emilijabluma-blog

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Don’t ask because I don’t know. (at Arlington, Virginia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHOlOGABIHd/?igshid=12w0limlt31ag

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Happy Monday. The sky really was purple this morning🔮 Full poem is in my storiesssss. https://www.instagram.com/p/CGzkF8ZBdFU/?igshid=n8f4k4h61igw

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The first opera I ever saw was La Bohème at the National Theatre in Rīga, Latvia. They had English and Latvian subtitles above the stage, and me and my friend Megan barely got standing seats for the matinée. But we just wanted to be...in the room where it happened...and thank God we were...because our tickets were only €13!!! It was a beautiful performance, of course, as Latvians are known best around the world for their singing and musical talents. I also understood why the Opera is SUCH a social event. Every 20 minutes or so there is a long intermission, a break mostly for the singers to rest their powerful voices. And during that time the audience has 20-30 minutes to dip into one of the side rooms and enjoy a glass of wine, or a treat, or an espresso, like you see here. I could imagine women in their best dresses, and men in tailored coats. I can imagine the gossip, the tension, the glances given from across the room. And most of all, stupidly I guess, I can imagine the way Anna Karenina was ostracized at the Opera in St. Petersburg for doing nothing more than believing with her entire soul that Love was the only thing. Love was above all, and that for Love, she’d give up everything. I’m not that different, so I feel her dilemma very very deeply. Minus the train. Which is a whole other thing. Oh! Another great thing that happened at intermission was we met a Russian woman who spoke Latvian, Russian, and French, but zero English, so @megcns876 just started speaking full French with her and I was just flabbergasted at how chic the whole thing was and that I was somehow able to be even marginally involved just by standing near them...ugh, such a great afternoon! So magical! Oh and by the way, La Bohème—yeah, really important Opera. Super powerful. See it as soon as you can!!! 💞🤸🏼‍♀️✨🧚🏻🌀 (at Latvijas Nacionālā opera un balets) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGh7YCwhH4z/?igshid=1i5v9zw102yjb

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The first opera I ever saw was La Bohème at the National Theatre in Rīga, Latvia. They had English and Latvian subtitles above the stage, and me and my friend Megan barely got standing seats for the matinée. But we just wanted to be...in the room where it happened...and thank God we were...because our tickets were only €13!!! It was a beautiful performance, of course, as Latvians are known best around the world for their singing and musical talents. I also understood why the Opera is SUCH a social event. Every 20 minutes or so there is a long intermission, a break mostly for the singers to rest their powerful voices. And during that time the audience has 20-30 minutes to dip into one of the side rooms and enjoy a glass of wine, or a treat, or an espresso, like you see here. I could imagine women in their best dresses, and men in tailored coats. I can imagine the gossip, the tension, the glances given from across the room. And most of all, stupidly I guess, I can imagine the way Anna Karenina was ostracized at the Opera in St. Petersburg for doing nothing more than believing with her entire soul that Love was the only thing. Love was above all, and for that for Love, she’d give up everything. I’m not different. Minus the train. Which is a whole other thing. Another great thing that happened at intermission was we met a woman who spoke Latvian and Russian and French, and so @megcns876 just started speaking full French with her and I was just flabbergasted at how chic the whole thing was and that I was somehow able to even be marginally involved by standing near them...such a great afternoon. Oh La Boheme—yeah, really important Opera. Super powerful. See it as soon as you can!!! (at Latvijas Nacionālā opera un balets) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGh6giihhFV/?igshid=7y24hz91zwwu

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🌀Female Pain, Two. https://www.instagram.com/p/CGXrusHB2g4/?igshid=p01pjnrhacsc

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Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! In honor of the country where I was born, and where I spent each long, sweet summer on the pond in front of The Red House (our summer home)—here are some pictures of one of my favorite places on Earth. I spent all of each summer month in my childhood conquering every wet nook and leafy cranny of water in that pond. I knew every reed and lily pad by name, and caught more frogs than I knew what to do with. One day me and my cousin, Davis, set a goal to catch 100 frogs. We did it. We all spent each summer day barefoot, playing for hour upon hour on that raft where I stand, the one that my father built the summer I turned five. But I’ve just turned 9 in that picture—I’m William’s age. I hunted obsessively for snakes and frogs and turtles, then eventually, after seeing the horror in my mother’s face regarding what I considered to be a pet, returned the creatures to their natural place. My dog Hazel also hunted, as you can see in the background—sadly with much less luck. Canada was my summer home, in all of its brisk mornings, warm days, and those short chilly nights which were illuminated by nothing but the Ontario stars. I’ll never forget all those summers without internet, without phone, without TV. Where the only things the house inside offered us was a stereo and all the CD’s of our favourite boy bands, every Rogers and Hammerstein musical ever made on VHS, and of course, we had each other. Yes, those are photos of my 16-year-old self in the Red House kitchen singing with my sister and cousin. Alice and Corinne—I am so sorry. But not really... Okay, that’s my Ode to Canada. Bye! 🇨🇦 🍁🤸🏼‍♀️ (at Bruce Peninsula) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGPuWwthHBy/?igshid=1yy25tue719q

