deprivation of formalities
OLGA MIKOLAIVNA
in an international airport someplace abroad a man was clipping his fingernails. the dead crescent moons falling onto the floor for an immigrant to sweep up. he spoke crystal-real english. loud. using too many words to say very little.
a baby boomer schooled me on manners. when a person is afraid of dogs it’s polite to leash her. jasper the he was wearing a silk hand-me-down gucci scarf. i’m afraid of men attacking me on the street.
i didn’t say hello. i was followed. nobody likes a stuck-up slut.
woman sits down next to me in the airport. she moves garbage off her seat closer to where i am. realizing her insolence, she throws the garbage onto the floor. there are immigrants in reykjavic too.
an elder attempts taking a box of cake from me on the bus.
later that evening my grandmother calls the cops on me. once the officials arrive, she doesn’t come out of her room.
the broad, los angeles. a mother told her daughter to stand in front of the “you are very special person” painting by barbara kluger. the daughter posed, hugging her stuffed unicorn close to heart. strangling, really. and smiled a horrendous saccharine smile. crystallized in time.
i didn’t say hello. a sideways glance. boy, people these days sure are mean.
that’s a beautiful cup of coffee. a potbellied white man comes up to another holding a drill. they discuss single origin coffee with fervor. they shake hands. all of the baristas are women. god bless olympia. he walks out taking a video selfie.
middle of january. a food coop in the northwest. oh my god these beans are beautiful. i don’t even care that they are from mexico.
as i jog below on a sunny day. along the manmade inlet, on the balcony of the third floor condominium, a woman sits basking in
the direct april light. she is wearing a mask looking down at me.
a bucket of honey was turned over and spilled due to fatigue. one opportunist took the chance to talk about her bees. another altruist with an empty jar to fill stood with mouth agape. but i brought this jar.
in an international airport someplace abroad a man was clipping his fingernails. the dead crescent moons falling onto the floor for an immigrant to sweep up. he spoke crystal-real english. loud. using too many words to say very little.
a baby boomer schooled me on manners. when a person is afraid of dogs it’s polite to leash her. jasper the he was wearing a silk hand-me-down gucci scarf. i’m afraid of men attacking me on the street.
i didn’t say hello. i was followed. nobody likes a stuck-up slut.
woman sits down next to me in the airport. she moves garbage off her seat closer to where i am. realizing her insolence, she throws the garbage onto the floor. there are immigrants in reykjavic too.
an elder attempts taking a box of cake from me on the bus.
later that evening my grandmother calls the cops on me. once the officials arrive, she doesn’t come out of her room.
the broad, los angeles. a mother told her daughter to stand in front of the “you are very special person” painting by barbara kluger. the daughter posed, hugging her stuffed unicorn close to heart. strangling, really. and smiled a horrendous saccharine smile. crystallized in time.
i didn’t say hello. a sideways glance. boy, people these days sure are mean.
that’s a beautiful cup of coffee. a potbellied white man comes up to another holding a drill. they discuss single origin coffee with fervor. they shake hands. all of the baristas are women. god bless olympia. he walks out taking a video selfie.
middle of january. a food coop in the northwest. oh my god these beans are beautiful. i don’t even care that they are from mexico.
as i jog below on a sunny day. along the manmade inlet, on the balcony of the third floor condominium, a woman sits basking in
the direct april light. she is wearing a mask looking down at me.
a bucket of honey was turned over and spilled due to fatigue. one opportunist took the chance to talk about her bees. another altruist with an empty jar to fill stood with mouth agape. but i brought this jar.
|
to kaleidoscope: to relate. /// Olga (she/her) works within the mediums of photography, text, and installation. She is interested in memory, mysticism, inheritance, (dis)place, and the construction of language. She currently resides in Philadelphia, where she is pursuing her Master’s in English at Rutgers Camden. Her work can be found in New Delta Review, Desuetude Press, The Elderly, and The Inquisitive Eater. |