Year 3, Day 19: Hello, Mrs. Butterfly

Hi.  I decided to write you on here.  Because of what you said, over the weekend.  About the picture of me using our engagement ring as a resting place, for my microphone.

I guess you did know all along.  You knew that if we were going to fall in love (which we did, immediately), it would be a public romance. 

And you made your own decision, that you were willing to fight through those muddy waters, to get to a better place, together.
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And so here we are.  I am writing you a love letter, on the Internet.

Which is not new.  But doing it here, on my website, is maybe a little new.  Maybe a little more public. 

Especially since people are going to start finding it, more and more.  And making it a part of their daily routines.

Or not.
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Something Dragonfly said last night:  she gets tired, trying to keep up so many "social media sites."

I do, too.  I think that's been one of my issues, over the years.  I've tried to do too much.  I've tried to live too many different lives, on the Internet.

And to think:  this whole time, "the Internet" hasn't been real.
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I am more comfortable than ever, writing you love letters online.  Because in the real world -- the physical world -- you have a ring on your finger, and we are now on our way to marriage. 

Which is exciting.  More than exciting.

Part of me wants to keep every aspect of our relationship private.  And who knows -- I may make that decision, starting tomorrow. 

But you are a part of my life, and I am a part of yours.  And that is terrific, wonderful, and exciting news, to both of us.  And I don't apologize for that.  I instead choose to shout it from the highest rooftop.

Hmm.  Maybe it's time I do that, literally.  Maybe on Thursday, I should shout from the top of Mount Trashmore.  That I am in love.  And that I have found my Ride-or-Die Boo.

I found my wife. 

And her name is Mrs. Butterfly Turner.

Punboy at the Beach

Today is May 14, 2016. 

I live in Virginia Beach now,
along with Miss Butterfly Starfish,
and her daughter Dragonfly Snowflake.

My name is Bryson Turner. 
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I used to write on this blog every day.

Now, I do again.
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I have never posted videos on brysonturner.com, every day.

I am now doing that, for the first time.
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My next public performance is this Monday night, at Pinboys, the bowling alley on Laskin Road.  The show starts at 9 pm. 

I'll be there.

And I'll try to be funny.
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Good morning, Virginia Beach

After a long and winding road,

I arrived here yesterday evening,

about 8 pm,

May 13,

2016

Or at least,

that's what I would have called it,

before the ocean taught me none of that matters.

It matters, of course.  It all matters. 

It was 8 pm, so we had a few hours before we had to pick up Dragonfly.

It was May 13, so it was time to pay the cable bill.

It was 2016, so it was an election year.

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All of those numbers were waiting for us, when we got back home.

The ocean doesn't change that.

The ocean renders to Caesar, what is Caesar's.

It renders to Verizon, what is Verizon's

The Ocean doesn't fight.  And it doesn't pride itself in not fighting.

The Ocean is The Ocean.

It will be there.

Before us.  After us.

Don't worry.

The Ocean's love won't be swayed by us. 

The Ocean can only be fair. 

It is our reflection,

whether we see ourselves or not.

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Shout-Out to Recovered Hipsters

Hey guys.

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Okay.  So this is the cool part, about being a (*god-like echo voice*) 

Stand-Up, COMEDIAN _____
Mostly, it's the little things.  You get to shout cool people out, on your website.  You get to give people a little bit of a thrill (hopefully), in their day.  And if things go just right, you help people take their lives a little bit less seriously. 

A great comedy show is a massage for the inner chutes and ladders of your brain. 
A great comedian is a real-life Ms. Frizzle, giving audiences a tour of the silliest and most ticklish parts of his or her mind, and letting each kid on the magic school bus decide whether to feel good because they are the same, or because they are different. 
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In that way, stand-up comedy has never been about being funny.  It just hasn't.  It's been about being aware.  Because true self-awareness is such a rarity, such a shock to the rest of us, that it's mere presence is hilarious. 
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Steven Wright has been exploring the limits of just how funny an "unfunny" person can be.  Have you guys heard of him? 

Here is a clip of his from the mid-1980s:


There is an absurdity to his thoughts, but he was never a bombastic performer.  But instead of trying to be someone he wasn't, he used his natural style to his advantage. 

