Love a la Instagram

He woke up suddenly...startled. That fact alone shocked him. He was not the kind of guy to respond to fear, nor were there a lot of things in the world that scared him. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around the room. "His girl" was sleeping soundlessly next to him, her fine blond locks in disarray on the pillow. The bedroom was quiet and calm...except for a very quiet crackling, like a small fire, that he noted on the side of the bed closest to him. He turned his head to find a large, deep red, glowing sphere floating in the air next to the bed. It was the color of the last rays of sunset -  blood red, burnt orange, deep purple...it hovered next to him and changed in size slightly with each movement. It made no noise to speak of but it's surface crackled and popped like pop rocks mixed with soda. Nothing about the orb seemed sinister...it simply was. 

Curiosity peaked, he got up to examine it closer. As he reached for it, the sphere moved away, as if refusing his touch. In order to figure out this strange phenomenon infringing on the peace of his slumber V decided to think logically - what hovered before him could not have been a figment of his imagination. True, his headaches have gotten worse with each new concussion, and sometimes he could not see anything at all unless the team physician thrust his hands into a bucket of ice to shock his system into performing til the game was over, but hallucinations were never a symptom he experienced. This could not be the result of a hangover - he did celebrate the start of the summer with quite a few sleepless, drug-filled nights but has since returned to his meticulously clean lifestyle and daily training in order to ensure that next season he would be a vital force on the team. He took no medications, did not smoke...no, nothing could explain this mini "sun." Wide awake he walked past the sphere to the kitchen. Strangely the sphere did not immediately follow. It slowly floated into the bathroom and came very close to his grooming kit...perhaps looking for something. It circled around the room to the side of the bed with "his girl" and lingered for a few seconds next to her. It flew into the closet and slowly hovered around his suits, examining, searching...perhaps remembering. It finally met him in the kitchen where V, not witnessing the strange trajectory of the orb, was busy making coffee. As he stared past the sphere and mindlessly drank he suddenly understood what this was. That fucking piece of shit Instagram VR love note!!!! Fan-fucking-tastic.

It all started out innocently enough. After acquiring 6G many social media platforms were able to expand their reach to unimaginable distances and advance their technology to create phenomena only described in sci fi novels. Emojis became live and floated from one user to the next; likes and dislikes were hovering around influencers like a swarm of bees; adorable, albeit annoying, puppies and kittens filled the streets as they rushed from sender to receiver to send a paw print or a lick.
Then came the ability to send people notes through the air which opened on contact and disappeared as soon as they were read. True DIRECT messages. Dating was never the same!

All of this was building up to the crown jewel - the ability to not only send someone a love note but to do it in such a way as to actually show them, and the world, exactly HOW much and HOW deeply you love them. IG made it possible to actually SHOW your feelings. The rollout was huge, of course. An initially nervous public embraced the idea of sending these spheres to "safe" targets - parents flooded the world with pastel pink and blue balloons that flew towards their children and upon touch exploded in gold confetti and fizzed in small bubbles making more than one baby giggle in absolute joy. Older parents were able to send somewhat stern looking spheres of love to their college grads and career warriors - these seemed to be smaller and slightly aggressive, in that they pushed themselves into the receiver in order to break apart and disappear. "I love you, but call me." "Don't disappear for a month again, I miss you." Then sports and celebrity fans discovered the power of sending LOVE to their icons. Every big sporting event was inundated with spheres made of team colors, every movie premiere an explosion of rainbow spheres from admirers of movie stars and directors. And V, being slightly famous in his field, received a good share of these...black and gold from fans of the team, a couple blue grey and green from family, a handful of small funny ones from kids who look up to him.

...and, unfortunately, quite a few from girls he conveniently forgot to call after a night or two of his usual fun. You wouldn't call these little planets "love" though...perhaps they were cries of anger or anguish. They were chocolate brown and black, dark purple and burgundy...they sped through his house and often knocked down the vases and moved the furniture from the force of the impact before exploding into little sharp tacks or shiny black hearts or whatever other bullshit these girls thought would make him take notice.

But who could blame them for wanting to try? They met a tall, charming, successful athlete who told them everything they wanted to hear. Who seemed to be able to read their thoughts and asked interesting, thoughtful questions. Who made a joke or two so nonchalantly that their guard inevitably came down...and who slipped out before the sun rose while they still dreamed of what could be.
They were understandably angry. Because none of them every knew about "his girl." None of them knew that he was master liar when he saw the opportunity for a perfect night. Not one could imagine that this handsome, strong, genuinely kind man has spent his whole adult life collecting women like trophies. No...collecting is the wrong word, for he never kept what he acquired. He spent his life using women as a conduit for his pleasure. When the need arose he went on a hunt to find the perfect girl to help him reach ecstasy.

