carry Your Heart by E.E. Cummings
I carry your heart with me
(I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it
(Anywhere I go, you go m'dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate
(For you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world
(For beautiful, you are my world. My true)
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.

I carry your heart
(I carry it in my heart)

Foreshadowing

2010-09-05T22:37:00.001-05:00

Through my experiences with writing, whether it's a journal entry, a short story, or a poem, I've noticed that I tend to foreshadow the small events in my life. Sometimes it deals with feelings; other times it's an actual event that occurs. For example, early this past July I wrote a (very) short spoken word piece about relationships falling apart. I didn't look back at it again until just a couple weeks ago, but what I had written had ended up being the truth a month after the said writing took place.

I can't help but wonder if I had caused the event by writing about it, or if somewhere in my brain or my heart I knew what was coming. I started looking at other things I've written, and I've noticed other moments of foreshadowing as well. So here's to you foreshadowing, whether you're a figment of imagination or the real deal:

Perhaps my words will outlast what they describe.

An eloquent speech may just as well

Be useless

In the end.

But in this conversational space

I’ve written my own foreshadowings.

With each word I’ve

Developed a jigsaw puzzle of over

One thousand pieces.

A twisted story

Around my pinkie finger,

And nothing like the

Yellow brick road with its

Desirable end point.

It’s futile to attempt unscrambling

The phrases

Into something understandable.

You have a look of concentration

And I assume something of

Anticipation,

So I’ll twiddle my thumbs

While you float in thought.

There’s no need for alarm

In this situation

Because the only sound

Is that of the page

Turning itself

As I continue to write these

Foreshadowings.

I talk to myself.

2010-08-16T23:43:00.001-05:00

I've come to the conclusion that everyone talks to themselves. (I know you are shaking your head right now, but you're in denial.) People talk to themselves all the time; most of it just stays silent--inside their heads. It serves as a way to clear one's head, to figure things out, and pull it together. So people talk aloud in their sleep, while studying, when cleaning, and especially while driving.

Car Talk

That’s what happens when I drive.

I begin the conversation with myself.

A dialogue that has me dwelling on forbidden topics or possibly decrepit ideas.

I allow myself, for an instant, to overanalyze minute details of incidents and moods.

I think about the past,

And dwell on how things should have happened or what things could have been said.

I begin the conversation with a need to organize my thoughts.

That’s what happens when I drive.

Broken things—relationships, ideas, choices—seem easier to fix

When I’m driving and talking.

I let the rain drum upon the windshield and see the occasional swipe of wipers.

And as I go for two and some hours,

I plow through several scenarios.

I listen for someone else’s voice,

But all I hear is

The conversation I began with myself.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

When hope goes

2010-08-13T14:10:00.000-05:00

There's something about the absence of hope
that makes you die a little on the inside.
And when every chance at hope then disappears,
everything shuts down at once.
Nothing Compares.
Even the faith that your heart registered begins to
falter at such realizations of ultimate loss.
You didn't win that game of solitaire,
and your feet failed at kickball.
But you can't take more than one
chance at redemption.
And so move on...
Try your hand at something new.
Try to find new hope--
A different kind.
One that feels safe.
One that forgets past hopes.
One that renews your dreams.
And then put yourself on repeat.

The next disappointment is unexpected.
Another empty feeling.
Because you forced yourself to already
forget what losing hope feels like.
Again you'll try the rewind button,
but the second chance again won't matter.
Once more, you'll move on.
Put yourself on repeat.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

While we wait

2010-08-09T22:38:00.003-05:00

Wait. As humans, we wait. Everyone waits. We go through each moment of our lives waiting. When we are little, we know nothing about the concept of waiting--each moment comes and goes and we live comfortably in each moment without thinking about the next or the last--and so our parents do the waiting for us. They wait for us to crawl, to walk, to speak, to tie our shoes, to learn to read, etc. As we grow, as our brains develop, we begin to wait on our own. We wait for the next play date with the neighbor's kids, for the first day of school, or for the next big holiday with all those gifts. We continue growing and waiting. We wait to move from preteen to teen, and to learn to drive and receive our license at age 16. We wait to graduate high school, to be considered an adult, to attend college, and to fall in love.

We spend our lives waiting--always waiting--for the next best thing, but we also spend our lives (usually subconsciously) dreading the next worse thing. The next worst thing might be a test grade (thinking you did poorly), or a confrontation you have to make (maybe someone wronged you or vice versa), or a fear you have to face (a circus clown, a dark room full of spiders, an airplane trip). But it is not the dreaded thing itself that causes such agitation, it is the act of waiting for the dreaded thing that causes the agitation. Once the dreaded thing has passed, so does the agitation because we are no longer waiting, no longer anticipating the worst.

When we anticipate something, good or bad, the wait seems to drag and drag, as if what we wait for refuses to come near. Anxiety or impatience only increases as the waiting period continues. So we may spend our lives waiting in anxiety, fear, impatience, bliss, or ignorance, but while we wait, the memories of the present slip through our fingers. While we wait, the present becomes the past and we forget how to enjoy a moment.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

De-Constructing Beauty

2010-08-08T16:37:00.004-05:00

I sat and watched the spider.

I watched it weave its web.

A web built only for beautiful destruction but woven with such care.

I watched the spider weave.

I watched as every hook was made and every line crocheted.

I watched in terrible awe and admired with passion the silver lace the spider handled with such expertise.

I sat so still and saw.

