Abuliac

on goodbyes...

At first, I wanted to write about my awkward evening with my first ex tonight... now Ex, M.D... but it became too long of a story to tell and not a happy one.

Even more sadly, I must bid you all farewell. As much as I love writing and I appreciate the outlet this blog has served for me, for the rest of the summer (starting June 4th) I will be away -- first from the country and then from regular internet access for my internship. Rather than try to update whenever possible, I'm taking my leave for the summer.

It's been a fun ride... and I hope I'll have time to return to blogging in September. Thanks to all who visited my little piece of the blogosphere!

Vodka from beets?

My grandmother, the rebel that she was, apparently made vodka in her apartment in Kiev. Although the idea of a home distillery reminds me of the Prohibition in the States, this was a way to save money in the Soviet Union. I marveled when she had told me before of how she and my grandfather set up a distillery in the bathroom, with tubes running all around the sink. She must have told me before, but I realized today that she made the vodka from beets!

In my mind, I've always thought of vodka coming from grain or potatoes. At the same time, I've always associated beets with Ukrainian cuisine and even culture. That's why it was surprising but also perfect that out of all the things it's possible to make vodka, she chose beets. Since she grew beets on her farm outside the city, it probably made them more accessible than the other options. One Czech vodka made from beets has been said to cause depression. The site doesn't mention a name, but it might be the 80 proof Výlet.

I've gotten off topic... My main point in posting was to say that this conversation with my mother made me respect my grandmother even more -- as a free spirit, so to say...

on hoarding memories...

In addition to the old school files, I also had trouble throwing away all the letters that moved me or angered me, or made me cry till dawn. They’re painful, sometimes, but to discard them would be like throwing away a part of myself.

I've always envied the people who, upon breaking up with someone, could throw away (or return) everything that that person had given them or that reminds them of that person. Perhaps, I get too attached to material things. I want the memories -- both good and bad. It makes me feel safe knowing that they’re real, that I didn't imagine them (I feared that I had at one point -- my first).

I folded letters from my ex into my memento box today, reveling in how much his attitude toward me has change din just a few short months. People change, they grow... that's what I'd tried to tell him back then. I guess he finally grew out of me. Still, I keep the letters... but not really for myself...

Maybe one day, my grandchildren (*gasp*) might be leafing through my box of mementos -- ticket stubs, programs, photographs. Perhaps, they won't even be able to imagine me as a young woman and the letters may impress them with the effect I had on men. They may realize that I wasn't who they thought I was… or maybe they'll have never met me and these boxes will help them learn about my past, what I was like, what others thought of me...

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education in a box...

Having returned home from college for the summer (for three weeks, at least), I decided to sort through some of my old files today -- high school essays, term papers, handouts. I marveled at perfect scores, encouraging comments, and praise but realized that none of it means anything now… not that A+ in music, that 98 in history, not even that 33 on the pre-algebra quiz I forgot to study for in 7^th grade.

The American education system is set up such that all the work children "learn from" (i.e. should learn from) is meaningless to the real world... It serves no real purpose except to the person who performs it and few people will ever look at the person'’s work ever again (notable exceptions: parents, children, people trying to cheat off the person's work).

The system is telling children that their work is useless until they have a degree, until they get a “real job.” Every test, every essay is assigned with the vague explanation of "This information/skill might benefit you somehow when you grow up…" Then, historical minutiae, numerical formulas (formulae), and grammatical structures are shoved down their throats, because they're good for them, supposedly. How good is this kind of motivation if a child can't look that far ahead (to college, to “"real"” life)? What about the children who have a hard enough time surviving day to day?

Most children swallow the bullshit, looking forward to a future of college, employment, and marriage. But some choke on it, realizing that most of the crap they learn in high school will be useless a year from then.

The alternative is apprenticeship, in which children are educated and contribute to the society and an industry at the same time. In this collaborative environment, people of different skill levels learn from each other, in the same goal of making a product. While an apprenticeship type of system doesn't offer the broad education of the Western model, perhaps there may be a way of integrating the two. By having more class projects that involve children with their community through their learning will help motivate those children who find it difficult to relate classroom material to the real world.

Excuse me for the rant… And so it is… those papers and tests and report cards are all meaningless now. I know that their only purpose was for me to learn from them, but it's so difficult to throw them all away, since they're responsible for who I am today.

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an anorexic man...

I know an anorexic man.... but he abstains from life, not food. Every minute is controlled, as if surprise is poisoning. The sun -- too hot. The dance -- too fast. Laughter strains his skin too much, the sound of it too harsh.

In seeking something pure and beautiful, some ideal worth sacrificing for, he avoids the raw truths and pains of life. He doesn't realize that those twinges of regret, those butterflies of anticipation, those bittersweet aftertastes are what makes living beautiful.

I know a man who starves his soul because he is afraid of life, still waiting for something more than this.

on stray visitors...

Recently I've gotten much traffic to my site from people apparently looking for lyrics to a song called "Hollowback girl". What is In reality, the song is by Gwen Stefani and is called "Hollaback Girl," as in the kind of girl who answers to hollers... maybe. People are still wondering what the song lyrics really mean. Regardless, I'm not a Hollaback girl, nor am I Hollowback Girl. I can do hollowbacks (the breakdancing move), but I don't have a moniker about it.
Just letting y'all know.

Don't look down...

