He’s a bright guy and — sort of peaceful. The last time I sat with Stase until midnight and Aksels walked me home. It’s funny, at the gate he watched after me until I went into the house — and then I felt guilty because of Andrejs, who’d stayed home with our daughter. It’s the first time I’ve felt like that. Strange. And SO WHAT!!! — as Jonsy, my Icelandic friend, would say. What was that look for when I told him I’d been to visit Stase and Aksels? Can’t I have friends?
I asked Gran once if she’d ever had friends. She answered — what do you mean, friends, I had family and didn’t have time for friends. Maybe what she meant was that guilty feeling, when each new person you talk to essentially uses up words meant for your husband? But can there ever be fewer words?
If something here doesn’t make sense to you, then let me just say that I don’t even really get it. It’s simple: I’ve gotten to know our neighbors, that’s all. That’s what I’ll tell myself and that’s how it is!
In closing I’ll write something that I keep rereading with my husband in mind.
God bless you!
— Ieva
* * *
That I want thee, only thee — let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core.
As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry — I want thee, only thee.
As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is — I want thee, only thee.
— R. Tagore
* * *
Holy shit, brother, I’m 18 years old! But is that a reason for us to cry?
I can’t bring myself to say goodbye to you yet.
Speaking of Aksels.
Aksels has a lot of books in that forester’s house. And he’s read all of them.
Andrejs has read maybe one or two in his entire life — and it was probably an instruction manual for laying a brick stove. At first I used to read to him a lot — don’t laugh, it was before we’d go to bed — and he’d always fall asleep after the first paragraph.
Aksels gave me a strange story to read. I’ll write it down for you and then burn it afterwards, because I want to think only of Andrejs and don’t want to keep strangers’ letters in the house. I’ll probably burn it! Yes, probably! No doubt! And if this sentimental piece had some kind of value! I don’t know where he got it, if he copied it out of some book or came up with it on his own. But read it for yourself:
The star said it had already figured as much. And then it cried on my shoulder, probably melted bits of frost left over on its lashes from that other time. It said that it had been to see a poor poet living in an attic room. The poet often prayed to the star in the pale moonlight — he was ragged, voracious, and impassioned. And the star had gone to him. In the literal sense. In the way that only stars can go to people. But the poet? The star now sobbed more bitterly. The poet had stood bewildered — so grey, grey, grey.
“How,” he had asked, “can you truly be so cold?”
“How,” he had asked, “are you not a planet, but a little star?”
“And tell me, star, what am I to do with you?”
The star said it had already figured as much. It went and lay down on the Milky Way and, focusing all its concentration internally, exploded. Hundreds of poets saw this and said to themselves: “Oh! A falling star!” And a hundred poems with a hundred different descriptions of stars were born.
I went to see that poet, to the high windowsill up in his attic room, and looked down. And there he lay, having already frozen as he fell. The star had wooed the poet. It didn’t bask in the light of adoration, but instead came and looked directly into his eyes.
People will be unintentionally destroyed by the wandering stars in their lives.
I’m waiting for mine…
* * *
Hi, my dear!
Do I even need to say that your letter gave me another fantastic emotional high? This morning Andrejs tells me — you got a letter, get excited! I went to the house immediately, put on some music — and what a relief it was to read your letter…
The way in which the prophecies come true on the ideas circulating in the skies above us at any given moment is so strange. We’re on the same wave, brother. I read your letter and feel like all of it is happening to me. Even though I dare to say we live in absolutely different worlds. At least in an external, physical sense.
You’ve grown up taking care of your spiritual life. I’ve mostly let mine drift, which I sometimes regret.
Who knows how we’re supposed to live? There isn’t a specific formula, and now and then we feel so lonely and unprotected. Especially when we have to make tough decisions.
The weather today is nice, foggy, and warm, sprouts are shooting up out of the earth and birds are chirping in every branch. I can keep the window open and hear how newborn foals whinny loudly in the pasture and search for their mothers.
I also have a man who loves me, a baby that we both love, and we have a house — and peace and safety. They’re wonderful feelings, really. And how he knows how to keep me on a leash with this peace! You could say he’s almost unbreakable in his confidence — run around the world, be wild, do smart or stupid things, but no matter what, you’ll come back to me when you need something real! It’s like that’s what he thinks, and maybe that’s right. Time will tell.
You and only you are responsible for causing problems for yourself.
Always, your Ieva
* * *
Hello!
It’s so superb
to be free of doubt, to not try to hide
flaws behind lace and hopelessness behind laughter
and to one night wager destiny
against everything like a trump card.
There — that’s Amanda Aizpuriete. A fantastic poet, bright personality, and what’s more, she raised four kids.
I said it, wrote it, and am now embarrassed. Is that something that can be said in a single, short sentence?
Next to me is a blue vase with blue cornflowers and yellow marigolds. There was an amazing sunset when I got your letter Saturday evening, but up here, in Heaven, they’re all like that (by Heaven I mean my veranda). The sun was red, the clouds were violet and billowing, and the swallows were singing.
So where can I even begin?
Or rather: should I even?
I’m starting to think that people either take care of all the important things in one go, or else don’t take care of them at all.
— Ieva
Don’t ask me what words
mean. They’re
only words.
. . What are words? Essentially a redundant
cry from the burning house
in which I have to stay.
— A. A.
* * *
Brother!
So — that’s it.
. .
I have to confess to some lies. I try so hard to stay happy! In each letter to you, and in each sentence. I tried to read some books, get lost in quotes — nothing worked. I’m actually doing horribly. I don’t know what to hold on to anymore. Andrejs thinks that I’m creating an imaginary world around me, not living in reality. Maybe the books are to blame? I’ve read books since I was little like I was obsessed, and the words have probably taken their toll on my brain.
What’s happening to us?
I mean — to all of us. It looks like the country has lost its mind. The day before yesterday they liquidated a joint-stock company’s cattle-shed, you should’ve seen it! There are no words to describe it! Everyone rushed out like mad to find the best cow. They drove up in their compact cars and their trucks and fought loudly over the cattle. I saw respectable women, family matrons, tearing at each other’s hair and spitting in each other’s faces. Some men came in with a butcher already in tow to have their cows stunned with a hammer, mounted onto a hook, and skinned right there in the corridor. And there were kids around! I remember the cows’ eyes, placed all in a row like a necklace stretched out on the dusty concrete. I was wading through blood, brother, and that’s no metaphor.