I saw the spider never cease the handiwork.

I saw the tenderness in the adept spider’s legs.

The spider’s legs that worked tirelessly to keep the web intact, starting at the core and working on every slight tear.

Each tear was barely visible—only the spider noticed.

When everything was fixed, the spider waited.

Waited to trap the flies.

Waited to protect her web.

Waited.

The spider waited with vigilance.

The spider waited until the storm hit.

The storm that blew through trees and knocked twigs about.

Twigs that came crashing and ripping through the taut lines of the web.

The web built with such care left the spider clinging for life on a single line after a single storm.

I watched the spider.

I watched the spider rebuild its web.

The web built only for beautiful destruction.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Now Testing: Moral Integrity

2010-08-05T12:01:00.002-05:00

"Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful" - Samuel Johnson

The truth is awful. The truth hurts, and so we lie. We lie to protect; we lie to benefit; we lie to live easier. The truth was not, is not, and will never be easy. As humans we have tendencies to live our lives in error. It is when we begin to seek the truth that our lives fall apart. And the only way to rebuild is by sifting through the slush pile of lies. What we find is never pretty. What we find is a tangled mess of weighted truths and misguided communication. The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple (Oscar Wilde).

But when we know an ultimate truth--a truth that has the power to change--when do we tell it? Appropriate times don't exist; people will hurt no matter when the truth is told. Sometimes when we tell the truth it is not another that ends up hurting, but ourselves. In such situations, our moral integrity encourages us to say something, but the law of exchange encourages us to keep quiet. Why tell the truth when there is no concrete benefit, only disadvantages?

Moral integrity, the sake of our long-term reputations--this is why we tell the truth. If I tell the ultimate truth, no matter how arduous it may be, I will only feel pain for a short time. The short and slight amount of pain is nothing in comparison to what happens through silence. The truth may be violated by falsehood, but it is outraged by silence. If I never were to tell my ultimate truth, the guilt of it would only weigh on me and eventually cut me deep enough that I crack. The knowledge I hold in the matter could change lives, could change decisions, but my knowledge means nothing without my integrity.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Inspiration from a master

2010-08-02T23:44:00.002-05:00

(This one was written at some point in Fall 2009. As I read through my poetry clips today, I remembered how much I love it.)

Cause of Death at 4:01 AM

What’s it like to paint your eyes?

I dream of it being like

The skies

Or how about your lips?

The red apple pouting on your face

And the drink in your hand tasted

With small sips

I imagine the rouge I’d use to flush your skin with color.

You, who are like no other,

My painful desire flaunting

Away with another.

It is not interesting to paint myself.

My inner disparities die in the mixings.

The strokes don’t match the lines.

My fingers shake

I cannot paint you

But I can paint for you, yet

You’ll never notice.

You’re like no other.

You, with the red lips and cloudy eyes,

Are the siren of my fate.

I die by the drink in your hand.

© Desiree Bussiere 2009

Talking about love

2010-08-02T15:44:00.001-05:00

Readers of my blog or friends in my life might already be familiar with this detail: I'm my sister's Maid of Honor on September 4th. I can't believe her and Brad are finally getting hitched! I love my sister and I'm excited for her to start the hike down this new path called marriage. I'm glad to be able to officially welcome Brad as my brother-in-law. He makes my sister happy, which is what I want to see for her.

As the Maid of Honor, I'm expected to make a toast and give a speech. A speech that brings both laughter and tears of joy to every attendee. A speech that declares love is all the happy couple will ever need. A speech that tells my sister how much I love her, and how happy I am for her. Writing about how I envision my speech is the easy part, actually writing the speech is where the difficulties begin. I twist several options around in my head before tossing them out entirely, and then I start again. It's not my wedding, but it's the most important thing I may ever say to my sister, or to Brad.

But love can be hard to talk about. I don't want to make the same (or similar) speech that every maid of honor makes. I want to say something bright and new, sweet and simple. I want my sister to truly know how happy I am for her, even if a part of me feels like my best friend is moving away. I can't hold on to everyone forever. I can't be my sister's protector forever.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

There's beauty in loss

2010-07-31T11:33:00.005-05:00

Something horrible happens and the world turns itself upside down all around you. What do you do? How do you react? You think nothing good could ever come of something this bad. You make yourself sick just trying to figure out which way is up again. Anxiety and tension are the only emotions filling the air. This is the moment when people overreact.

We always think nothing good can come from pain, from loss. When we lose an important someone or something we experience a terrible aching sensation down in our core. We feel empty. It's hard to want to see anything beautiful or new when the strongest emotions experienced involve pain. We begin to worry--worry that things could never be right again.

I try to remain calm in strenuous situations. I try to think things through before I let my emotions take over. I practice losing something everyday. I practice calmness. I practice looking for the silver lining. I practice finding beauty in loss. I've lost a big part of my world recently. I've lost everything I thought was true, and I lost someone I had started caring deeply for. Where is the beauty in that?! I was in a state of disbelief for so long that I didn't know where to look for beauty. I may have lost one person, but I gained a new someone in the process. I gained someone I can trust. I gained someone I have things in common with. I gained a beautiful friendship. This alone has served as my reminder that loss can be endured--that loss can be beautiful in new and unexpected ways.

^^© Desiree Bussiere 2010

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something everyday. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (WRITE it!) like disaster.

