Cherished images by Irma Rerich

I leave my life
of partying and bad decisions in a rotting city. I move to an old, old farmhouse in the lush woods. My days consist of waking up when I hear the landlord ride in on his tractor and the sun shines in on my face. I take a bath and read Proust`s novels drinking a cup of herbal tea. I go to work at an art shop across the street. I walk home through the field, part of the large acreage of land the house is on. I may lay a blanket out on the hill that looked out at the fields and home. I write a lot. I don`t mind saying that I have showing poetic talent since childhood. Those landscapes sound like my first lovely poems, like my childhood dreams…

I breathe with the wind and the jasmine trees. I love, fear, dance in, and cry for nature. I find myself and know myself.

It gets lonely in the woods. I come back to “big city” and I don`t feel at home.

I leave paradise behind in hopes of finding friends, or a tribe. I only have fair weather friends. I`d say I have none at all. I know no one and no one knows me.

I leave paradise behind in hopes of finding my lifework or opportunities of artistic realization. I`ve got just another job in a stuffy office. I stop writing poetry. I do nothing and nothing happens to me.

Oh, what cherished images return. I yearn.

Now I lean on my window sill dreaming of new life. Where is the thing that could fill the cold deepness inside me? In the old, old farmhouse? In that green fields? In the blue sky over them? But probably - even farther – in my carefree childhood.