Sunday, February 08, 2004


I tend to go on a bit in romantic tones. I know that we live in a cynical world, and perhaps it is hard to believe that one could yet experience such trivial things as emotions or desires. I know that the world is actively pursuing these latent feelings and doing what they can to put a stop to such nonsense once and for all. I prefer not to have problems with the authorities, and so I am going to try and curb my appetite for truth and justice and utopian fantasies in which we as a species actually make it past this next generation or two without completely destroying every possible square inch of ground in the world. However, today, I simply can't help it. Maybe it's just that its springtime...
And really it is! The weather here has been unseasonably warm. All the snow has melted away and yesterday we played football in an open field in without coats or gloves. One of the grandmothers (babushkas) in our house even went so far as to throw a few onions into the ground in the garden. It's springtime. Why not?
So maybe it is all of this horrible warmth that has me writing a lot about the idea of “home” lately. It's terrible. Last night on the floor under the desk lamp I remembered that I had long ago written a poem about the idea of home. It was maybe eight or nine years ago when I wrote this and the problem was that I have pretty much forgotten it. I did remember it well enough about two years ago, though. I know this because at that time I made a Russian language version of this poem. I made that copy for the people who were working with me on “Pod Kablukom”. I did that because I wanted them to see that this writing thing of mine was real and not simply something I was doing so that I could meet Belarusian girls. Actually, the Belarusian girls I was meeting were a little upset that it wasn’t a scam. They made it clear to me that they would have preferred it to have been the other way around. Whatever.
Anyway, this Russian version of the poem was all I could find so I woke up Tatyana early and while we boiled the potatoes for breakfast, she helped me piece it back together. I am really not sure this is exactly the poem, but this is generally what I thought. And I still think it is true. For me at least.
The Poem goes something like this:


I dream of a place where the landscape speaks to me
Where the mountains and the valleys
The skyscrapers or humble huts
The great expanses of the open fields
Or the sound of the surf at the shore
Would exist in their way such that there would be
No division between where this picture ends
And my life begins

And during my days I would have such work
That I could love and enjoy
And would be needed by all
So that I would be free to do it well
And without anger or fear for its end

And at the end of these days I might return to a place
A great mansion, a tent in the woods, a boat on the sea…
Mattering only that the place be mine
And that I would be free there to rest and to heal and to dream

And in that place would be a friend
Either waiting for my return
Or meeting me there after a day of their own
With our bond made of such
Only that neither should ever know
The sound of a lie spoken between us

And there we could dance

For in that place at last
I would be home