The non-existent happy ending

2010-07-30T13:29:00.002-05:00

I'm a young girl. I have the whole world at my fingertips. I have years to figure out where my life will take me. But just like any other young and carefree girl, I read fairy tales and picture my own happy ending. I imagine many scenarios and think about what my life could be like. 'There will be a handsome man who captures my heart. We'll be married and live in a gorgeous house with a white fence, and our three kids will be the sweetest darlings and play with all the other neighborhood kids.' I am just a young girl. I see the world in full color, no dark spots whatsoever. I have years to meet the man of my dreams.

You'd think I would know by now, as a 21-year-old, that happy endings only exist in fairy tales. And yet, as it may be, I'm a girl. I'm a girl who daydreams; I'm one of those who hopes that some day her knight in shining armor will show up and sweep her off her feet.

There are moments in my life when I catch myself living in a dream world--a fairy tale I create in my mind and project out as reality. It's not that I don't understand the differences, it's that I choose to ignore the possibility that my fairy tale world is only make believe. The realistic consequences of risking your heart for someone else are painful. There is no happy ending. It doesn't exist the way the it does in Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty.

I caught myself living in my dream world again. Three and some months of fairy tale bliss. Then one day, recently, I woke up. I woke up painfully and suddenly. I woke up to the bitter actuality that my ignorance of the real world has served to mislead me. And I can only blame myself. It feels as if I've woken from the best dream of my life and am now having a hard time remembering the specifics, except it wasn't a dream and I can remember it all. I just don't know which parts to believe as truth. I don't know how to react to the consequences I must now face.

This reality has turned from a beautiful daydream to a stressful nightmare. 'I'm afraid. I'm cold. I'm lost. Worse still--I'm alone, without any idea where reality begins again.'

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

I cry, now

2010-07-30T01:13:00.002-05:00

I don’t cry.

I despise the feeling

Of tear-stained cheeks.

I hate how dried up

My body feels after

Being racked with sobs.

I don’t cry.

It’s an affect I’d rather not

Be involved with,

But you dragged me in anyway.

So I hold my pillow

To make the pain subside.

Now I cry.

The sting of salt

Bites at my skin and

Snakes down past the

Corners of my lips.

It’s a release I can’t control.

Now I cry.

I force myself to let go

And I pray God hasn’t

Left me here alone.

It’s you, you who

Repaired my fears originally.

Now I cry.

Schedules ruin relationships

2010-07-23T12:38:00.002-05:00

Block Out Your Schedule

Your schedule is hard to master.

I’ve tried spontaneity.

That doesn’t seem to work.

I’ll call two weeks in advance.

But even that’s a little tricky.

Your elite social status

has me pandering to your time.

Your time is not Tuesday.

It can’t be Thursday;

Another gig popped up.

Why not let it be the

Night before I take a trip;

Just a short time

Because then we can blame my schedule

I should have left hours ago;

I dropped several plans for you.

And I’m not sure

That’s how things are supposed to go.

Still, those blocks of time that pencil me in

Aren’t moments I’d easily discard.

I’d rather have penciled moments

Than no phone call at all.

You’re wearing me down with

All this unexpected coming and going

So I don’t know which way is the door.

I try not to rely on things set in stone

You change them so fast.

I’m a little frightened to tell the truth.

I wish your schedule wasn’t hard to master.

It's not mine, but I love it so

2010-07-21T13:12:00.002-05:00

I've always loved Pablo Neruda. His poetry moves me. I can easily say he is the only man to have ever successfully melted my heart. One of my favorite quotes comes from him: Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread. I scribbled this phrase onto a small scrap of paper ripped from a notebook years ago, and it continues to hang on the bulletin board above my desk. It serves as my inspiration to continue writing, and to let the act of writing be the comfort and emotional release in my life.

Always, with each venture into the book store, I spend tedious minutes flipping through the different collections of his poems deciding which one to buy. Each time I fail to make a decision, and thus each time leave empty-handed. I finally, the other day, decided I would buy one of his books no matter what. After twenty minutes of back-and-forth decision making, I finally picked one with poems collected from several different compilations. I've been reading and rereading the poems over the past few days, often falling asleep at night with the book in hand.

The poem here does not belong to me. Even if I were to write forever, I could never write something as beautiful and simple as this, but I wanted to share what I've been reading.

I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you weren’t here now,
and you heard me from a distance, and my voice couldn’t reach you.
It’s as if your eyes had flown away from you, and as if
your mouth were closed because I leaned to kiss you.

Just as all living things are filled with my soul,
you emerge from all living things filled with the soul of me.
It’s as if, a butterfly in dreams, you were my soul,
and as if you were the soul’s word, melancholy.

I like it when you're quiet. It’s as if you’d gone away now.
And you’d become the keening, the butterfly’s insistence.
And you heard me from a distance and my voice didn’t reach you:
it’s then that what I want is to be quiet with your silence.

It’s then that what I want is to speak to your silence
in a speech as clear as lamplight, as plain as a gold ring.
You are quiet like the night, and like the night you’re star-lit.
Your silences are star-like, they’re a distant and a simple thing.

I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you weren’t here now.
As if you were dead now, and sorrowful, and distant.
A word then is sufficient, or a smile, to make me happy,
Happy that it seems so certain that you’re present.

Facebook completes me...?

2010-07-16T18:33:00.001-05:00

At this day in age we hear many times over that our world is becoming more and more digitized. So what does this mean for communication as we know it? Where do we meet our friends? How do we spread the news? What makes a friendship official?

Welcome to the wonderful world of Facebook.

