i was beautiful. disheveled, sad, younger than my given time in years.
cold feet, cold hands. blood circulating unevenly, unfairly,
a residual fear of snakes.
the breeze atones my skin. handing me goose bumps as goodbyes. piel de gallina. мурашки.
anxiety dreams, running towards a search for all which i don’t allow for myself;
self-evident and envious, troubleshooting the coastal salt glands pores filled with sand. eventually becoming a cascara— a shell, a casket, armor. a protective mechanism for the body. a body beat into the ground, breathing.
i am good. i promise. only so maimed by something i can barely utter accurately, to resemble anything of the truths left behind on the train platform of the afternoon elektrichka.
stiff hot smell of human, carvings in ancient seats. bent women hold crops flowers, branches apples, plums, pears, onions, tomatoes laid in buckets, plastic bags, wrapped in newspapers.
newspaper available forever, wide circulating and morphing. extant pieces of an era. yellowing edges, marking the center of the social sphere.
the social heart beating to the rhythm of the train.
un ciego a blind man plays an accordion, walking on from trailing cars. the elektrichka sways along the timeless sound.
his hands swollen. press the instrument. (we don’t understand why the scarcity of such realties avoids our eyes)
i am warm on the steps in the desert next to a starbucks.
dusk was when we arrived, beautiful, awaited dusk.
Born in Kiev, Ukraine, Olga works within the mediums of photography, text, and installation. Her focus is on memory, home, (dis)place, language, inheritance/loss and the disruptive. She currently resides in Olympia, WA, where she co-founded and co- curates Desuetude gallery.
Photo by Olga Mikolaivna
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