Lost Maps

...as a child, the sun on my cheeks, warm grass under bare feet, running up green, undulating hills, rolling down their far sides. Our laughter. Blue sky, wheeling birds, puffs of clouds, cotton wisps, kite scudding below. Thinking "This. This, then, is happy." A place I would access, had accessed, over and over... limitless, and … Continue reading Lost Maps

Russian Idyll

A Russian summer, nostalgic and dreamy, textured and spare, Bunin's landscape and lovers - all under the sun, in sunflower fields, awaiting inevitable snow... awaiting, perhaps, the exile's return from Paris, from Nobel - like Gorky, poor Gorky, the dead son, the shuttered villa... ("I dare say it's time for all us nineteenth century writers … Continue reading Russian Idyll