...ramblings of a fashionable sociopath

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Мой Лисик...

Я часто думаю о тебе, моя маленькая девочка. 
Сейчас ты паришь где-то в еффемерной вселенной. Ты ждешь меня... Видишь ли ты меня? Знаешь ли ты как долго я тебя жду? 
Давно ли ты выбрала меня или ещё решаешь? 

Когда я вижу тебя в снах, то только с сзади. Твои маленькие загорелые плечики на пляже. Твоя панамка вот вот наровит улететь, но ты не замечаешь потому что ты сосредоточенно строишь замок из твоих абстрактных видений. Ты не видишь мамины руки которые наровят унести тебя под защиту большого зонта и намазать терпко пахнущим санблоком. Ты спишь на мне...мой маленький заспанный пупс. Ветер нежно колошит твои золотистые пряди и нам так приятно прятаться от знойного дня...
Вот твои маленькие ступни которые шлепают по холодному деревянному полу когда ты, ещё заспанная, идёшь к завтраку. Твоя большая копна волос все время наровит упасть в лицо...и ты убираешь её всей рукой потому что твои пальчики ещё не слушаются тебя. 

Твои строгие пальчики, которые надевают мундиры из малины перед тем как те нырнут в ротик, так как учила мама. 
Черные кожанные ботинки которыми ты весело болтаешь на кресле самолета, большое как диван, пока я терпеливо обьясняю почему оливковое масло не растворяетсья в воде. 
Твои большие, пухлые губки, которые ты сжимаешь вместе, перед тем как спросить меня твой очереднной, серьёзный, вопрос. 
Я готовлюсь к ним. Я знаю что не буду знать все ответы потому что у тебя нестандартноё мышление и все что ты видишь вокруг ты воспринимаешь с интересом и серьёзностью не твоих лет. 

Я хочу быть сильной для тебя. Я научусь кататься на лыжах что бы держать тебя когда ты будешь падать (было очень страшно но я переборола себя потому что ты важнее всех страхов). Я научусь стрелять чтобы защитить тебя и говорить по французски что бы говорить тебе "Бонжур ма петит фий" каждый день. 
Я качаю мышцы которые помогут держать тебя в волнах дикого океана и ты будешь звонко смеяться как я, когда меня держала моя мама. Я читаю в запой что бы рассказывать тебе интерессные сказки....ты будешь знать все балеты, пьесы, истории, поэмы и картины. Я буду достойной тебя, мой Лисик. 
Я не буду плакать от злости и обращать внимание на тупых людей жаждущих моего внимания. Я не буду терять терпения и надежды что все получиться как я мечтала. 
Жди меня, моя маленькая прекрасная девочка. Пожалуйста, жди меня. Нам осталось совсем чуть чуть...

Monday, October 24, 2016

Te semper et in perpetuum amabo (a study in fiction)

The first time I came to California was when we landed in America. I was 11 years old and the trip was a blur… We stopped in Los Angeles for a quick layover before flying to Vegas. It was the first time I breathed American air and all I remember is the piercing blue sky and spiky palm trees waving in the breeze like skater boys nodding to us with their tussled mops of hair.

 I didn’t get to see the ocean until a few years later when my grandparents moved to LA.  Nothing can compare to seeing that all-encompassing mass of water spread out infinitely in front of you… its strength and power overwhelming yet not frightening…the impression softened by the gentle lull of the waves hitting the sand.
That sound…I’ll give anything for that sound to be the first thing I wake up to every day.

California immediately became my love, as I imagine it does for most people who see it. And despite being so familiar, has remained effusive and, dare I say it, unattainable. Perhaps my love life is the root. Over the years I have traversed the desert hundreds of times…first to visit family…then a string of boyfriends who have all, strangely enough, originated or ended up in CA.

Driving down the immaculately groomed streets of Newport I always try to memorize every detail …the whimsical street art, the colorful doors, the names of the tiny stores that manage to exist despite selling plain items at inflated prices. I hungrily absorb the fit moms clad in Lululemon as they push their precious cargoes in designer strollers; the preppy teens, too blond and too tan from their daily sun worship; the retirees who leisurely sit in small cafes and savor their coffee…Everything is illuminated in golden sunlight and the roar of the ocean is never far away…the air is saturated with sea salt and a light breeze beckons towards the water.

