Venting

I’ve silenced my voices. The very curious one. the confident one- the stern one and the one that knows who she is and what exactly it is that she wants. Why have I silenced these voices? Why do I hold her back ? The free child within me, she is begging me to let her free. She has been begging as far as I can remember but lately all that there has been is silence. Is she still there?

Who am I? I do not have the slightest clue. I used to be so sure, so full of confidence in the spirit that roams within me but lately I cannot feel her. I have not even picked up my guitar and I can barely bring myself to write tonight.

A part of me is trying not to convince myself that I am ill, I fear I am.  Why do I hide? Why am I so ashamed? Whenever I feel this way I want to escape again, leave and start again, fool myself into thinking that my answers are elsewhere. And truthfully everyone and my own sanity included, keep on telling me that I should stop running away that I need to grow up and I need to learn responsibility but why do I object to it so harshly and why am I waking up every morning and force myself into wearing that coat and those black pumps… why do I force myself to be part of that corporate world? Why did I succumb to this mold that I do not fit a part of ? I’ve once said I would never be a part of and here I am succumbing for comfort for security-foolish! foolish!  I’d rather live for a penny. I could care for less for this body. Let it burn, I am tired of it keeping me down. I am sick. That is the truth, this body is ill and I could roar and scream to it and I want to beat it. Pardon me- I am only venting.

Life is hard so very hard sometimes and I feel so very much alone, I do not have my  comrade nearby, a confidant, not a true friend- perhaps I am being a bit dramatic but I do push them all away.  I push all those I love away.

And so here I lie alone, in bed in my own company filled with the traffic sounds of the restless and sleepless city of Los Angeles where the light reflects off of windows and the sirens moan in the distance. I never imagined myself being so lonely. Am I unloveable?  I wonder what it is I am doing wrong? I do not expect you to have any answers. I do not expect you to be even reading this- but well, what of it now. I may as well not post this. I just need to I don’t know- vent.

Where is she? The girl so full of love and hope. So full of adventure and mystery. Where she saw every rose like a miracle? and where she too felt like a miracle ? I suppose I am tired. I am tired of waiting. I am tired of longing. I am tired of watching all those films in front of me and people passing by with all that I desire. “They are so happy,”  I think to myself. What is that I am missing?

Can I just time travel to those old records of time where all was well and skies were blue and the roses grew? Take me there tonight. Please take me there tonight, in my sleep.

Let me dream tonight. Let me forget tonight and let me feel free.

I am tired.

good night, to this restless heart.

 

yours truly,

 

bluebird

 

 

 

 

 

Love, my dearest.

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Have you forgotten the days when you were ash, when you lay in shadows and glittered in the mist of the moonlit night?

And your walk was humble on the ground, and you saw a miracle in a single rose and magic in the stars?

Love- my dearest.

It has always grasped you and sheltered you even when you were ash burned from the fire of a most passionate love.

You know how low one can go, low enough to think I have died and reincarnated and simply remembering that-

everything seems beautiful… like the bird singing on my windowsill this morning, up on the 11th floor of this loud city of Los Angeles, was beautiful.

Just moments of self-reflection and remembrance of the pain this peasant heart has rooted from.

 

never forget-

love, my dearest.

 

Bonnie Bluebird

Singing @ the L.A. Art Walk

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Photo Taken by Avelardo Ortega @mad_se7en

There are times when I feel so bottled up that no matter my reserved nature, of being shy, quiet, and distant,  I somehow break free from my own chains and allow myself the freedom to be me. With the guitar in my arms or the pen gripped within my fingertips, I embody the soul that swims within me- the courageous one, the fearless one, the God-fearing one.

Most days, I am imperfect, lost, short-tempered, and directionless, but last Thursday, I felt that the gold sitting heavy in my heart was aching to melt out of my mouth like fluid honey. And despite not having a stage to sing, nothing could stop this eruption within me that even the demons in my head were silenced by this necessary pull to sing.

I sang, I sang and did not feel the hours pass me by, and sang until my voice gave out. I do not need a stage, nor do I need an audience, and much like when I write here, I do not need a publisher and a book to be voicing. I do it for my own peace of mind and sanity and I will continue this way even if I don’t see a dime or a penny to my name.

All labors of love should be this way and this is all but a labor of love, for love, in the name of love.

yours truly,

bluebird

 

Singing @ Dba 256

Hi, its been a while. I don’t know what is up? -a dry spell, no ambition, no enthusiasm. I could kick myself because I know now is the time to work hard, to just do and I often find myself not doing… it’s a shame.

One thing is for certain, I could be having a shit day, which I have had a few lately, but when I sing on Wednesday nights all is well with the world. Nothing could shake me, shatter me or break me. Singing has become my drug.

The fear is exhilarating. My heart throbs uncontrollably that it feels it might just break out of my chest. No one is there. Not a soul exist but mine and the spirit that swims within me. And when I  sing, there is nothing else but me, and my song, and the emotion in me dying to break free of silence and I release, I levitate, and I am free.

I can sense the eyes, the looks, the approvals, people stop their conversations, peek their heads over, and they just listen for just a few seconds while my song fills the room. And I watch the walls compress and stop breathing and I watch the walls throb to my beating heart and all those who inhibit it. If I ever get close to any sort of magic, it is this feeling. I feel magic flowing out of my soul.