Founded in 2004, Facebook gives people the power to share and make the world more open and connected. At least, that's their mission statement. And to some extent, it is true, but how much have we come to rely on social media in our personal lives? It's understandable that social media is becoming the way of the business world when every person lives online.

So if Facebook, and other social media, is supposed to make the world more open and connected, then why did we change the way we share? It used to be that we would experience something special, and then tell everyone about it after the fact. The whole point being to use our words to convey how and what we felt at that moment, to tell a story and make others feel as if it were their own.

Not anymore. Now we can see each stage of someone's pregnancy (their sonograms serve as their profile pictures), we can see how many times someone goes in and out of a relationship, and we can track how popular someone is by their friend count. But I think Facebook has finally reached a pinnacle. A Facebook friend of mine (and "real-life" acquaintance) recently kept all her friends updated consistently during the delivery of her new son. I'm shocked to see that updating Facebook statuses could possibly be more important than the real experience of giving birth. Couldn't the status update wait? Did I really need to know how dilated you were or how strenuous pushing was? No thanks; I'd rather wait for my own experience in the delivery room than read frequent updates about another's.

Part of me finds the world's reliance on Facebook and other sites sickening, but another part of me enjoys sharing things with people I hardly know. So to all those reading this post, thanks for reading; I promise not to give play-by-plays of my (very) personal experiences, such as what happens in the delivery room.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

The end as we know it (of NYU housing)

2010-07-15T11:45:00.001-05:00

Although I'll be sad to leave New York City, there are a few things I will not miss. On my non-miss list one can find garbage piles on the street, the smells of knish stands, and the lack of public bathrooms. The top-hitter on the list however: NYU Housing issues.

Perhaps it's the craziness of the city or maybe it's the lack in maintenance employees, either way I do know that many residential halls need intense updating, especially Palladium, before they begin to crumble on top of us. Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed my time living here--great roommates, great places to eat and great music everywhere--but now I know why I never wanted to live the dorm life.

The moment we stepped foot in our apartment we noticed the grime. Inevitably dorms will not be spotless, but this place shocked us. The dirt on the floor, the smudges on the wall, and the dust on the mattresses were only the beginnings of the horrors we would experience during our stay. (Of course we cleaned to the best of our abilities with what limited equipment we had for our six weeks.) After that began an onslaught of discoveries concerning our living space for the duration of our time.

A dusty, old filter in the air conditioning unit
A freezer that doesn't freeze all the way, and a refrigerator that freezes our milk
A patch of mold on the ceiling above the A/C unit
A moist couch (it feels as if someone dumped bottles of hairspray on it)
A useless kitchen drawer (it won't open due to an awkwardly sized/placed oven)
A bedroom door that won't shut properly
A hanging metal outlet cover in the bathroom
No toilet paper holding ring
Awkwardly placed ethernet jacks at the desks
Mattresses with lumpy springs
Furniture that's out to get us

There's a good chance I've left something out of this list, but that's the gist of it at least. One can easily imagine how at least some of these discoveries went on to create problems for the four of us sharing the apartment. Let's begin:

The amount of grime and mold (no matter how much we cleaned) managed to run past our immune system defenses. It probably didn't help that food had a hard time lasting in the combined extreme temperatures of our refrigerator and freezer. Both Jenn and Laura ended up sick; Tricia and I were lucky and shared the healthy room.

We refused to sit on the couch unless we sat on top of a spread of magazines or some other barrier for our bottoms. Thus we ended up utilizing the dining table and chairs more often. The chairs, however, had it out for our poor toes. My feet already hurt from all the city-walking, but that's incomparable to the amount of toe-crunching and foot-squashing performed by the dorm chairs.

Tricia, however, has experienced the worst of NYC as we know it. She's had plenty of mishaps while here, but her worst dorm experience involves a shock. An electrical shock at that, and a rude awakening for the rest of us. During Tricia's morning blow-drying experience, the hanging metal outlet cover slipped and touched the prongs of the dryer's plug, sending a shock through Tricia and tripping all the switches in our apartment's breaker box. Tricia's thumb burned a little and the dryer's prongs melted a bit. Poor Tricia was afraid to finish blow drying her hair after maintenance fixed the issue.

Last, but not least, is the ridiculous nature of housing administration. How long should I wait for my bill to arrive, and then how many times will I receive it? Answer: one week longer than expected, and three times. How hard can it be to open a backwards combination on a mailbox? Answer: harder than you'd think. How much time should you allow for a request to be taken care of? Answer: depending on the request, anywhere from one day to one month. I guess the mission is to test the residents' patience.

(End note memo to NYU: if you start shutting down elevators and request your residents to use the stairs, please make sure to unlock the stairwell exit doors. The request is otherwise pointless and a complete waste of time.)

My life in MASH

2010-07-11T00:09:00.001-05:00

Reminiscing has its plus side: new lives. Me and my roommate, Jenn, learned today that our other roomie, Tricia, has never played the game MASH. We were shocked. Both of us recall MASH as a prominent pastime activity. Playing MASH was a way for my friends and I to pass the time when we were bored at school or just goofing off while hanging out. It's a game I will never get sick of because it's funny every time. We made sure Tricia tasted her childhood by playing a game of MASH tonight.

Tricia's life in MASH: Tricia will marry Johnny Depp. At the wedding, Tricia will wear white and J. Depp will wear navy blue. They will live in an apartment in Chicago with their one child, and you can't forget about their pets: stick bugs. Tricia will make $80,000/year but she's so environmentally friendly that she will drive a Fred Flintstone vehicle. I think this sounds like the nicest MASH life yet!