And "his girl" knew...of course she knew. But she understood that ignoring his indiscretions was the price for becoming THE WIFE. She was willing to pay, of course, but she refused to have her face be thrust into it. Thus the spheres became a problem. She yelled, she cried, she chased them around the house wanting to strangle them and make them disappear...but they kept coming. The app was popular and the users rabid which flooded their home with incessant colorful balls that seemed to arrive at every inopportune moment. But, like all good and bad things, eventually they stopped.
Until this morning...
The sphere in question was more intense, both in color and size. And its behavior thus far was suspect, to say the least. For it seemed to have a purpose for being there. And he wasn't sure how this sphere was supposed to show him love.

He knew it would follow him so he quickly showered and slipped out of the house before "his girl" woke up. The orb followed him to the lake where he always went to clear his mind and escape what bothered him. It watched him load the boat into the water, assemble his lines, check his bates..and took off after the him as soon as the motor started. It never interfered with his actions or hindered his path through the water. In fact, it almost knew what he was going to do next, as if it has been on the lake before. This was definitely not a classic love note.

For hours he fished and tried not to think. The sphere's presence eventually stopped being a nuisance and he even began to think of it as a companion...like the family's dog that could sit next to him and stare at the water as he searched for specific fish he wanted to capture that day. He caught and released them, marvelling in his ability to outsmart nature and capture that, which did not want to be captured. Like the girls in his life the fish were only a temporary pleasure...the thrill of the hunt more important than the result. So he released each one into the water, never to think about them again.
As the sun began to set the water around him gained intensity. The blues and greens deepened and darkened and he marveled at the simple perfection of the lake before him. When he turned to put away his rods he gasped, for the sphere was now the color of the lake. A deep, fervent blue that glistened like mercury. Slowly it began to lighten to a piercing blue, the color of the sky.

And suddenly he KNEW. He knew who made the sphere. For it was now the color of her eyes. The color he tried to burn out of memory almost as soon as he left her that morning. The sphere grew larger and finally approached him. It slowly touched his body and when it did it began to rapidly disappear, fizzing and hissing as it turned a deep pitch black. He tried to hold on to it...to make it stop evolving but it was too late. He felt a small ache where the sphere touched his left nipple and when he looked down he saw a little white scar on his chest...the pace where her head used to rest.

Whenever she disappeared into the abyss of her monstrously giant bed he would call out into the darkness in a hoarse whisper - "come into my arms"...and out of the dark came her tiny hands that wrapped around his neck. Her lithe, muscular body would follow to press itself along his, as her always cold toes snuggled on his perpetually overheated body. A wild cat seeking comfort from the storm...she wrapped herself around him and rested her head on his chest and her lips always tickled his left nipple... a feeling he hated at the time but now missed. This was her sphere. It was the last message she wanted to send. Not to remind him of the intense love they shared for a brief time when both seemed free...not to appeal for a return. No. This was a simple declaration that her love for him was no more. The last time she could show him how deeply and passionately she loved him and missed him when he left her with a false hope and a suitcase full of pain.

This love was beautiful and it was now dead.

And even the little scar he thought the sphere left faded by the time he turned the key and entered his home where "his girl" was busy making dinner.

He opened his phone and started to write her...but stopped when he realized that there was absolutely nothing he could offer her. So he quietly showered and poured himself a glass of her favorite whiskey.
"To Instagram" he thought to himself as the liquid burned his throat.

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...

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 move...new job...new kitten...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 ends...no matter how long or brief it was...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 puffy...wine 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 undone...you feel empty. And sometimes lost. And what is the absolute worst...you 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.

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 live...new 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 because...so 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 friends...in 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 time...an 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 fortunate...so thankful...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 sunset...to 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 cheek...it 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.

La Reve D'ete

Hello old friend...it'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 slowly...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 today...today 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 reds...it 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 comforting...so calming...like 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 danced...so 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 night...it softly speaks of life...it 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.

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 lips...is 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.

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 change...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, comfortable...like 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 critiqued...it 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.

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 spreads...it 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 darkness...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 sometimes...to 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.

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."

ugh. KILL ME NOW.

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"...it 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 together...as one.