Il droghiere bulgaro

Questa è la storia di quella volta che ho visitato un mercato bulgaro a Vienna.

Era dopo una lezione di tedesco—o forse russo—non mi ricordo bene adesso. Era molto tempo fa, nel 2014. Ed era in mezzo alla neve e al freddo, perché era gennaio o febbraio.

Stavo leggendo le lettere cirilliche su una scatola di biscotti bulgari—molto lentamente.

Il droghiere, scioccato, mi chiede con stupore: “Sprechen Sie Bulgarisch?”

“Нет! Ne, ne. Ne govorim ‘Bulgarisch’.”

Cadde dalla mia bocca, disordinato e confuso. Una mescolanza di lingue, almeno tre.

Gli occhi del droghiere si spalancano, si fanno più grandi.

“Српски???!” Lui ride, disorientato.

Sono asiatica. Sicuramente non si aspettava che io parlassi in una lingua slava. Mi dice ancora un paio di cose in tedesco—ma io non capisco il tedesco.

“Извините. Oprostite, ne razumijem… deutsch. Žao mi je.”

Il droghiere si batte la fronte, ed esclama, “Ах, видим! Али говорите српски? Како jе то??”

“Ne govorim srpski, ali govorim malo hrvatski—malo, malo, MALO. Ja… hrvatska… u Dubrovnik… u Zagreb… dva… dva…”

Mi batto la mano—cercando di trovare la parole per ‘mesi’ in una delle nostre lingue comuni.

“Dana?” dice lui, “Tjedni?”

“Ne… ne…” Continuo ad agitare la mano.

“Mjeseci?!”

“Da! Da, dva myesyats!… Mesyats? Месяцы? Mjeseci?”

Sono confusa. Non sono sicura di come pronunciare questa parola.

Di nuovo, gli occhi di questo droghiere crescono, e crescono, diventano sempre più grandi.

…I ruski…?

 

Lentamente, e un po’ imbarazzato, cerco di spiegarli che stavo tornando da una lezione di russo…. e che sono confusa….

 

— CONTINUA —

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New Year’s Declaration

CONSCIOUSNESS IS
THE PRICE OF BREATH,
A BLADE OF HOPE,
MY ONLY PATH
TO VICTORY.

I TURN UP THE LIGHT OF AWARENESS,

AND EVERY TIME
I ELECT TO CAST AWAY
THAT WHICH HINDERS ME,
AND I ELECT TO DO INSTEAD
ALL THAT WHICH WILL LEAD ME

TO MASTERY, ABILITY,
TO CREATION OF WORTH,
TO MEANINGFUL FREEDOM,
—THE FREEDOM OF WILL.

 

 

01 gennaio 2018 lunedì / January 1, 2018 Monday / Stanley, Hong Kong Island

I often wonder if my approach to life is authentic or diseased.

I often wonder if my approach to life is authentic or diseased. I know it is not common; I know it is not standard—a fact that is not off-putting to me. But is it wholesomely authentically me? Or is it, in part, the result of some developmental deficiencies that I might desire to cure?

Thus I often inspect my doings: my methods of being; my social interactions; my internal interactions—between my emotions and my behaviors; my desire for both long term ambitions and short term escape; the tight tug-of-war between my reckless instinct for honesty and a cerebral acknowledgment of the value of tact; that ongoing conference between what I believe I am, and what I believe I am subconsciously—all in an attempt for some awareness, some insight, some comprehension…:

Is this part wholesomely authentically me; is that part? Or is that, in part, merely the consequence of some personal deficiencies that I would prefer to overcome—which parts?

* * *

The task is long, and the end is not in sight. But I find the endeavor, itself, fulfilling, much the way I find most learning, fulfilling.

 

langkawi sunset
stunning sunset captivates me, and I stand entranced for hours until the last of the pink and orange hues disperse into the evening ink in Langkawi, Malaysia

Photo by: Maimana Elhassn
Instagram: http://instagram.com/maimana_photography
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MaimanaPhotography/

An attempt to back walkover

Everyday I find myself wresting and writhing in effort, bent over backwards in a bridge position on a prickly grass lawn, willing myself to focus my scrunching eyes upon the upside-down horizon, WILLING myself to consent to the crush in my lower back, the furnace in my forearms, the violence being done to my wrists. I am trying to do a back walkover. A back walkover is a rather basic move in gymnastics—but for me, it is nearly Mission Impossible. In order to succeed, I must move from this agonizing back bent bridge position… into an upright, standing position by kicking my legs up and over my head, holding myself up only by my two ruefully under-equipped arms…

…all whilst not falling onto my head….