It is not mine, it has never been mine but I am glad to have finally released it, unveil it, let it free. I just wish I can do it everyday. If I can sing everyday, I would, but that is a luxury. So, for now, I am happy to have the opportunity of a regular stage which was an accident in the first place.

It was not until this year, when I finally gathered the guts to sing at an open mic. One night, I went over to my local wine bar, the Dba256 in downtown Pomona, where I knew they were hosting an open mic. I signed up and sang, “Angel Baby” and “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac and ever since then, I was invited to return every other Wednesday’s and Saturdays evenings for the 2nd Saturday Art Walk, and it has since then been my medicine, my drug, my freedom. I want more, so much more…

wish me luck!

Here is to you, to us, and to all of our artistic pleasures!

 

Cheers,

 

bluebird

 

 

 

 

 

To Happiness

Hi.

It’s been a while and I felt like writing. Whenever I need help discerning things, I write. It is my therapy, my lifeboat from a sea of emotions. This pen and I, we will always be. I have so much to voice about and this pen and I,  have a long journey ahead of us with a long tail of our past we are learning to haul around and live with. This pen will be the only true relationship I will have with me my whole life through. However long or short. It is the extension of my voice and an extension of me. The best me I can be and I want to be the best me I can be.

As of late, I  have been trying to enjoy my life. You know… live it up, seize the day, suck in all the juice of the day. And I’ll tell you, lately I have.

I am singing like a song bird. I am using my voice. I am raising my own plants. Speaking up like never before and enjoying my solitude. I love being a barista and making coffee. I love Los Angeles, the sun, my family, my people. I couldn’t ask for more. So yeah, its been too nice to be blue or cloudy lately.  I almost feel like a transformation of self… Almost like a metamorphoses of sorts. I feel myself transforming. Is that strange?

I think I have found and ending to my book… You see, I only write and have only written because I have been in pain, in sorrow. But you see why be in a lifeboat when I can swim in the sea? why walk when I can fly? why write, when I can sing? why live in a cacoon when I can be a butterfly with wings?

My voice is my instrument. It would be foolish of me to waste it. Even if it means failing. I know how to loose. I’ve lost so much already.  So I’d rather loose for something I am passionate about than to loose to something I don’t care for. This life is to be lived, to enjoy.  And how they say, “Tenemos que chupar el jugo del dia,” or “We need to suck the juice of the day, ” like the honeybee or the hummingbird.

So even if it means slaving away and living humbly. Making a living as a barista counting pennies and stretching money,  If I am happy, that is all that matters. The best adventures I have had been when I was penniless.

So let’s do it! let’s be happy. Here is to happiness and to our pursuits.

Cheers!

 

yours truly,

 

bluebird

 

 

 

Life is beautiful

I am feeling a bit under today. Sometimes, it is okay to feel blue. At least I know what I feel is real, and I wouldn’t lie and say, I am chipper all the time. I am not. Most days, I am not. I feel too much, I always have and always will. For those who feel a little blue today its okay.

To feel is beautiful. I wouldn’t trade a song that strikes the soul for nothing, even if it makes me sob. So, if ever you feel blue, know you are not alone. Everybody hurts. Remember the little things.

Beauty is in the little things.

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I’ve seen a million movies today, every second, every minute of my day is 1,000 words each; every memory, every insight of color or smell is a different movie, each with a separate soundtrack.

I saw the color red and I saw my grandmother’s hands sowing a red dress, perfectly placed under the needle of her sewing machine.

I saw red, and saw the overgrown roses, breathing life, dancing and twirling on the barbed wired fence.

I saw the green hills and heard the sleeping giants under green blankets breathing, and saw their chest rise and fall ever so gently like a peaceful sound asleep baby.

I saw a bee on my windshield and I remembered the small fact that in theory, bees are too large to fly for their undersized wings, and yet they prove physics wrong.  This resilient little visitor was like a golden nugget on my blue hazy day, reminding me that I can fly too.

Remember the little things.

Life is beautiful, even in your bluest of days.

La vie et belle.

With love, always

bluebird

Blue Bird by Charles Bukowski

It is a recent effort of mine to finally voice, to speak, to write and send it off and give it away. I’ve done been silent. I’m over quieting, especially when there is so much to say. Away with the insecurity of being incompetent! This year, I have begun singing my favorite jazz and blues songs in my local wine bar and It is also the year I have humbled myself to sharing my writing after so many of years of piling thoughts on top of thoughts in journals collecting dust. That is why I am here, on a website. It is after all a new year, another day, and another chance to turn it all around. So, here you will find my thoughts, expressions, emotions, frustrations, passions, and any other sions. I am here simply to voice and if you happen to be here with me too, well then welcome. I’d gladly sit with you over a cup of coffee and chat it up. I am just as curious about you that you are perhaps me. But, nonetheless here we are and I don’t consider this luck or chance. Sit down, it is nice to meet you.

To start off, I thought it appropriate to include my favorite poem by Charles Bukowski as my very first post. I love it so much I even toyed with the idea of getting some kind of rendition of it tattoed to my body. Perhaps, perhaps not. But, it goes to say that it means that much to me. I too, have a blue bird in my heart that is dying to get out. And I have every ambition to let it out.

Ladies and gents, I present to you, Charles Bukowski’s “Blue Bird.”

Bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****s and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?