My life in MASH: I will marry George Clooney (I'm very excited about this!) and have one kid. I'm going to have one ugly wedding though: a pale yellow dress and a tan tux. I'll be living in a shack in the land of stinky shoes. My life sounds horrible at this point, especially since I have no income and apparently will be one broke b****. However, it must have been money well spent because I drive a Ferrari and have a pet koala bear.

Jenn's life in MASH: Jenn's going to ruin my life and steal George Clooney for herself. But the joke is on her because she has to wear a hot pink dress at her wedding; George will wear dark grey. It gets better: they're going to live in a house on the Arctic Tundra with their 5 children and floppy-eared bunnies. And even though her income is $100,000/year, she will continue to drive her child-molester-van or rape-van, whichever term you prefer. People will judge.

Relying on notebook pages

2010-06-30T08:39:00.002-05:00

Being so busy in NYC, I'm not able to write as much as I'd like to. Sure, I blog as much as I can, and my creative juices are being spent on designing pages for class, but it's not the same as taking my notebook to a park and just writing. I miss it, and I realize how much I rely on it.

Don't get me wrong, I have sat down and wrote at least a few times. What I've written though doesn't make sense when I go back and look through it. Some of it takes the form of journal entries, others look like poetry. The journal entries make sense, but the poems don't at all. It's as if I've forgotten how to write. I can't imagine how my life would be if I were to never write. I'd probably be impatient, temperamental, and a little too much (more so than now) to handle. My easy-going attitude wouldn't be so easy anymore.

I've drowned myself in the personalities of NYC and learning to adjust while doing intensive coursework for school instead of focusing on caring for my own mental and emotional states. The realization of this is overwhelming, thus it stresses me out when I agonize over what I'm going to do with my future. It feels like just yesterday that I had everything figured out, and going with the flow seemed so natural. Not anymore. Now I have to plan out my days and I don't even know when I'm going to next get a chance to write. I'm afraid my reliance on notebook pages could be my eventual downfall, because without writing, I don't know how to cope.

Where's (my) Walden?

2010-06-25T08:16:00.005-05:00

Are we ever really sure who we are or who we even want to be? Some people may think it's hard to find themselves--discover their purpose--while stuck in a big city. They may think that in order to find themselves they need to take a vacation and find somewhere quiet away from the hustle and bustle of this chaotic and fast-paced world we live in.

Henry David Thoreau once wrote an essay called Walden. As a part of the transcendentalism movement, Thoreau was inspired to write Walden after living for two years in a cabin. He didn't intend for the woods to create isolation (he had visitors and would often visit other people), but rather wanted to gain a more objective understanding of simple living and spiritual discovery.

I think everyone has what Thoreau called his walden--a place to go for isolation, a place to go to collect thoughts, a place to go when all you need is a moment of respite. I've come to the conclusion that as we grow and change, so do our waldens. As a youngster, my walden was in the woods out back of the house near the lake. I would weave my way through the tightly knitted paths and saplings to the giant fallen ash tree whose huge roots hung over the shoreline into the swampy part of the lake. I found this place when I was about 5 or 6, not long after my Grandpa Engman died. If you lay on the ash tree and look up, all you see are layers of green and pink from the sun shining through the huge wood rose bushes. Alas, that tree has rotted away now that I'm 21, and it's not the nicest place to escape to anymore.

I have my favorite go-to spots in Minneapolis, but none of them as special as my first walden. Now I'm in New York City and you'd think the big city would make discovering who I am, who I want to be, and what I want out of life harder than if I was in Minneapolis or Barnum, but actually that's the exact opposite. I like that in NYC, every day is different. Each day I come across something new and exciting that I've never seen before. Not to mention that everything here has a personality. I enjoy the differences of each day, and it's made me realize that I've felt stuck in a rut for a long time. NYC has also made me less timid in going for what I want.

I may not fully know what I want out of life, but that's okay because I do know that if I don't keep trying to figure it out, I'll end up back in that "rut." And I also know that all I want to do is experience new things every day. I want adventure.

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Your patience is required

2010-06-21T08:59:00.001-05:00

Oh dear readers, I am so sorry for my lack of posting this past week. It's been a little crazy around here. I hope to post tonight though (and paint my nails too!); it'd be a nice break from things. I have a print design workshop today, so I'm rushing to get my look book ready. It's a lot of work and it's been stressing me out. Mostly I could use one heck of a back massage, but in the meantime I'll ask for your patience.

Look for my new post later tonight.
Much love from New York! :)

My inner beard is better than yours

2010-06-14T12:58:00.002-05:00

Not many people think about their inner beard, but at some point in your life you've probably stroked your face as if you really did have a beard. (Females included!) I have mine all planned out, and a few of my friends do as well.

I have an older gentleman's beard. Scraggly and bristly, it comes off my chin into a longer tightly woven mess of stiff hair ending in a rounded point. My inner beard stems from inspiration by my Uncle Steve--his is impressive.
Alyson Cummings has a lumberjack beard, which she describes as a bushy chin strap. It's scruffy and patchy, and actually makes me think of an old civil war style beard.
Jennifer Dryden has a beard with four braids. That way she can twist the braids when she thinks hard about something.

So the question of the day is...

"What does your inner beard look like?"