Don't look down
When you're stuck naked in your past,
Because time is just loose change,
Making unwanted bulges in your pockets.
Memories are the pages
Of our mental journals that we chose to keep,
So don't waste breath
On words, because regret
Knocks on doors that we forget
To lock
In haste.

Don't look down
When you speak to a child.
Her mind is infinite
Like an inch
To an electron,
And she still understands
All the things adults forget
When they learn
To look before they leap.
Whether 5 or 50 we know everything
And so quickly forget that we knew.

Don't look down,
When what you know
Inevitably brings you
To the unknown.
Stop and smell the air of uncertainty,
Where you can get only by foot
And the only way to continue
Is to fly.

~Periangel

For the 6th day in a row, my night begins at dawn. It never began yesterday, so this one shall be particularly special. Just let me sleep...

Poem: a Rolling Child...

I fly.
Laced dreams lift you
to roll with other infant raindrops.
Weightlessly you examine the way lint collects
in your belly button, and wonder whether an innie
or an outie makes you more outgoing.
“Do you still feel?”
Only a tingle remains where strings
had been attached to connect
your airborne thoughts
To the ground.
You suck on the pacifier
Like a mother’s nipple.
Vacant face staring at illusions
of spiraling rainbows.
Love doesn't escape
through closed eyelids.
“Forever doesn't last, you know.”
You heard a pinch of bitterness in my voice –
Hoarse from screaming over the music.
I'm not addicted.
It's all of you who are addicted...
To your pain.

But then, you
fall,
accelerating
at the rate of hallucination.
No ecstasy to cushion, helium hopes
crash into the jagged truth
that life is pain, Highness.
Anyone that tells you different
is trying to sell you something.
Pushing up from the raw asphalt,
you look at the scars on your palms—--
so thick that you can't even read your future.

Where will you get your next pair of Wings?

~Periangel

Friendly reminder: All work on this website (and any website that does not specify otherwise) is copyrighted, all rights reserved. E-mail me with any questions or requests at periangel@gmail.com.

on final products...

I've been living in the photography darkroom lately... Several people in other classes have commented that I must be very dedicated, when really, I'm just a perfectionist and can't stand being unhappy with a print. Today I mounted several photographs for an art show and the feeling of seeing the work, matted and professional-looking, was gratifying. All that time spent seemed worth it for just a few seconds. Then, I noticed that I hadn't burned in the corner of one photo enough and contemplated reprinting it.

It's amazing how different people's opinions are about art. My professor loves one of my photographs of a chain belt hanging on a mirror. While it's not bad, it's not one I'm particularly fond of or proud of. I look at it and don't see what he sees. Perhaps, I'm too familiar with the actual subject and can't see it objectively, but what objectiveness is there in art, anyway? When someone looks at my photos, they will never see what I see when I look at them.

Side-note: I love my boyfriend very much. Although he doesn't realize it (since I didn't talk to him much for fear of having too short a temper), he helped me through a very stressful time, and I truly appreciate it. _\m/

on anger...

Advice from my sweet mother: You don't have the tears to cry for all the rude and obnoxious people in this world, so don't bother trying. They don't deserve your tears, nor your anger, because the stress they cause takes away a part of you... and that's too precious.

Cause: USCIS. New name (formerly the INS), but the same attitude...

on loss...

She tied her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her muddy Adidas sneakers, and ran out the door -- no makeup to hide her sleepless eyes, no smile to hide her laughter-less nights. Not every woman can act like the world turns as it should while it's tumbling off its axis. Normally, she would be able to -- she’'s infamously strong. (He used to tell her that.)

This time was different -- She lost her axis… the one thing that had been constant in her life… the one person whose presence she had almost taken for granted all these years. In a moment, he was gone and she was left, running from a universe without him.

There were no words anyone could say to her then to put the Milky Way back into place. Even the sun refused to peek out from under the horizon. Seconds inched as her feet sprinted along the pavement. How can you find your place in the world without a concept of location, only loss?

Last night, her world had been of words, drifting between each other and into each other on yellow, lined paper. The ink bled her pain through the other side of the thin papyrus, but she still wrote front and back as she had been taught. In times like these, it's easier to stick to habits and ingrained thoughts. She just didn't realize that these habits were exactly what reminded her of him so much.

Each time she opened the oven, she recalled arguments about whether to enter one minute or just press start, which automatically runs the machine for a minute. So minute now. She'd liked the comfort of setting the time herself. She didn't like surprises.

Perhaps that's why she struggled so much when he died so suddenly. Alcohol was involved... so was another woman. That one loved surprises.

The sun finally crept up, coloring the sky. As she ran harder, she wondered how everything else was still breathing, beating, rising.

Her world was spinning into outer space, quickly approaching one Saturn. Another had veered into a telephone pole at 80 miles an hour…

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186 ...

My 6 curls…
Like post coital bodies,
wrapped up within one another,
for the first time, free.
From my finger, an Alexandrite eye glowers—-
blue today—-
forgetting its former violet hue.
Yes, even you, time has touched.
The Black Sea beat against us,
wearing away the coarseness, so that,
eventually, we’d all be smooth and round.
But my rough edges can still scrape
against your delicate noble skin,
hoping that you feel something,
like the heat of friction, of my servitude
no more.

...1861...

I'm sorry once again for the light posting... This one's actually an old one, but I felt as though I should post something so you all don't forget me!

NB: 1861 was the year serfdom was officially ended in Russia, under Alexander II, the tsar after whom the stone Alexandrite (which changes colors) was named.