therapist

dr. doorovski is sipping rich cardamon tea with a touch of cinnamon anxiously looking at the clock. his patient is late, and it makes him undeniably uncomfortable and disappointed. he has realized, he holds himself responsible for his patient’s conduct and choices, and he repulsively resents this revelation. to dr. doorovski, his patient’s tardiness to an appointment with him feels like a personal failure. he convulsively scratches his cheek. the new aftershave, the 22nd anniversary gift from his wife linda, must have been wrong for his skin. he senses dryness and irritation all over his face, especially around his thick grayish mustache. dr. doorovski gets up from his chair and stares at the busy construction site out of the wide window at his office. he looks at the confident steady movements of the workers that project a strong sense of belonging and purpose. dr. doorovski opens a door of a thin tall mahogany cabinet in the corner. he pulls out a bottle of scotch, and he pours himself a glass.

freedom weekend

в эти выходные мне вспомнились другие летние выходные. я шла с папой по проспекту шевченко во львове, когда мы столкнулись с его знакомой. она держала в руках блокнот и ручку и делала какие-то записи. эта женщина была настолько этим занята, что прошла бы мимо, не заметив нас, если бы папа ее не окликнул. “что ты записываешь?”, - спросил он ее. “да вот, пишу адреса тех, кто вывесил украинские флаги”, ответила знакомая, - “попросили записать на всякий случай”, - добавила она. это было лето 1991-го года, когда западная украина заговорила о желании независимости от умирающего советского союза. в эти выходные многие львовские жители вывесили украинские флаги на своих квартирах и домах в патриотическом жесте в поддержку новых времен. папина подруга работала в райкоме партии. он еще существовал, там люди по прежнему получали зарплаты, и еще не было до конца понятна ситуация ни отделения украины, ни гибель советского союза вместе с райкомом партии, ни судьба тех патриотов-смельчаков, вывесивших флаги.

this weekend i remembered another summer weekend. i was walking with my father in lvov, when we ran into a friend of his. she had a notepad and a pen in her hands writing something down. she was so concentrated, she would have walked by without noticing us have my father not called her. ‘what are you writing?’, he asked. ‘writing down addresses of the ones who put ukrainian flags up’, she replied. ‘they asked me to take notes just in case’, she added. it was a summer day in 1991 when the west ukraine first talked of independence from the decaying soviet union. that weekend many citizens of lvov hung ukrainian flags at their apartments and buildings in a patriotic gesture supporting and welcoming these changes. my father’s friend worked at a communistic district committee that still existed, people still received salaries there, and there was still a big uncertainty about it all – the ukrainian independence, the death of the soviet union together with all the district committees, as well as the future of these brave patriotic citizen who hung the flags.

molding

you are an artist. you search. you spend your days looking for your mold, looking for your gem. you’re going to make an art. you will find that perfect person - the one to inspire, the one to create, - your muse. you will hold the one you found tight and gently in your caring palms. you will treasure her features, you will absorb and memorize them all. you will learn how she walks, what she loves, and who she is. you will discover her soul. you will study her obsessively non-stop, even in your sleep. you will go deeper and further to unravel who she is. you’ll realize your muse is not that flawless. you will find your muse to hold some traits you do not like. it is ok. you are an artist. she is your art. you will take your mold and you will improvise.  you will work on adding qualities you feel are missing, you feel are wrong. you will mold your muse until you’re satisfied with the result, until you’re proud of your art. you will be content when you can no longer sense the precious tenderness you felt in your loving palms.

question

my body is restless. i am so afraid. i need to ask you this single uppermost question. i don’t know what i am more frightened of – asking the question or hearing you answering it. i am in a daze. i am not myself. who am i? who will i be after your answer? will you ever answer? will i ever ask?

a roach

joseph tann was crawling along a rusty pipe from the first floor kitchen back down the basement. his tuxedo was wrinkled and torn in places. profound sweat was covering his dark muscular yet noticeably tired body marked by signs of exhaustion. a heartburn was visibly bothering him, making him crouch every few steps. finally joseph plopped at his destination – a cardboard box filled with dump stained yellowish books at the far gloomy corner of this dim shabby space. joseph crawled over kafka’s metamorphosis to the familiar spot at the back. he relaxed his antennas. he was ready for his nap.

observer

my nostrils are sensing a thread of a rotting compost mixed with cigarette butts and dripped out beer. i am sitting on the street in the outdoor section of a prominent restaurant. my drink is a delightful mix of fresh grapefruit, rose, elderflowers and liqueur. inside, a band is playing a blend of reggae, jazz and soft rock. i am no longer anxious. i am an observer. the stroll of worn out children wearing washed off organic cotton labels carrying light sabers or riding scooters does not seem to pause. the children are followed by dads of the same dress code and demeanor. droplets of sweat are sparking on arms and faces of everyone. i can’t spot makeup on any female despite my suspicion they do have it on. there are people with dogs, all so well groomed. i was here once before, many years ago. the memory does not feel neither painful nor sentimental. i’m glad i am here.

string

i am unwinding the string. i am aware of what i am doing. i’m terrified and excited. i know the consequences, i know the drill. nothing is new but i feel like it is. i’m frightened. i’m prepared. i think i am, yet i know i am not. i know the despair, the pain, the loss. they are my friends. they will appear when the string is dropped, when i emptied it all. i do not care. i will get through. i will do it this time. but i know i cannot.

words

you let go, you take a breath, you submerge in a pool of words, - beautiful, contradictory, intriguing, hypnotizing words. you hear fragments of words said softly and loudly around you. you see words of different fonts and shapes chaotically flying in front of you, towards you and away from you in all directions. you try to grab on to a word. you try to clutch to any word that can take you away. you are desperate to connect to a word. you know the other words will stop their bewildered dance the instant you do it. the words will pause, they will glow and line up, the words will take order and meaning. the words will light up and escort you to the whimsical enchanting world you are longing to be in.