LA always feels hot and saturated…with people, cars and buildings upon buildings upon buildings. So many landmarks fly by. So many memories of days past and times well spent. The city feels like a giant animal belly filled to the brim with tiny insects..all scurrying along to accomplish their tasks for the day, trampling and crawling over each other to get closer to the sun.  Up on the hills the mansions turn their cold facades towards the ocean and raise their gates high so that no one can disturb the expensive peace of their inhabitants. The hipsters and the cool kids duck in an out of galleries and obscure studios…I am mesmerized by their patterns. I wonder what that life would’ve been like. I love it still.

I drive down PCH. The car glides along the edge, so close that I pretend I’m  driving on the water. It curves and pivots in a symmetry reminiscent of a waltz…and takes me down the most beautiful coves and valleys. Malibu is it’s own world. So achingly posh and deceptively casual that one can start to believe one belongs. But Californians always recognize a stranger. The see the eyes thirsting for the salty water…the hands nervously grasping grains of sand…those little granules running through my hands like minutes slipping away…How do these people live here? How did they manage to stay in Nirvana? Do they have unhappy days? Is that even possible when you have the beach at your command whenever you wish? I grasp at straws. 

This life…this beach life in this perfect place… I wonder why it can’t be mine. I’ve wondered that since I first met you.

My love for this place is irrevocably tied to my love for you. The places I see are colored by my memories… they are the precious jewels saved in a far away corner of my mind. Like an avid collector I have stored them and locked them away yet, once in a while, I summon them and tenderly relieve the moments, taking care to polish the details…to clean the crevices, so that they’re strengthened and protected…so that they last forever.

The secret beaches we snuck into…the wild roar of the ocean at night that accompanied many of our adventures..the smell of steaks sizzling on the grill and the deep red wine decanting on the table..Beast of Burden and 2 AM…sunblock covered hands and pervasive sand in my carryon…I taste the sun on your skin…I run my fingers along your tendons and bones and trace your life as I fall asleep next to you.

Time mercilessly flies and before I blink the weekend’s over. And I am forced out. It’s time to leave and California expels me again. 
I want to stay! Why can’t I ever stay? Why can’t I stay forever? But no, career, taxes, family and friends.. all perfectly valid reasons to return home.

I have an almost primal need to be near that water. To walk along the edge as water licks my toes. To fall asleep as the waves enter the bedroom through open windows. 
To hear the ocean crash against the cliffs and retreat back again… fall asleep next to you again curled up and scratching at your heart to let me in. 

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Je t'aime...Je ne t'aime plus

Ugh... it's been a while again, hasn't it? I must admit I thought about you, my little blog. I thought about you often. But I could not bring myself to write anything...for a long time. New boyfriend...None of that seemed to be enough to open myself up again.

Until now I guess.

Another break-up has taken place. This one much more short-lived and bearable in terms of pain and depression.

Which made me think...does the quality of a relationship (it's intensity, it's length, it's milestones) have a direct correlation to the duration and quality of the break-up? I suppose it is not an exact relationship. Of course there can be short-lived but "once-in-a-lifetime" romances that devastate you when they end. And there are the "dragged out much too long" monotonies that may end fairly amicably and, even, kindly. But it seems in my life so far the correlation has been direct.

When a relationship matter how long or brief it will still always hurt. And it is such a special type of hurt isn't it? I wonder if I could ever describe what one feels in a break-up to my child? That special hopeless, dull, unfathomable ache that takes over like a black abyss into which you feel yourself slipping.
It physically hurts because you feel actual pangs in your heart and your stomach.
It hurts repeatedly because every time a thought catches you of guard and a memory flickers before you the pain intensifies and doubles you over.
It hurts so much more whenever you wake up - for a few moments you are barely awake and safe and content...and then you remember what broke you and the tears flow and the hopelessness takes hold as its cold jaws grip your heart. Thus weeks in bed are spent...eyes are bottles empty.