Two trains of confusion

2010-06-11T16:17:00.006-05:00

Everyone feels vulnerable at one point in their life. Either it's a place, an emotion, a mental struggle, or even a person who causes us to feel such vulnerability. It happens, and it's as if two trains full of confusion have collided in our brains.

My poem Vulnerable is about a moment in my life when I felt this confusion, and just needed to write to understand how I felt.

I wish I could remember what I said.

I’ve experienced memory loss and turned

myself vulnerable to you and my

Passions.

I’m at a loss of words.

And I barely understand where I’m headed.

The distance between us is nothing physical

But I’m afraid to even touch

You.

My attachment has grown deeper.

I think I said it out loud, perhaps while on the phone;

my amnesia took over for an hour or two.

Like a blackout after a night

Out.

There was no way I could pretend.

Not now, probably not ever, and now the shame

has set in, turning my tanned cheeks a little

pinker than the blush I applied earlier in the

Day.

I lay awake trying to strategize a way to avoid

the emotional trauma, but you’ve made it

impossible because all I can hear is the muffled

sound of your deep sleep breathing from the

bedroom.

If I crawl in bed with you then my thoughts will

begin to grow hazy in your presence and I’m

not sure how prepared I really am for such an

NYC...the place to be

2010-06-10T12:14:00.002-05:00

To my beautiful readers,

I'm going to start blogging about my NYC trip--all the great things I'm learning at NYU, all the fun things I'm doing with my roomies, and all the beautiful things I'm seeing as I experience the city. You can check out all this on the New York City page of my blog.

Au revoir!

How to laugh

2010-06-09T09:40:00.006-05:00

Everyone knows how to laugh. It's fairly simple actually. According to my friend Jennifer Dryden, you just have to "open your mouth, and say sounds." I have to say, I agree, because everyone sounds different when they laugh. That's what makes laughter so much fun.

I personally love to hear people laugh because, truth be told in a cliché, laughing is contagious. I think Audrey Hepburn said it best: "I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it's the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It's probably the most important thing in a person."

There are, of course, moments in your life when you think you'll never laugh again. But then something ridiculous happens, something you'd never expect, something so funny that it makes you say, "I haven't laughed this hard in a looong time."

Here at NYU, Jenn and I showed our roommate, Tricia Salata, the "Single Ladies Gone Wrong" video on YouTube. She watches it over and over again, and still, each time, she is in the "die of laughter, fall off your chair" mode. It's one of those moments, when you know you're going to laugh, and you're going to laugh because someone else is laughing too.

Photography & Writing

Waltz

2010-06-01T22:57:00.005-05:00

Did you start by waltzing backwards?

You can’t begin without a direction.

And now I see the end of

This in a sort of haze

Don’t tell me it’s just a phase

Because I’ve been musing upon it for days

And now it’s stuck.

I hate these little ruts.

You’ve pressed me into one.

And it’s become a stain that

Won’t come out of my favorite blue shirt

All because of the emotions I couldn’t avert

They don’t matter as I lay here in the dirt

Filthy the way you left me.

I stood here on the dance floor alone.

Lost in though about your absence.

And I never understood you, yet

I’m not sure I ever will

You took to my heart with a drill

And I just stood there so still

If the world were black & white

2010-05-29T16:27:00.003-05:00

Lois Lowry wrote The Giver in 1995--a book about a young boy, Jonas, who is given the power to hold all the memories, colors, sounds, and emotions of his world. Everyone else in his world sees in black and white, feels no strong emotion, and remembers only their own experiences. Jonas, however, carries an unfathomable burden.

What would it be like to feel every emotion and not have anyone to confide in? Then again, what would it be like to never experience emotion? When I read this book, I strongly desire to live in a world where there are no real worries, no confusing emotions. My world would be black and white, and even the ambiguous grays would not cause an emotional disturbance. But could I survive without any color?

I love black-and-white photographs; I enjoy the grainy antique look. To live in a world of only black-and-white photos though would be the most boring thing I can imagine. We all need a little color, a little emotion, to make everyday something new--even if it is just the red hues.

Photography & Writing

The basics never change

2010-05-24T13:27:00.002-05:00

There's something familiar about being with old friends. Memories flood back at a moment's notice. After we grow up and travel down our own paths, it's hard to go back to the way things were.
   We meet new people.
   We see strange things.
   We experience different feelings.
   We play other versions of games.
   We experiment with ways of living.
And all this happens within short spans of time.

So change happens. No one can be entirely constant in their character because things happen everyday that alter us--from infinitely small shifts to life-changing modifications. Yet our core values and morals stay the same, and something inside the friendship maintains stability.

I love my best friend, even though I hardly see her and we are on such different playing fields in life. Humor and goofiness create the stability in our friendship, and even in photographs we're still the same.

The Simple Life (& not the Paris Hilton way)

2010-05-20T12:02:00.003-05:00

When I say 'the simple life,' I'm definitely not referring to Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie's ridiculous television show of the early 2000s. I actually mean the rapturous feeling you get when you discover something so beautiful it makes your heart flutter.

I'm visiting my parents in northern Minnesota for a week--it's a place where I love to be outdoors. I feel like I'm rediscovering myself when I am away from all the hustle and bustle of Minneapolis. The plus: my favorite things to do can be done right out in our own yard.

My parents have lake shore property--a hill with woods on either side of the house, and a stream that feeds into the lake from the river nearby. This morning after my regular workout, I grabbed my camera and walked around the whole piece of property.

