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“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.” -A. Golden
Stand firm the noble evergreens on the western edge of the great continent
Come strong the Pacific winds, and all the little people on the ground seek cover
The trees soon fall – oh, but not all
Just the ones who may have stood too long without the nourishing earth in their roots
Or those who died, while no one noticed
Or those who were just unlucky today
So the smallness of me is made so much more small, and somehow therefore more great
In the midst of the tempermental winds that blow through every autumn
Toppling 200 year conifers and richening the word fall
It is not my deep abiding love for you alone that has brought me here. More powerful than that is faith. I have a strong and steadfast faith that you will pull through. I know you will die if you do not, but do not dwell on this fact. Beneath this disease is a soul that yearns to breathe free, to do the difficult work that has been set before you. Twice now you have been through the steps. You have maintained sobriety. You have lived side by side with me, and walked as a free man in this world. Well, you have fallen again. But there is hope. There is faith.
As if standing at the mouth of the well that is your seemingly bottomless despair I lower a rope. But I cannot make you grasp it, to hold tight. And I cannot pull you up on my own. You will need to fumble with the slippery stones, the jagged vertical walls. You will need your friends, your family, your people with their hands on the rope, their backs bent into the work. We all pull for you. We don’t let go. We cheer for you. We counsel you. We will do our best to guide you. But ultimately, it is you alone in the darkness, in the hole. Look up and see us and the light of life that waits. Look up and have faith.
In how many Trojan scenarios shall I be your suffragette?
A wise man told me “suffering is common” – that was his sentiment
Draw me up introspectively a study in human betrayal
I cast shadows of doubt on gravestones reading, HOPE
Even as the dark underbelly of the horse comes alive
Across the Sound the light is bursting
Red and gold soaking the evening sky
In my car I am gas peddle pushing
Driving west at breakneck speed toward 99
I get the sense we’re all suns setting
So the salt of tears stings more when they’re all ours to cry
Just the last of my kind pleading for understanding
I’m a soul tied to earth, body bound
Inside, a million beautiful fingers
Weaving a basket with fine silken threads
Waiting on the western dip, “Hold ‘er steady!”
To capture the fierce sun when her grip slips
If you haven’t heard of it yet, consider yourself now in the know. Village Wit is an online forum driven by the vision of writer and humorist Jeff Stillwell, and professional artist Manya Vee. Their slogan gets the point across, “Maybe if we learned to laugh together, we’d stop bombing each other.” As an international community of writers here on WordPress, we are the perfect types to be supporting this non-profit effort.
Photographs, poetry, essays, letters, any form of expression or writing that is truly witty and well done may be submitted. Prizes are awarded weekly, monthly and annually.
I have two pieces that have been showcased on Village Wit: “Broken Heart Kicks Ass” and “To Crush an Infatuation” (aka “Crushing Infatuation”), which both won Wit of the Week awards.
Cheers comrades!
Everybody asks me the same question, “Why the fascination with Russia? Why RUSSIA?!” They don’t get it because they haven’t been there and haven’t the faintest as to why I or they or anyone would ever choose that particular country for a lifelong obsession. Well, here I testify in the form of a real life anecdote that should be called: “Beer in the park with a retired male gynecologist.”
One day in May, toward the end of my last six month visit to the northern city Petrozovodsk, capital of the region of Karelia, my friend Irina called and asked me to meet her because she needed some advise on an important life issue. She and I met up at the bus station on Lenininskaya Ulitsa (Lenin Street… original right…) and bought some beers at the kiosk before walking over to the park in the city center. Petrozovodsk was beginning to look slightly less wintry as much of the snow on the street had melted, and the temperature was nearing 15 degrees Celsius. The sky was clear blue and open.
So the big news came and I was shocked but not entirely surprised. Irina told me that her boyfriend Jenya had just confessed to cheating on her, and that he learned that he had gonorrhea, which meant she more than likely did too. She was stunned and obviously upset by the entire set of new circumstances. As I was the more mature woman she thought I would have some insight into her next move. Unfortunately, except for what I gleaned off a Petri dish in one semester of microbiology, I had little information on the subject of this particular bacterial dilemma.
By kismet, it would seem, at that very moment approached what looked like a drunken bum. Yes, he was dirty and stumbling. Craggy face, red veiny nose, the scents of fermentation wafting off his person – yes, all the signs were present. He carried his own beer and asked to join our company. Irina and I were both a little confused. This had never happened before. Since it was daylight in a public place with plenty of people around we nodded to the man and he sat down. Then he began to tell us his life story. Now it was soon revealed that though this man was indeed both drunk and bum, he was more notably, a former Soviet medical practitioner. His specialty: gynecology. He pointed to a building not far off, to the “rod-dom” or birth house where women delivered babies. He declared that this was a terrible place to be avoided at all costs. “There is disease,” he warned. The way he said it led me to suspect that he believed children themselves to be a sort of plague.