It's the emptiness that catches you.. that place the person you loved had filled (a weird place you created for them in your life) is now empty and it does not disappear right away under the weight of the interests and stresses of daily existence.
How fascinating are humans? A stranger had a necessary, vital role in your well-being...and now they are no longer there. And even though how they impacted your life is, largely, your doing...and can be easily feel empty. And sometimes lost. And what is the absolute feel hopeless. You wonder if this was the last time you were loved. If this was the one person you should have tried harder with.  Should have changed for???

Yeah, no. FUCK THAT. I am all for (sensible) compromise but I will be damned if I change a single thing about me for another human being that is not related to me by blood. I am an adult now, for better or worse. And a pretty great one actually. So to change for someone because I do not want to face loneliness?? That is just absurd.

Happiness comes in many forms and this, of course, won't be my last relationship. Nor my last break up I imagine. But marriage and co-habitation remain big question marks for me...I am truly unsure if these are things I want or need. Perhaps my opinions will change with time. Currently, willingly living a shorter life because I want a male companion seems ludicrous (there is actual science behind this should you choose to investigate further).

This one hurt...But given how short and inconsequential it was, the pangs only lasted a few hours. And now it's hard to even remember why we dated in the first place. A fleeting thought here and there...but really nothing more.

Interest in the male species as a whole is peaking again which means I must be feeling better. My friendships and pursuits have not been impacted and I move on...again. I'd like to say stronger and wiser....but I've always been strong. The wiser part is a work in progress.

Monday, March 16, 2015

A solitary thought...

Am listening to smokey jazz...Kitten curled up at my feet. A lazy spring (or summer really) afternoon - air heavy from absorbing the sun's rays, an occasional swift breeze is all that disturbs the tree tops and even the birds are napping. I feel...content.

On the brink of a new phase of life, I find my thoughts turn more and more to happiness. Not the actual feeling, the concept I think? For the first time in a long, really long, time my life is changing dramatically. A new place to work, a new place to friends, new struggles...I will just GO to work. And come home. How simple yet how few appreciate the concept.

The last decade has been spent somewhat in suspension - God knows, I truly tried to live fully. I fell in and out of love, I met new faces, I saw more of the world. But as I look around my apartment where the things that mean enough to me to make the move to my new city can fit in one box - I cannot deny that the last decade was not lived completely. I will now have decorations for the holidays - an emotional luxury I have not allowed myself until now. I will not fill my days with study texts but rather books on history and art and, oh God, fiction! I can just read. For fun. I can go to a concert, just because. I can invite someone over for dinner...and not worry about how late we stay up. (I have done these things, obviously, to some degree in the last decade but never enough to constitute a pattern. Rather these have been rare and, dare I say, momentous occasions).

As I look at travel websites my heart skips a beat from anticipation. I can leave town for more than a week! Which means Asia and Turkey and Latin America...small luxury cruises and weird treks to "just because" locations not just the big ticket items like Paris which I favored to maximize my sensory overload in a short amount of time that was allotted. I will be the person that knows what the sun feels like on your skin during sunset in Capri...or what sound the whales make when they crash next to an iceberg in Iceland. I will have a favorite cafe in Prague and an all season pass to Prado.
I will have an iron skillet and a wok. And I will make yummy things in my kitchen just that my friends can come over and enjoy a glass of wine while I feed them my creations. I can make museums and parks my routine. I can see my person!...just because, even across state lines.

Happiness... the word rolls of my tongue. I taste it as the consonants form between my lips. H.A.P.P.I.N.E.S.S.                                                             I like it.
But I am also afraid. For a long time now, and I cannot remember how it started...I cannot submit to happiness. I do not actively seek to be miserable or sanguine. What I mean is - every time I am happy - during an event...a flickering moment captured in experience that will never be forgotten...anything that truly stirs the soul and makes the heart beat faster - that is when suspension happens. My mind separates from my body and I begin to frantically analyze the moment, capturing every detail and cataloguing it (yes actually filing the memory away). I do this BEFORE the moment is even over. Which means that while it is happening instead of submitting to it with closed eyes and an open being I maniacally grab to the pieces and fragments to SAVE, SAVE it for later, SAVE it for when I am sad or alone...SAVE it for when I am old perhaps? This happens without my command...nor is it subject to my control.