Backbend
“…wresting and writhing in effort, bent over backwards in a bridge position on a prickly grass lawn, willing myself to focus my scrunching eyes upon the upside-down horizon…”

—I breathe out; I breathe in—then in an eruption I EXHALE!—Grunting like a karate master roars before slamming a fist of fury down upon a tower of bricks, I KICK OFF! I kick my right leg up, and with my left, I plow, as hard as I can, I plow down into the earth for lift off! I believe I can. I KNOW I CAN!

“YAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!” My legs are suspended as if by magic straight up, just floating above me! I strain my neck back, further back, trying to tilt the weight enough to push my legs to continue their arc over my head, back down to the ground… the little muscles all down the front of my torso, yanking, pulling, heaving ho! ALMOSSSSST….! I’m so very close!

“BAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!” All strength flees my arms; with this third and final scream, they slump! Head-first I ram into the dirt! “OW!” My legs come plunging after my crumpled body, back down, back to where they’d started. I am sprawled, limbs everywhere, and bent, in slight shock—but I laugh.

I am so, so close to making it!

My young friend Sean kneels down, shrieking in delight. He proclaims that I should succeed in no time!—but he takes a moment to examine my head.

It’s fine. Do it AGAIN! He cheers!

Uh, yes…. Yes…! I shall try again!

 

 

05 July 2017 / Dauin, Negros Island, Philippines

… then I eat about three more.

fresh sea urchin meat

At his instruction and encouragement, I pinch the rough and shiny spines of a large, black sea urchin with two nervous fingers, pulling the squirming creature from its rock, gasping at my own audacity. I wade back into the hidden little cave, just five barefoot steps from this village of sea urchins, and I proceed to scratch out the pebbly orange meat inside, slimy little morsels, with my finger—my friend showed me how. But I notice the spines and shards of shell of its poor cousins strewn all about me on the rocks and the sand, as I scoop its salty squishy fresh flesh into my mouth…
I feel somehow sheepish and apologetic to these spindly carcasses when I exclaim aloud how delicious is its meat…

…then I eat about three more.

 

I wonder if it is offensive that I tried to use one of their stouter spines as a utensil to eat their own innards….

 

 

sea urchin shell

 

 

 

originally written : 06 January 2017 / Mirissa, Sri Lanka

manufacturing hope in status updates

a hopeful visualization of the future as a facebook profile

Three years ago, in my darkest months of 2013, in order to manufacture for myself some small light of hope, some small relief from the reality of my depression and the depression of my reality, I set up a Facebook account and profile for my imagined future self, living and posting in circa 2016.

 

I added to this page my dreams and my wishes in bits and bytes, in the form of photo posts and status updates, a visualization of the future I dared to want, built with Facebook and Google images, designed with ambition and hope.

 

And here we are now.

 

Now as I write this, falling into the latter half of this final day of 2016, I am lying on cotton cushions shaded from the high Sri Lankan sun, pondering adjectives and memories; I am trying at every sunrise to learn my turns on the glassy blue-green waves of the Indian Ocean. I have one dozen sentences in Sinhala to speak with locals as I swat at the flies competing for my food; I have a book in Russian on my bed to attempt and often fail to read at night. I sleep next to a red suitcase of scented mosquito repellent, sunscreen and hair oils, two bikinis and two rashguards, some books in languages I can not yet read, a set of tightly rolled black hand wraps for muay thai, a pair of decrepit, mismatched dancing shoes, their battered heels still with some glitter, along with the roll of duck tape I use to fasten them onto my feet, and, of course, some various means of recording my intentions, my reflections: two withering spiral notebooks, a leather journal, one MacBook Air.

I have a one-way ticket to fly, at last, to Kuala Lumpur.

And I am, after all, writing a blog.

call from the sea

sea in Weligama, Sri Lanka

On a one-month journey in Sri Lanka

I thought I was to explore an ancient nation….

 

It turns out

that I am here

to investigate, at last,

an inexplicable, lifelong pull

from the night sea that sang to me

in unknown memories, and in my earliest dreams,

calling me farther and farther onto its moonlit waters

with the wistful melody of a wooden pipe rising up in the zephyrs

to voyage forth into that world somewhere beyond the evening horizon…

 

 

where I belong.