I feel so at ease when I have my camera in hand and the wonders of nature at my feet. It's as if I'm breathing in brand new air. During my walk today I discovered a Robin's nest near my father's shop. It was the most beautiful thing to see, and it made me appreciate life a little bit more.

Did you enjoy the scenery on your detour?

2010-05-18T11:37:00.007-05:00

"A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour"

This is my favorite quote bar none. It helps me to recognize the little things in life that make each day enjoyable. I consider myself a laid-back and easy-going person, but I wasn't always. I used to be the biggest control freak anyone would ever meet--one little thing went wrong and I would act as if the world had ended.

Now, just reading this quote everyday, which I keep posted on my wall next to a picture I took of a rainbow over some mountains in Hawaii, helps me find the silver lining in every mishap. If I make a wrong turn along the way I try to enjoy the new sights I'm encountering. That being said, I tend to make a lot of mistakes, but I like to consider them detours and sometimes even pot holes in the greater scope of life.

My biggest mistakes have mostly involved relationships--pushing people away, losing people, etc. I over analyze EVERYTHING and I'm usually wrong too. Thus I choose not to express emotion because it keeps my heart guarded and I can pretend as if everything is alright. I know it's not psychologically healthy. So writing is my outlet. (So are detours.) Think about your outlet. What makes you tick? What scenery do you enjoy?

Hunger: the product of productivity

2010-05-16T21:10:00.009-05:00

It's a Sunday. I rose early.

I went for a run and cleaned the kitchen--a pancake breakfast cooked by my roommate, the beautiful Alyson Cummings, was in order by 10 AM.

I took little Gerdy for a walk, folded some laundry, and made a target run--Jimmy John's #2 Big John with a pickle called my name for lunch.

I proceeded to enjoy the sun in our front lawn, read a little, and play frisbee in Van Cleve park for a couple hours--this meant cooking up the best meal I've made in a long time.

I love food. I think it's good for the soul, good for company, and especially good for a night in. My roommate, Lacey, helped me cook up this delicious Italian meal: Penne Rigate with Chicken. Sorry I don't have a picture, but we ate most of it! :) But was so good I thought I would share my personal recipe:

Ingredients:
13 oz pkg Penne Rigate
2-3 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, garlic clove, 3/4 pkg broccoli; chopped
3 grilled/cooked chicken breasts; sliced
1 tbsp fresh parsley; chopped
1 jar (about 26 oz) spaghetti sauce (or in my case a medium sauce pan of homemade sauce!)

Directions:
Cook pasta according to package instructions. Sauté broccoli, onion & garlic in oil until tender. Stir in spaghetti sauce, chicken & parsley. Simmer about 5 minutes. Serve sauce mixture over pasta.

If you want some of my homemade spaghetti sauce: 1 large jar canned tomatoes; 11 oz tomato sauce; 1 celery stick chopped; & parsley, basil, lemon pepper, cilantro, Italian seasoning, pepper & salt to taste. Simmer in medium sauce pan 5-8 minutes.

THEN JUST ENJOY IT AS MUCH AS WE DID. (Hint: It tastes superb with a glass of red wine--we had Ménage á Trois.)

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

I've been reminded again.

2010-05-14T10:05:00.005-05:00

Photo albums have a way of bringing every lost memory back. I probably have about 7 albums in my room, not to mention the huge amount of photos on my Mac. One of my favorite things to do when I procrastinate is look through old photos--organizing, laughing, reminiscing--mostly because I have this weird fetish for photography.

The most bittersweet of all the photos, however, are the ones of my grandparents. I crazy miss them practically every day. Little things I see or do bring back momentary flashes of them. But driving past their old house has the strongest effect on me.

A Moment

The drive goes past

Lexington, Hamline, & Dale,

Even takes a detour on a dusty

Trail.

A thought slowly dips in and out—

Just enough to taste the frosting

But still a tip of the tongue

Ordeal.

You’ve passed and left like

The cars that zip by inconsistently.

I’ve broken down grasping at

Memories.

Everything is abstract when it

Riddles through my mind;

Remembering you is only slightly

Concrete.

Nothing big—a gold dragonfly

On a chain, maybe a blanket,

A dresser is sturdy

Too.

I forget where I wanted to go.

The thought pushes until

I end up in your driveway

Again

That circular wheel in my head

Plays your face everyday—

Luring me to where you used to

Be.

This drive seems separate from all the

Others,

But maybe it’s just where you wanted me to go

Time-turners anyone?

2010-05-13T17:26:00.000-05:00

According to Liv Tyler's character Cory in Empire Records "there are 24 usable hours in every day." So why do I find myself sitting and wishing for a damn time-turner like Hermione Granger has in Harry Potter numero tres!?

That being said, I realize this little blog of mine needs some serious layout updating. I hopefully can get working on it again next week! I want to make it a little cleaner--less gray, more white. I'm still figuring out exactly what I find aesthetically pleasing, but if you find yourself with a suggestion for me, please do leave a comment.

Sometimes I have nightmares too

2010-05-11T16:22:00.006-05:00

So the other night I couldn't sleep because every now and then (less frequently than when I was a child) I have a nightmare. It's always about the same thing, but too personal for the internet to buzz about. Anyway, I end up not being able to sleep because I have a miniature panic attack.

I wrote this poem several months ago, but I feel like it describes how my nightmares sometimes make me feel. It's called, ever so fittingly, "Nightmare."