I grab my phone and flick, flick, flick ....snap the photos that will help me capture the moment. Instead of losing myself to the emotion I snatch it and preserve it like a rare insect under the glass of my subconscious.

So I am afraid....I am afraid that I will find ways to lose myself in the day to day again...and I won't stop to look at the sunset... and I will blink and a decade will fly past me leaving only photos taken by a stranger to remind me of what once was. I look at pictures of my youth - I still remember how insecure and frustrated I was...yet so young and beautiful and delicately confused. WHY didn't I savor that? Why did I rush to move on and not give those life stages their due? Evolution was key but those steps should have been slower...calmer...colored with patience and a unwavering belief that change would happen as it should, without rushing it along.

Is the answer meditation? Self-help books? Religion? Therapy? Is happiness akin to a discipline that one must practice? Will little exercises every day accumulate to make me happy like the muscles I have trained this year that now glide under my clothes and give me the strength I craved so badly?

I am so aware of the positives of my life. But this is different. Comparing my station to others less fortunate is an exercise in gratitude not happiness. Happiness is a different beast. How do you teach someone to be happy? To Enjoy...To Savor...To let my eyes and ears and hands embrace the moment instead of my phone?

I keep reverting to this dream of mine - I am on a small boat sailing at sunset. I am me as I am now (not old nor fragile nor sick) yet I am sitting in a rocking chair wrapped in a thick blanket though it is summer. My mom is next to me and she looks at me as someone looks on one who is terminally ill...with great love, sorrow and a bit of pity. She asks me to look at the really look at it. To let the sun bathe me in its soothing light. To listen to the waves splash against the boat. To let the breeze ruffle my hair and not reach up to fix it so that it's perfect again. Her hand is on my back and I feel something on my is a tear...I cannot see now because tears are streaming from my eyes...the sun and the water merge in a kaleidoscope of colors and I weep from overwhelming sorrow. I am very old and my mom is just my imagination of her...and I realize that I am alone and crippled by my inability to surrender to this emotion. This is NOT the future I want. This is the nightmare that haunts me now...

How's that for self-actualization? We've acquired food and shelter...conquered higher education and financial stability...and now we are hysterical because we "can't feel happiness." If I weren't me I'd tell me to SIT DOWN. haha

But if we value life for it's experiences...for the people we affect...for the mark we make on the world and the world makes on us...shouldn't the pursuit of happiness equate in value to Maslow's basic needs? A work in progress indeed.

Friday, April 11, 2014


I was a child when we came here. I still remember holding my mother tight in my arms, cradling her face and wiping her tears as the train took us away from our home...HER I promised her that I would be her strength wherever we would go...

America was THE dream. That magnificent something where anything was possible. I
I got only a glimpse of our country. The way our government punished us for years. Individuality...intelligence...passion...were repugnant.
Sins for which we payed.
Secrets we hid in our kitchens late at night.
When we gathered at night we listened to underground rock bands who sang of that unreachable place...and tears clouded the world as we danced in the candlelight.

You will never know what it is like to be on a waiting list for an "forbidden" book. To stand in endless lines for a piece of fruit for your child. To battle every day so that your child feels loved and special. To beg for a pray that one day you won't have to share a 3 bedroom with 3 families and the kitchen will have only one fridge and not three. That running water won't be orange. That you can move to a city simply because you want to and not require a permit from the government to do so.
How does this still exist??

She was an actress then...the best memories of my childhood were spent in that old theater with her bohemian friends who treated me like one of them and shared everything they had with me as if I deserved it. We longed SO much to come here. We hoped that our lives would simply fall into place and become the glossy perfection we saw on screens late at night. And though in some ways our expectations have far exceeded anything we could have imagined then, the road has been paved with blood and tears. I still remember watching these melancholy young, really, beautiful in their tragedy...delicate in their sadness...tell jokes by a fire, give their souls for their art, search for meaning, in a country that was never going to give them anything except disappointment. The country that would beat them into submission and make them faceless clones passing time until death.
It is so difficult to put into words what we thought the world...and America...was. The reality is not bad (that is not my intention)...but it is hard to convey with words those fleeting images of this far away land that we thought gave you happiness as soon as you stepped onto the ground. No, it was not realistic. But I miss the naivete nonetheless.

