not that many years ago i was learning how to take care of myself. among other things i did that made me feel, i’ve started writing what one may call a poetry.
i’ve done so for about two years and it actually worked surprisingly well, in making me feel, that is.
on some point, i recon it was enough of feeling already, i’ve stopped and all these lengthy words were just sitting on my computer, pretty forgotten and well, useless.
recently i felt this sudden and unexplained urge to touch them again, and may be to take them out so that they can breathe a little bit of virtual air.
so this is going to be a retrospective look on my way up.
Panel 1
identity.
my babushka was born to speak Yiddish at home. and outside she used to speak broken Belo/Russian.
my mama learned to understand her mom’s language. but she has to speak Russian inside and out.
Russian is my first language. later, my second one, Belorussian, was not broken at all. i took pride in it. until it became useless.
when i was 15 i had to learn a new language. Hebrew was as foreign as it was easy.
stuck between two of my main languages, my mother’s Slavic and my own Semitic, when i express myself on the level that requires removing layers, (not)strangely, i prefer using one that has no profound meaning for me. even though all three of them are equally imperfect.
on my way up 