Ahh, to live in a country of the poetic and the poor. Where towering forest landscapes are unburdened by the modern monstrosities of electricity poles and hospitals, jagging attention rudely away from the magical light lingering over the landfills at dusk.
A country rich in fables, not euros, where women walk the cobbled alleys with legs like summer cranes, chased by sprightly lads sporting basketball bedazzled brains.
A land where a potato-skin shaded moon rises neatly up into the nuclear smog of an alabaster skied evening.
Ahh, for a place where the clouds not so much rain as gently massage your unwashed skin from previous blemish, and soak your soggy smile to its roots.
Ahh, for a home to hang your boot-heels where the moose is as revered as copiously as it is minced and shelved in tins at the supermarket. Where sour cream containers perch like ornaments in refrigerators from border to skulking Russian border.
AHHHHH for a spectacular, utopian countryside, where quality brickwork is as secondary to the building of a house, as keeping your vodka-riddled eyeballs on the road is to driving an automobile.
An ideal world where the woodpeckers rattle and strum against the ancient birch trees, beating out in semaphoric slang, “you…are…here…you…are…here…”
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In a bid to rekindle some kind of connection with the outside, or rather, internal internetic world, I have decided to thrust away constrictions of esteem and integrity (sure), and open my filthy doors to the online masses (all four of you who read this, thanks).
In the name of stupidity, science, and all things disregarded by normal people, here I present some letters of life from a fellow plodding along the broken asphalt of Eastern European city streets, pondering what to do with the middle grounds of his twenties. The said fellow is at the present time inhabiting a slightly stinky apartment, sharing with an 80-something old man named Romas, who has but one upper appendage, and about three hundred mice, just outside of the centre of downtown Vilnius, Lithuania.
Here I spew to you what may well unfold as an ode to loneliness, madness, and communist-ness, out here on the outcroppings of time and oblivion- where cousins come popping in and out from between termite trampled woodworks- where the local paper may start begging for this boys blood- and where the sun marches up to the sky to salute each crisp May morning, shouting ‘HALLELUJAH!’ as he reaches out the window in wonder and desperation, throwing his calls to the breeze...
Here I offer the up-to-date account (albeit, a few lost weekends thrown in) of thirty days in the wilderness. Please enjoy, or go mad trying.
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