I thought things got better in my homeland. But tonight, when I watched our "Grammys" I saw a singer who sang about flying over Moscow away from the "cage" to Europe. And the crowd, usually sullen and morose...smiled and clapped and waved...and cried. Because they are still there. Trapped, persecuted, unable to fulfill their potentials. Artists, intellectuals...the forgotten children of Europe.
We are not a third world country, far from it. Yet this response shows how deeply unhappy we still are.

The song playing now cannot be translated. It is a goodbye to America - where the singer has never been. He is mourning the loss of something he never possessed. He faces the reality that life will never change. Years later, though I have never lived communism how my mother or my friends have, it still brings back pain. That delicately excruciating pang of nostalgia for my beautiful country that I so deeply loved and didn't want to leave. The self pity I feel for never being able to belong anywhere since... and the unforgiving realization that no dream is ever real. The perpetual guilt I feel for having my success be paid in my mother's youth and happiness. The America I thought I would find...that Paradiso that we created in our heads.
I have made the most of what she gave me, far more than either of us had expected. I have taken "The American Dream" and I have pushed it to its limits. I am the story parents tell their children. And I worked to the bone to get it. And now, on the almost eve, of another decade I am reflecting on what once was. I look to the future...but I can never forget the past. I was but a child, but those memories are burned in my soul.
My blood is Russian. My heart is American. Where the rest of me ends up is anyone's guess...

Sunday, March 30, 2014

La Reve D'ete

Hello old's been a while since I've confided in you. Life became hectic and there was not much to say...Let's try again?

Today the wind changed. Summer has been creeping in small bursts...a warm breeze deep in the night...a random hot day on a cold week... a solitary flower bursting out earlier than it's meant to as if its coming will defy the laws of nature.
But summer came to stay. And I am so happy to see it.

As the sun slowly melts into the horizon it colors the sky in the most beautiful looks like love. It feels like a passionate embrace. The air is heavy with the remains of the day and one can almost see it sigh as the sun disappears into the landscape. It is so so the embrace of someone you call your home.

One of my most favorite times of the year are the lush warm summer nights. When the night is pitch black and the cicadas are singing. I love nothing more than to look out onto the lights of MY city with a glass of dark red in my hand. The windows are open (the only time I let nature in) and the night envelopes the bedroom, quietly rustling among the sheets, carrying with it such restful, dream-less sleep that is so sorely desired and so rarely attained.

When I was younger summer meant never ending parties at our house. Every night people would come and evenings were spent over yummy dinners and long conversations on the patio...The house was filled with music and laughter. Wine flowed and people happy to be alive.
I never feel as young as I do in the summer. Never as beautiful or social. I long for it to come. I miss it like an old friend when it is replaced by unwanted seasons.

I yearn for hot desert nights. The heat waves fill my veins and make me warm again. They calm my mind and relax the chains I bind myself with every day. The desert whispers at softly speaks of searches for meaning. It is a secret meant for only a few. Perhaps this is as close to meditation that I will ever get.

Someday my house will again be filled with people. Soirees and fetes and dances, a kaleidoscope of life, will never end. And each night...when the world sleeps...I will look out onto the lights of my city and the stars burning fervently eons away and feel ALIVE.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Old skin

It's funny....It's been a while since we broke..yet, once in a while, I find myself missing HIM. Like a whiff of a stranger's perfume or a fleeting image, a memory of him appears and creates a ...pause.

I shake it off. Memories of him no longer make me sad...or even melancholy. I can listen to, what used to be, our song and not feel that familiar stabbing pain in my heart I learned to count as my own when we were together.

