Taking moments. Music and pace-by-pace forward, along empty sidewalks and whooshing sidestreams. Alighting upon a chair, at a table, also empty, but nestled amid pockets of liveliness and solace alike. Re-learning to establish that space within a space. The rural within the urban. Forest in the midst of crowds, but one with its own broad and windswept seas breaking on männirannad (pine shores).
I really don't know what the hell to do. Let that be my opening statement. Let it resound. When all options carry a significant portion of difficulty, of complication and turbulence. At the same time – when did that stop me before? Before... The line between 'then' and 'now' has been drawn, lies elsewhere, has been crossed. Something needs to be done, that much is for sure. Uniting spaces thousands of miles apart – is that even possible? If happiness can skip between both, then there must be a way to accompany it, book a seat next to it. Not just to ride in on its coattails. I'm too connected here in Eesti without feeling a reciprocal beckoning, a draw, an anchor. There's the sea, but she doesn't raise a glass, make a joke that inspires a genuine laugh, give you a knowing glance, keep you on your toes in life and warm at night. Looking around and seeing just what I want – camaraderie, light-heartedness, daring, confidence in self and life... they're all the things I want, all the things I have had before and still hold – just not here.
Within eyesight, out of reach.
It's time for something to be done. I'm the one to do it.
Too often now, I'm searching in coffee mugs and bottles, with nothing to show but where I've ended up anyway. Just take a look at the shift in the tone, the language, the vibrance of the vibe in my posts; in my justifications.
Opening up... just a split second of thought, of realization, and it's done. Another open(ed) door.
That's all it takes.
I'm not ready to settle for the sake of settling.
(written on paper, on a rock with waves lapping up and an inquisitive seagull corroborating)
In a café, where everyone is speaking aloud, why is it so odd and discouraged for me to speak aloud myself?
Oh, that's right—because I'm alone at my table, save for my trusty white-framed, glowy screen buddy (not sure if it'd be over the line to call it a "bro"...no, it would), and the dregs of a pot of Earl Grey. That's why.
Got to love the lance-free freelancing lifestyle! Or else.
How to reopen yourself in another culture once you have adapted yourself to its standard of immediate suspicion, narrow-eyedness, and withdrawal? This is a topic to be explored at greater length when a chunk of time wealthier in minutes and seconds and ticks and tocks presents itself for doing so... not just semi-procrastination in the face of woebegone word-processing woes.
There was an interesting article/post/eloquent rant that I stumbled upon recently, which expounded on the loneliness and elusive identity of being bi- or multi-cultural. I fully agree with the, in my opinion, fact that language and culture cannot be separated. History, land, language, customs, attitudes... all interlaced and interlocked, pumped up like fresh kicks. Hence, "mastering" a language and conveying it in the most coherent form possible means taking on and actively engaging a massive range of initially foreign elements. Over time and with fluency, these become ingrained; almost adopted. At the same time, not all of them mesh so well with your central character and nature. They can be respected and even mimicked for a while, but giving them a set of keys and "putting your bread in the same box" (as the Estonian saying goes)? Hells no. At some point, you reach the cusp that lies in the transition from ignoring to decision-making. Ironing out the kinks, while keeping it kinky. Super kinky. Linguistically speaking, of course. And otherwise. What?
It is this part of my Minnesotan-ness, which I now need to awaken in my Estonian-language "me". Minnesota nice, soft and non-encroaching friendliness, openness, a love for good craft beer. Well, I suppose the latter of those has been in practice all along. All the same, there comes a time, when you have to flout a number of one culture's demands and expectations in favor of what you feel is right in the bigger picture. I suppose it is the forging of that fused identity; a common and more whole expression of all you've been through and what you've taken from it. One, which adds value to all of your cultures, and stands as a more complete and unique example to others.
It's as simple as that—a spot of peace and reflection. The kind that is endlessly pursued mentally, that is held revered as an, "oh, that would be fucking lovely-ness; one day, it will be possible, perhaps, I suppose...". Collection and calm, the conscious basking in the fact that it is collection and calm. More specifically (in this blog? hardly!): sitting on the windowsill (old buildings/Europe definitely gets an extra point for that—broad enough to be a very non-corporate-café "third place"...or is that place 1.5?...a perch or position, from which you can survey both the adjoining room (the room as a part of the window, not the other way around) and the greater outside), having woken up at leisure, notopened this glowing screen first-off and sunk into the murky depths of the nets of inter, and taken a book as a windowsill companion. Emphasizing the word companion as well—not in the nature of something, which demands your attention, towards which your focus must be directed under obligation or threat of conviction; but rather something, from which your direct concentration may wander from time to time, rising and flitting through the leafing greenery of mid-lehekuu (May), only to alight once more upon the non-offended words at will. On either side of the windowsill is even a different temperature, a different level of light. In any case, it's all within reach. Like throwing a frisbee more mid-distance (yes, that was an activity of yesterday and hence comes the somewhat odd comparison)—it needs a bit of extra force, a somewhat contradictory shove downwards to lift up and not careen sideways and into the face of a small passerby puppy or the greenish death-water of a 17th-century moat. Effort to achieve effortlessness. Thus the hesitation at such an approach, and ultimately not achieving either.
Only to be followed by ska blasted at the highest volume a sticker-encrusted Mac can muster early on a pühapäev (Sunday). Why the hell not.
I don't exactly write openly and addressing the grand population of those Internets on the topic of my personal life or feelings, or whatever they're called. To tell the truth (you're welcome), I'm still working actively on opening up more even to my friends in what concerns such emotional bonanzas (and my apologies – I've been working my way through all seasons of Deadwood recently, and thus, terms similar to "bonanza" and "cocksucker" might surface more frequently in my babblings). That said, take this as a rare largesse.
I'm angry. Feistily angry inside. And not only inside, I suppose, but also displayed through glares more genuine than the usual Northeast-European street expression, and a tightly-clenched jaw. It's injustice that causes the boiling. Injustice in many forms, on numerous levels, injustice both direct and witnessed. The inability to be able to give a swift, decisive resolution to the many of them. Possibly the most egregious injustice of them all – an inability to set things right. When acceptance of this comes about is another question. I may be Pisces (kalad) nearly across the board, but my Moon (kuu) is in 0 degrees Scorpio. Whatever that means.
One thing does help – a resounding pirate's yarrrr. And the Miles Davis spiraling though the air at the café, where I type this, staring out across the expanse of consumer catalysm and escalating stairways. It'll have to suffice for now.