I shot you.

I couldn’t save you.

The fear that clenched in my stomach

Was a twisting knot of inadequacy.

I should never have been mad at you;

It was a stupid fight.

I’m sorry

You can’t even hear me say it.

sorry. Sorry. SORRY.

The wind that twists the words and

Bashes them across your wounds

I created.

Why can’t I save you?

I struggle to no avail.

Terrors tremble across my flushed skin

As you lay dying just out of reach.

Let go! I scratch at demons.

My body is pulled and tugged

And dragged further away from you

Until your screams become my screams.

The tears run boiling hot;

I can’t control it.

Maid of honor woes

2010-05-06T08:31:00.003-05:00

I've been spending soooo much time at my sister's lately, just trying to help her get things ready for her wedding. As the Maid of Honor, I have a lot to do, but as her sister I have even more to do. I'm also helping her with details such as designing invitations, choosing a reception hall, finding a photographer and a DJ, and so on and so forth.

Anyways, I figured I'm spending so much time working on these invitations I might as well just show you lovely readers what I did for her "Save the Dates." (Right now we are working on her actual invitations, but those are probably far from done since she can't make up her mind!)

Photography & Writing

With the flow

2010-05-05T00:22:00.005-05:00

Jay Cooke State Park in Carlton, MN doesn't look like much, but during the spring months, it's gorgeous. The waterfalls aren't that big but the combined amount of rock formation and force of rapids creates a site that can't be passed without a photograph. (The picture on the left is one of probably 60 that I took in a 2-hour period.)

The water of the St. Louis River is deceptive, but don't be fooled by the copper color of the water. It's extremely clean, and the brown color comes from the natural acids from decaying plant life along the banks.

This is one spot on the map that shouldn't be passed up during your spring hikes. The trails extend all over the place, and the river isn't the only breathtaking sight--the wildlife is fantastic.

Photography & Writing
© Desiree Bussiere 2010

I read this book. You should too.

2010-05-04T12:52:00.005-05:00

The hilarious novel Our Jewish Robot Future by Leonard Borman ingeniously questions the future of all humanity amidst a biblical subtext. Margarita Haralson, a slightly mad and post-menopausal housewife, drops us in the middle of the action where we mingle in both the present and the future—a spaced-out future that precariously hangs on the actions of a retired Jewish couple from Michigan.

She weaves the tale of her family and the quest to survive in a future full of wacky Jewish cyborgs that just happen to be their direct descendants. While her husband, Alex, travels both time and space to discover not only the Garden of Eden but also the missing eleventh commandment, Margarita’s libido erupts in a mission to fulfill a destiny that will create future generations.

With the help of their metallic descendants and their loony Rabbi, the Haralsons travel through time, evade the police, and even drive their two already grown children up the wall. Margarita’s spicy sprinkling of Yinglish and Italian presents a fresh, young narrative that leaves readers’ sides splitting from laughter.

Readers will have to keep reminding themselves that Borman is indeed a male author—Margarita’s voice rings strong and true throughout the novel, reading perfectly from a woman’s perspective. This saucy housewife sucks you into this time-traveling narrative until you aren’t sure which end is up. Readers are left craving more of its diverse mixture of cheeky and heartfelt moments.

*Disclaimer: I worked at Scarletta Press in Minneapolis as an Editorial Assistant. This book is one of the books I worked on as a copyeditor. It's set for publication at the end of August, but I loved it and thought I would review it.*

© Desiree Bussiere 2010

Freelancing

2010-04-20T13:43:00.004-05:00

Check it out readers. Here's an article I wrote for Wake Magazine at the University of Minnesota.

An old episode

2010-04-18T21:14:00.007-05:00

She twisted the ring on her finger

forcing the auburn bands of light to speckle the dark hardwood floor.

There was no remorse.

Her action was precise and thought-out.

She stared at the ring in dismay.

Her brow furrowed in wonder.

The papers lay sprawled out on the table.

The ring continued to twist in lazy circles.

I remember your eyes as you watched her fingers.

The anxious stare.

You anticipated an answer.

There could be only one.

Her fingers stopped twisting

for a slight minute to pick up the glass carafe and pour a drink.

The drink had a refreshing effect.

Her eyes radiated the same light as the ring.

Routines

2010-04-17T17:40:00.006-05:00

I’ve never been a part of something traumatic.

I’ve never been involved.

The translucent shell of all outlandish things

Evades my touch.

Interesting that I have no clue what trauma even feels like.

My life revolves around the white slippers I slip on daily to retrieve

the haphazardly thrown newspaper from the front stoop.

Nothing happened again

Yesterday or today.

Even the coupons offer little excitement to this week’s shopping list.

It’s beginning to be a droll routine.

Not quite a fucking rut yet,

Besides that sounds depressing.

I’m still quite chipper and content,

An experience in anger

2010-04-16T22:57:00.005-05:00

When I got home today, I discovered a huge mess in my room due to a horrible cat that lives with me. Homework was soaked in water; work manuscript was semi-soaked and full of ink marks; bills soaked to the point of no return. I was so angry I could have murdered the thing. Instead, I went for a run, laid out in the sun, and wrote a poem. (These are my personal ways of calming down.)

When your fingernails bite through your skin

And you feel your lip begin to bleed,

The pain of holding in your anger

Begins to take a physical form that

You can’t escape without at least a

Small instance of loss of self-control,

The control you never had, just a pretense

Of your mind that basically ruins