But once in a while...once in a while a song comes along and I revert. Memories of our wintery love flash back...I long for my friend. I long for the  LOVE I had with a handsome man who loved me so passionately. I mourn what we used to be. I close my eyes...and wish I was back in his arms and all was right with the world. The future that I once held in my hand...the future with grey eyes and soft gone forever. It was never "to be"...but the pain remains. Despite how strongly I convinced myself that it was the right choice.
I KNOW with the entirety of my being that it was the right choice. But my heart misses nonetheless...especially on cold dark nights like tonight.

I blink and the moment passes. He was not the ONE.
...all the is left now are killer songs.

Friday, November 1, 2013

Black is the new black.

I have been feeling strange lately...I have lived in scrubs for so long that I have began to forget my own sense of style. I spent my free time wearing the same dull outfits that fulfilled a function but have criminally lacked any passion or individuality.

I am an avid shopper. Ravenous fashion fiend. That has not, nor will ever, truly change. And I get easily inspired...the spring and fall couture collections are literally my porn. I love in-depth discussions on colors, profiles on designer inspirations, arguments on which trend will dominate our lives for the next year. You have your sport scores...I have Marc Jacobs and Uncle Karl.

Like any fashionista worth her salt I have my icons. The girls that have, and always will, inspire countless generations to aspire to the level of chic-ness once attained by these ethereal beauties. The danger lies in letting aspiration become imitation. In an effort to evolve...I have sought out bohemian dresses...punk rings...hipster tops...and, God help me, COLOR.
I defied my body shape, my measurements...even my inherent darkness, to create a "festival-living, trust-fund girl on a year sabbatical, living on music and cigarettes" wardrobe...that hangs lifelessly in my closet. Stylish pieces undoubtedly...but not ME. I honestly do not know why this happened. In part, probably because i truly LOVE (nay, live for) fashion and "experimenting" is the name of the game. Partly, I must admit, because at some point the all-black, sleek silhouettes with low cut backs and high slits, leather and cashmere...tattoos and cat eyeliner...get old. Become an imitation of what you thought you were. Become boring...and invite rebellion.
And this constant search for the new...ME? ...became exhausting too. And it made me forget a part of me that I really liked. Does that even make sense??

I went out with some friends the other night... I came running from work, frustrated at not knowing what to wear...confused about the appropriate amount of what to reveal (more on that to come)...I reached for my favorite black skinnies. A black sleeveless cashmere turtleneck. Tousled hair, black eyeliner, a couple rings. Simple, a second skin. As I walked through the square on my way to the restaurant I heard whistles from ages 18-45 and saw jealous glances from my gender. My gait was strong, my eyes lit up, I  ...I felt like myself. (Not that this is the one true measure of an outfit but stated only to give the complete picture. Even if the aforementioned did not happen I would've still felt the same. Moving on. )And I realized that at this stage of the game my style is set. I do not know why I fought my nature when it was never wrong. My fashion sense has never been has always been admired and desired by others. Yet I fought against it because I thought it too basic to suit what I saw my life being.
But when I reached out for it, it was there, like always. My second skin.

Style is not something one should actively think about. It MUST be organic to work. Anything less will look too poised and will never belong to you. It is perfectly and expectedly natural to look at trends and appropriate the major themes. But it is futile to try to emulate every look of one's icon to the tee -- all it will become is a fun-house mirror image of the truth. No one grows up wanting to be a mime, right?

So there it is. I am back to black. Back to reaching out for things that slither...hug every curve...and envelop in luxury. Back to the deviant and slightly obscene. Back to utterly chic and unmistakably dark. That is who I am....and I shall no longer fight it. My style will evolve -- but on its own. There will be more couture, more sophistication...but there will always, ALWAYS, a tiny streak of the dark, for one cannot deny one's nature.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Los Caprichos

Masks...all I see around me is masks. 

They begin floating around me, perfect white faces that exude a light that can only come from quality porcelain. They are somewhat plump, illuminated, yet without definitive characteristics.
They spin and spin around...despite my best efforts to focus on the lush darkness I crave they force themselves into my vision again and again. Not offensive but definitely NOT helpful.

