If a Moose were I

     I can't say I'm very social. I can't stand a neighbor closer that 2 miles to my home, and my dogs are not friendly. I don't reply to text messages unless I'm in a mood to socialize. I don't ever make phone calls ... I run away from human situations.
     But I do like dance parties. And fires. And sharing a smoke, even though I don't like smoking. I like to people-watch & to observe. But please don't come up to me and ask me boring questions about my name, my place of birth and my hobbies. I love spontaneous everything, even people.
     I have to get ready mentally to go into work; unexpected "Can you come in and cover a shift?" turns me into a cussing monster who throws mayo at the walls.
     I despise being fake to people, and I fake it badly.
     I'm just really confused about it all. Please don't like my hair.
     But I love to love. And when I love, you'll feel like there's no one else in the Universe as majestic as you are. One-on-one, you & I - we are the World!

When the sky dances above you

     I've been away from my birthplace for quite some time now, over half of my life. They say the water keeps you homesick - one yearns for the water from home. Water is magic. But that's another story...
     There's no way I'll learn how to speak another language like I speak my first. The colors, the textures, the waves and explosions of life weaved into syllables & sounds of my language that I am unable to convey through translation all gather in my chest, threatening to burst out through my tears. The oddest thing happens every time I walk into my native way, talk to someone in my native obnoxiousness - it feels like a thread pulls me together, it's so gooey-pleasant, it awakes me, intoxicates me & throws me into a plane where everything is possible. And so I dream & get drunk, and dance & sing out loud! Such a pattern! - it would make a great dress!

When I read what I write in English, I feel my mouth stuffed with fabric, yards of silk fabric. I can't pronounce all the letters properly. When I read what I write, I hear the accent, see the clouds in my head, feel the fog in my eyes. I still have trouble understanding & expressing the world in English. If both worlds are real, is that a blessing? I can travel between them, change who I am, how many I am. I wonder  ... I always wonder.
Too many "I"s in here ... it bothers me.

art by Michel Ogier

Есть у нас тут деревья семейства сосновых, которые каждые лет пять или даже семь дают кедровые орешки. Вот этот год как раз оказался этим седьмым али шестым, али просто -ым или в простонародье - им самым! Деревца небольшие, витые, покрытые серо-зелёным, ярким мхом. Моей радости нет предела! Наперегонки с белками собираю орешки, ем находу и вечером дома под лампой. А шишки все в липкой смоле! Оттираю руки маслом.
Пока мы трясли сосны, горы затянуло непроницаемым занавесом тяжёлых облаков. Два дня горы так стояли невидимыми. Шёл дождь. Сегодня поздно днём, к вечеру, облака поднялись: горы в снегу! Это как подарок, это волшебство! И стоишь так, почти вечно, смотришь туда, вверх, и не шелохнуться. А вот бы стянуть то облако, вон то что рядом с тучей, да, да! и укрыться им как одеялом, замотаться с носом, и дождь не страшен. А облака всё танцуют - сгущаются, уплывают, нагоняют, возвращаются, и вдруг смотришь, а там гора - будто кусочек шоколадного торта с ванильным кремом! И хочется домой и чаю.

 

Photo: Spirited Away

Go Seek

I've missed the rain, I said today when I came to it. 

No, you didn't, - it said, - here I am.