It is impossible to forget the smell of the land where one was born and raised. Every tree, every plant, is imbibed with memory.
Behind the fence, young men recover from their addiction. They talk about God. About skin disease and swearing. About the dream of fast cars and new lives in faraway countries. They have a small black dog, still a puppy. I got to learn how to take it away from their garden to mine without anyone noticing. The little one is always happy of the escape.
In desolate summer fields, I invite local schoolchildren to help me create a mural. We created graffiti images of films onto the old fortress wall in Kaunas. They promise to take care of it until the end of their school days. The space is part of an old fortress; now it’s an improvised nature reserve for the bats. The tunnels are full of water. One can ask questions and hear their own distorted answers.
If the writing on the wall survives until winter, the children will see it when sledging the hills, or walking home. The schoolgirls will read it smoking by the wall.
I toss and turn in bed, hungry for my lover while mosquitos crave the warmth of my skin. They swarm in the dry heat, helpless to resist the lure of my body. I am as helpless as they are.
There is no wind outside to guide me through the house, but I still remember the way. The bedroom at the end of the corridor is my father's. I open the door and turn towards the table, pulling the second drawer out. My hand meets the cold surface of a gun. The neighbours, half-dumb and silent, have their TV set turned on still. The sound of the film that emanates from their house mingles with the night, drowning out my footsteps.
The gun is heavy, the cartridge fully loaded. Would it be safe to take this along with the money, to walk out this very night, masking my footprints like a hopeless, pursued animal. Would time be on my side? I can cross the borders in someone else’s name.
The desire is not red hot as it is for him, but the color of ash, mere embers, long burnt away, consumed by crop fires. Night is following me through a window. Scratching my eyes, I long to pass into another body, that could travel light years back and forth. A body that would take the current moment to another place.
Instead, I sip water as if it were wine. Its lullaby will carry me back into my bed, where I will turn and toss all over again, where the red-hot fire will rage as I long for a lover.
Apples fall on the summerhouse outside. Some of them bounce from the roof, finally rolling to earth as if from a lottery ball machine. Autumn's present shall soon find me. The town sleeps blindly, the neighborhood mute, whilst the night sings slowly.
It is impossible to forget the smell of the land where one was born and raised. Every tree, every plant, is imbibed with memory.
Behind the fence, young men recover from their addiction. They talk about God. About skin disease and swearing. About the dream of fast cars and new lives in faraway countries. They have a small black dog, still a puppy. I got to learn how to take it away from their garden to mine without anyone noticing. The little one is always happy of the escape.
In desolate summer fields, I invite local schoolchildren to help me create a mural. We created graffiti images of films onto the old fortress wall in Kaunas. They promise to take care of it until the end of their school days. The space is part of an old fortress; now it’s an improvised nature reserve for the bats. The tunnels are full of water. One can ask questions and hear their own distorted answers.
If the writing on the wall survives until winter, the children will see it when sledging the hills, or walking home. The schoolgirls will read it smoking by the wall.
I toss and turn in bed, hungry for my lover while mosquitos crave the warmth of my skin. They swarm in the dry heat, helpless to resist the lure of my body. I am as helpless as they are.
There is no wind outside to guide me through the house, but I still remember the way. The bedroom at the end of the corridor is my father's. I open the door and turn towards the table, pulling the second drawer out. My hand meets the cold surface of a gun. The neighbours, half-dumb and silent, have their TV set turned on still. The sound of the film that emanates from their house mingles with the night, drowning out my footsteps.
The gun is heavy, the cartridge fully loaded. Would it be safe to take this along with the money, to walk out this very night, masking my footprints like a hopeless, pursued animal. Would time be on my side? I can cross the borders in someone else’s name.
The desire is not red hot as it is for him, but the color of ash, mere embers, long burnt away, consumed by crop fires. Night is following me through a window. Scratching my eyes, I long to pass into another body, that could travel light years back and forth. A body that would take the current moment to another place.
Instead, I sip water as if it were wine. Its lullaby will carry me back into my bed, where I will turn and toss all over again, where the red-hot fire will rage as I long for a lover.
Apples fall on the summerhouse outside. Some of them bounce from the roof, finally rolling to earth as if from a lottery ball machine. Autumn's present shall soon find me. The town sleeps blindly, the neighborhood mute, whilst the night sings slowly.