Hysteria Siberiana
"It affects farmers living in Siberia. Try to imagine this. You're a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it's overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep. That cycle continues, year after year. You're that farmer, imagine it"
"Okay."
"And then one day something inside you dies."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Something. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die. That's hysteria siberiana."
three notes on a piano, repeated quietly.... softly... there's a fire on the tundra. i built it, i used some things that i liked. it helped. but i forgot my goals were beyond the horizon, not the flame. which way does the sun set? if the world turns just a little it could rise from the south. if i tilt my head i could rise from the fire, sparks, the wind could take over if i let go. shit im that loose, ash, tap, ashtray, lips to my mouth, breathe, then tap tap tap.
I am a gypsy. This is not a poem. I am. It's in my blood. My grandmother was raised with a gypsy caravan in the western part of Russia before she was captured by the Nazis. She lied about being Jewish to stay alive, it might have been worth it. I want to live in the old world. My grandmother is dying. She can't remember how to cook, she loved to cook. She can't remember me too much. I think. I want her to remember me. I want to go back and live in a gypsy camp. I want to live outside, but I'm afraid. I have houses to go to, I have other choices than the campfire. My blood is dying. It's inside me and it's dying. God Fucking Damn It. I TRY SO HARD. What should I do? Graduate with my degree? Go work in an office so I can die in a swivel chair... or go to some job site everyday in a truck so I can die every nite with a beer in my hand at 9 PM, only to rise every morning and do it again... rise like some phoenix whose fire I let go out... what right do I have... how can I be the one to let that die. Gypsies were named like the Indians. Some dumb European thought they were from Egypt. The gypsies were smart enough to let them believe that. That way we controlled their old Gods. You don't anger old Gods. I try so hard to stay on the road. Up until two years ago I didn't even know why. When I found out where my blood came from I still didn't figure it out. I thought my elders were right; that I was just a kid... but it's my blood. I was meant to be old world. I can't figure out how to fit here, anywhere. I don't ever feel comfortable, like I'm crawling out of my skin. I almost did. Crawl out of my skin that is... if you've seen me naked you know what I mean. I don't feel right but I'm not strong enough to survive without this world... I try so fucking hard though... I'll find more. I'll bring back spirits if I need to. I'll learn the incantations. I'll know the plants by first name. I'll make sure by the time I'm gone everyone who knows me worships the sun; we'll wink at the moon. I knifed my own back. Sorry to all the people I blamed, girls especially. If I wasn't afraid of money, with it's chopped up version of us $ $. If I wasn't afraid of sex, like it was some toy you had to earn playtime with. If I wasn't treating time like it was slipping away I could have danced more while it trickled past... so many things, so many suns set while I waited for dawn. I'm losing my blood out of that knife wound. My blood.
"Okay."
"And then one day something inside you dies."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Something. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die. That's hysteria siberiana."
three notes on a piano, repeated quietly.... softly... there's a fire on the tundra. i built it, i used some things that i liked. it helped. but i forgot my goals were beyond the horizon, not the flame. which way does the sun set? if the world turns just a little it could rise from the south. if i tilt my head i could rise from the fire, sparks, the wind could take over if i let go. shit im that loose, ash, tap, ashtray, lips to my mouth, breathe, then tap tap tap.
I am a gypsy. This is not a poem. I am. It's in my blood. My grandmother was raised with a gypsy caravan in the western part of Russia before she was captured by the Nazis. She lied about being Jewish to stay alive, it might have been worth it. I want to live in the old world. My grandmother is dying. She can't remember how to cook, she loved to cook. She can't remember me too much. I think. I want her to remember me. I want to go back and live in a gypsy camp. I want to live outside, but I'm afraid. I have houses to go to, I have other choices than the campfire. My blood is dying. It's inside me and it's dying. God Fucking Damn It. I TRY SO HARD. What should I do? Graduate with my degree? Go work in an office so I can die in a swivel chair... or go to some job site everyday in a truck so I can die every nite with a beer in my hand at 9 PM, only to rise every morning and do it again... rise like some phoenix whose fire I let go out... what right do I have... how can I be the one to let that die. Gypsies were named like the Indians. Some dumb European thought they were from Egypt. The gypsies were smart enough to let them believe that. That way we controlled their old Gods. You don't anger old Gods. I try so hard to stay on the road. Up until two years ago I didn't even know why. When I found out where my blood came from I still didn't figure it out. I thought my elders were right; that I was just a kid... but it's my blood. I was meant to be old world. I can't figure out how to fit here, anywhere. I don't ever feel comfortable, like I'm crawling out of my skin. I almost did. Crawl out of my skin that is... if you've seen me naked you know what I mean. I don't feel right but I'm not strong enough to survive without this world... I try so fucking hard though... I'll find more. I'll bring back spirits if I need to. I'll learn the incantations. I'll know the plants by first name. I'll make sure by the time I'm gone everyone who knows me worships the sun; we'll wink at the moon. I knifed my own back. Sorry to all the people I blamed, girls especially. If I wasn't afraid of money, with it's chopped up version of us $ $. If I wasn't afraid of sex, like it was some toy you had to earn playtime with. If I wasn't treating time like it was slipping away I could have danced more while it trickled past... so many things, so many suns set while I waited for dawn. I'm losing my blood out of that knife wound. My blood.