Suddenly black streaks of paint begin to appear on their faces. A streak here...a streak there...the masks do not seem to notice. But the black paint discolors them and makes them change...
as if in a reaction the masks begin to shrink and grow...they wither away only to come back enlarged...they run away and come right back, incessantly. I reach out for solace. My thoughts won't let me rest.

They aggressively mutate into distorted faces that now show expression. They scream and laugh...they push themselves into every corner of my vision...they bring forth thoughts I've worked all day to suppress. I turn away...I push them away...I hide to no avail.
They mock my efforts to silence them. Over and over they change, they spin and fly, they taunt...And no matter how hard I shut my eyes they are omnipresent. My lush darkness disappears. It cannot compete with filthy little masks that shut it out.  Ravenous masks devour my darkness...the rip it to shreds and fill it with bright white.
I toss and turn...Hours fly by.

...a little furry paw stretches across my face. I hear soft purring- someone obviously has no problems sleeping. How I envy her me sleep has been an elusive retreat for so long. I chase it nightly. That peaceful rest that makes one feel refreshed and satisfied... is a rarity for me.

Perhaps tonight it will come...Lofticries.

Monday, June 10, 2013

nurture my nature

I cannot deny my roots. I do not want to.
Yet I instinctively balk when someone asks me where I am from....I find the question repugnant. I become defensive...
they must be questioning if I belong.. identifying me as a stranger amidst their kind.
Ostracizing me for the faint accent they hear...How dare they! haha

Of course, I am sure that is a gross over-reaction. I do not look American. I do not talk or dress like the girls that surround me. I am undeniably, clearly... Russian. But I loathe that "Russian" has become synonymous with fur, and glitter, and garish opulence. With loud voices and rude behavior. With too much make-up and flashy...everything. Worldwide we are represented by the few who are able to travel and flaunt their wealth dripping in distaste and bad manners...which, unfortunately, is not who we are as a people. We do not live on vodka and potatoes. We do not throw tantrums like petulant children or become a spectacle of poor taste. We love culture and value intelligence...but we are often not seen amidst the Euro trash that has infected every country on the planet under the guise of the "Russian invasion."


At my core I am so deeply PROUD of my blood. My blood, that spawned a great Imperial power. My blood that birthed great poets and composers.

My Russia is hard to describe. But when I close my eyes and think of my home...this is what I see...



These are my people...

Sometimes I long for my childhood...for the amazing food that quenches the soul. For the music that makes me feel like I belong. For the beauty that can only be found in my continent. (Yes, continent. Twelve time zones people. Not filled with bears walking the streets or permanently covered in snow)... The stereotypes that fill pop culture are partly our fault...we do nothing to dispel them and choose to ignore rather than to correct. As if talking about the truth will somehow betray our secrets.

I guard my heritage, I do not talk about my past...nor do I flaunt it like some other cultures, only to alienate those around me because they are less "ethnic." Tres gauche mon ami.

I carry it with me...I love the Russian tid bits that sprinkle randomly into my life. I never pass up a chance to speak with those who understand me. I SAVOR the jokes and, embarrassingly, the epic curse words. I am proud that Russians are known for their strength and their beauty.

Unfortunately I do not have Russian friends. I do not surround myself with Russian music or literature on a daily basis...but when I happen to hear a song from days long gone I miss my home. My heart aches for the country that no longer knows me...the country that I will never live in. I miss the humid summer nights scented by field flowers, the crisp dark snow-covered nights, the antique perfume permeating the halls of the St Petersburg subway...the comradery of a Russian gathering where laughter and wine are never-ending and every person treats you like family.

My blood cannot be denied..My offspring will know our past - they will represent the land I love to my core, with dignity and a superiority created by good breeding and a noble past. They will never be "nouveau." They will quietly build our legacy and will never be a caricature of those that came before them. And perhaps, one day, "Russian" won't mean "spy," or "drunkard," or "mafia" will mean "interesting," "intelligent," or "exotic" again.

I know, I will return...if not permanently, at least enough to feel at home again. To feel like I belong to something much greater...a collective "Borg" that thinks and feels as one.
Suffers as one.
Loves as one.
Survives and prospers one.