He was still performing, of course, in his own way.  But that's just it.  It's in his own way.  Out of all the comedians I've watched and studied over the years, Steven looks as comfortable with himself as any of them.

Turns out, the reason he looks so comfortable is because he was so uncomfortable.  He talks a little about that in the first minute of this 2012 interview:



You said to suggest some comedians who might have slipped through the cracks, for anyone who was welcomed into the "stand-up universe" through the Louis window. 

You mentioned Patton Oswalt, and he's a phenomenal comedian.  Both of them inspired me as a person, trying to make sense of the world around us.

Steven is a different flavor, and you may not find him as resonating.  But he was a courageous comic in the 1980s, when so many comedians were trying to copy the successes of more-successful peers.  If you enjoy his absurd Magic School Bus rides through his mind, I can suggest a few other names that ventured out on their own, stylistically.
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I didn't get into my own story today, and that's okay. 

I hadn't written a blog in a year -- not since I officially retired from stand-up last year,
and not since Butterfly, Dragonfly and I moved from New York in September. 

(we use code names on here.  you guys are now code name "Recovered Hipsters" 

I'm "Bumblebee."  That way I can keep my anonymity, here at brysonturner.com)
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Anyway:  If nothing else, your collective coolness overflowed the cup, and got me writing again.  So thanks again for stopping by yesterday. 

Next time, bring the pet monkey.

Sincerely,
Bumblebee and Butterfly

Pack 3

Butterfly cooks a Toaster Strudel, for Dragonfly.
Bumblebee asks if he can have one.
Dragonfly asks what kind he wants.
With a glare.
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Glares aren't so bad, when they come with a yes.
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See you in 4 years, Comedy Hajj.

Time to learn from Kelly Carlin.

Pack 1

Butterfly flutters into work,
fitting 9 years of goodbyes,
into 2 more shifts.

Dragonfly lies passed out in bed,
ready for her next chapter,
impatiently waiting
for life to turn the page.

Bumblebee writes.
Because it's easier to describe packing
than to shut up and do it.

Talk

My daughter sits across from me, at our dining room table.

We are back at this week's home, in Brooklyn.

Which means our "dining room"

is the part of our kitchen with a table.
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She -- like all the rest of us --
wants the air and space
of the town and home
she just tasted,

And that her mother and I
applied for this morning.
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Her mother,
bedroom down the hall,
dreaming of her dream-life,
with one island in her kitchen,
and another two blocks down the road.
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We are exhausted.

Home

I sit in the lobby of my Motel 6.

The desk lady and a coffee guy talk about spilling things,
as she wipes something up off the floor.

I wonder how clean my chair is.
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The fiancé showers upstairs, in our family's new home,

which will no longer be ours, at 11 a.m.

By the time she checks out, she will have almost gotten used to the smell.
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The kids lie on the bed next to ours,

one passed out cold,
one pretending to be,

because nobody knows how to wake up, with someone else in the room.
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Next to them, in the corner, lying on a cheap wooden table,

lies our very rude house guest.

It is a lease application.
for a dream home.

And for the next few days,
It will demand all of our emotion.

Trip

My half-packed bag on the floor beside me.

The kid's dog is sleeping on top of it.

My bag is her Tiananmen Square.
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The kid is passed out cold, in her room.

The up-all-night taunts
of her and best friend
are mere echoes,

bouncing around her walls like a screensaver.
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The fiance' strides confidently

between bathroom and bedroom.

Back forth,
back forth,
back forth,

doing whatever needs to be done,

so that when we pull in tomorrow morning,

we'll look like those pictures you've seen
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of a family.

Wake

I sit on the edge of our bed.

Weight vest on.

Waiting for my body to agree with my mind.
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My fiancé has a half-hour lead.

Her body dances in rhythm with the bike.

The sound of the pedals is a one-person locomotive.
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The step-kid is sleeping down the hall.

Dreaming in the world
of wherever the TV takes her.
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Jump

I sit in my office, table overwhelmed with papers.

My step-daughter is laughing about something, down the hall.

My fiance' is sleeping -- I hope -- in the room next door.
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I pick at the receipts.

It's like raking leaves, but one at a time.
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Leaps of faith are scary, in this world.

They feel a lot better

when you have six legs.
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