While I was horrified to learn and then imagine that this man once sat ready between the trembling thighs of laboring women, waiting to catch their infants as they entered the world, Ira was perked up by the news. Feeling comfortable (and a little tipsy) she told the good doctor her sad tale of betrayal and infection. He lamented the scandal and advised her as to what antibiotics she could buy from the pharmacy kiosk. (Antibiotics are very easy to get in Russia.) Additionally, he reminded her to use condoms to prevent this in the future, and to avoid pregnancy, and the “rod-dom”.
There was more talk after this on a variety of topics, including my Americaness, which was only slightly of interest to our companion. As we departed, heading in the direction of our mini-bus stop, I felt the thrill of Russia for one of the last times. I was wearing a white knit cap, my neck wrapped in a large tri-fold shawl, held tight by my wool overcoat and fur collar. I looked like any other woman that day. The ground was slippery but the heels of my boots dug in deep for traction. I saw soldiers, but no police. No one had stopped us in the park for drinking alcohol in public. No one ever would. We were women free to do as we pleased in the thawing city. We met strangers in the park and spoke of forbidden topics. We missed our bus and hitched a ride with some young men who took us to my apartment safely for the equivalent of two US dollars.
Russia is a vast country, a rugged, sometimes awful land. Yet she holds up her people, who value the details of existence. Russia is a country great in small ways. Every detail of the Russian experience is fresh, alive, real and free. Never in my home of Seattle have I enjoyed a beer in the park, let alone an unexpected encounter with someone like the old Soviet gynecologist. When I return to Russia I look forward to again meeting new friends, to abandoning social conformity and embracing the pleasure of the moment.
Dear Man Y,
It has come to my reluctant attention that I am infatuated with you in an unhealthy way. As it dawns on me that you neither exhibit the signs of romantic intrigue, nor the respect of friendship I feel the shadow of shame creep over my psyche. This is so embarrassing. It surpasses my understanding. How, when I am so young and beautiful and you so old and vile, do you fail to see what a rare opportunity falls before you? When you, object of my desire, do not reciprocate as so desired but intentionally use me as convenient for some amount of physical satisfaction – it wounds my ego critically. Yet, as you know and have stated, it makes me want you even more. You play the game as a winner, and I as pathetic loser. Now is a solemn moment, where in order to take back even an ounce of lost dignity, it is required that I crush this infatuation.
I begin by apologizing. First, I am sorry to have thrust myself on you, when all the signs indicated your disinterest. How terrible it must have been to have a brilliant, sexy, caring and enigmatic creature clamoring day and night for your affections. How selfish I have been. Second, I apologize to myself – to my higher self – which is far too genuine to be wasted in this manner. Self, you are divine and questing for exquisite soul love. You deserve so much more than to be squandered on a petty crush. Third, I apologize to my friends, who have had to listen to this nonsense, and have done so with great reserve and understanding.
Now back to you Mr. Man Y. I am not angry, but only determined, that for both our sakes, I will not be returning your flirtatious text messages. I will not be coming to your house late in the night so that you may use my soft feminine form for your indifferent sexual justification. I will treat you with kindness as our paths invariably cross, but expect no more glint in my eye at your appearance. For all things have a time and place. Now is time to abort this unholy coupling, which was never destined for greatness.
Sincerely,
Zebra Princess
Drab course for the uninspired
Yet she and I seek all
Knowledge for its own sake
We plunge to the depths
In the library, late nights with wide eyes
Wired hearts to head and mind in the material
We be the centuries before in abundance
Its a pursuit as we question, seek answer
Again question, unfolding layers
And we laugh at each revelation
Here a mineral and grain size reveal history
In the cafe over fried cheese sticks we study language
In a Russian word tosklivaya I find my personal adjective
But there is still the light of the moon to discuss
And I will need all the words in the dictionary
So sojourn we on in intellect
The great human conquest
Body of thy Body
Soul o’ bright Soul
Sins shine holy
Live, love – blessed whole
Break open mother
Sew skin from fine seed
Father, kin brother
All we end, dirt, undone, weed
No cry in mouth quiet
No shame in limb stiff
Body – Divine Temple
Impermanence thy Gift
In the middle of management I’m watchin operations
Meeting goals, deadlines, strategizing and developing tactical solutions
You got my soul wrapped up in a concept
But my mind ratched up tight in the details
So many little screws it takes to make this machine
So many little cogs and sprockets and jettison gizmos
Just the overseer, the supervisor
I’m here to report and what does it all mean
I should never even ask
Not the creator, not the genius instigator
Y’all keep reminding
Better keep it moving or else
I’m the basic unsympathetic character
Any child’s dream?
Underpaid and overeducated
Staring dead ahead
Middle management manager
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