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🌀 (at Arlington, Virginia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGGkmYBhgby/?igshid=5y7v7kkcsgtb

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On the sneakiness of men... (at Virginia Tech) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGDYxkWBAmx/?igshid=v4gcema4ui1a

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Feminine Pain, One. https://www.instagram.com/p/CGDFb6zBiwm/?igshid=eq5j28uemq28

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That awkward time of the week when you miss the weekend and want to go back in time, but also can’t wait for the coming weekend. It’s that day when this weekend becomes last weekend and next weekend becomes this weekend—WEDNESDAY!!! Yes, today is Wednesday...I’ve decided it is Wednesday...so...no going back now! (at Washington D.C.) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGC4bpNBgGT/?igshid=1l2gf18zip906

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Good morning! Labrīt! ☀️🐝✨Swipe right to hear me ramble about being tired, and swipe right again to watch me read this four line thingamajig. Oh, and if you like it, share it! Bye! 🤸🏼‍♀️ (at Arlington, Virginia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGACyKahez0/?igshid=5nriovjoiz6h

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A poem about Philadelphia, which is actually just something I said while drunk with my sisters in Center City in December 2018 (swipe right for the video). This is my first time dipping my toe in the lagoon of SPEAKING my poetry, or poetry-ing my speaking.....hmmm....okay, I gotta go! Bye! 🤸🏼‍♀️ (at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) https://www.instagram.com/p/CF918qdhq4G/?igshid=ug60lyyk4kyr

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🌳 🍄 💣 ⚰️ “Mushrooms, Metal, and Murder” I want to be contented to forage the fruit of fungi in the Fall, and I want to help clear the forests of all the things that don’t belong; metal scraps of mortar left by other men, in other wars, in other times. I want to join Leģenda on their annual dig, and even set up camp. I’ll help find every unused Panzerfaust one by one, but I think I’ll leave the graves to more apt hands and hearts; and leave the discovery of the trenches to the men, who have accepted since they were boys that this is their karma, and holding a 96-year-old skull in their hands, they know by his teeth what must have happened: that he was about 18 when the Kurzeme Kettle took him, “Good teeth,” they say. “Young,” they say, pointing at the teeth. I’ll watch their shovels fly up from afar, and I’ll gulp the past’s utter madness down into the shallows of my stomach. I’ll silently see to attending the reburial, a proper military service, in their side’s cemetery, seventy-five and some years later. Because it’s never too late to bury the dead, and to say their name out loud, if we know it, one last time, before their memory vanishes into the abyss of war’s statistics. Maybe, during all this, between the mushrooms, metal, and murder, I’ll find the time to look up. Maybe I’ll gasp at Autumn’s rusted colors. Maybe you’ll grab my hand, faceless man. It’s getting colder, darker. //Emilīja Blūma (at Broceni) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFzpt40hsxd/?igshid=icgpczm7b6qh

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🌾 Jumis, God of well-being, abundance, and fertility, I beg you to protect my son and me. Protect us in our hobbit home, our little hut, from where we never roam. Bless all of its cinders, ashes, dust, this Home where whips of trees are shushed. We promise to keep this fire going, we promise to sing upward while mowing, we promise to adorn your hearth from our hearts, and whisper “I love you” in the dark. I’ll think of you when I knead the dough, and when I sprinkle wheat’s soft snow, and trace your signal on Rye’s shingled roof— for it’s a sacred gift from Dievs and you— our humming prayer thanks You for our food. I’ll sway to Pērkons’ life rhythm of thunder until the day my restless self wanders, called by the Castle of Light, blazing my trail, through the Ancient Oak Forest, who tells our tale. But by and by I’ll always look back and squint to see the things I can’t pack; the silent smoke rising from your chimney, rising from the hearth Jumis gifted me. My son, now grown, is singing softly mowing: Dievs, your golden wheat is glowing, your soft river flowing your newborn trees are growing, And your sacred wind is blowing. Blow ye wind, Blow ye wind. Emilīja Blūma Latvian Gods Referenced: Jumis - God of abundance, fertility, well-being, and traditional God of the home. He ensured a good harvest. Dievs - Almighty God who lives in the sky. Pērkons - God of Thunder, protector. (at Latvia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFwo-baBdEB/?igshid=oihsunxd54f4

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✍🏼📄✉️💌📮🎈 The Honeyed Nymph ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Had her skin been paler, and had her hair a deep dark hue, had her eyes sparkled emerald, instead of that deep Baltic blue, then I’d argue her a match with a woman from another time, a reincarnation, rebirthed, rehatched, carrying with her the breathe that belonged to another. Born again, in her, was the subtle power and enormous impact of Anne Boleyn— another woman born too soon. Yet she remains an unknown myth, born in the boots of a Birch, an unknown goddess, a honeyed nymph. She’s the muse of some great man who hasn’t discovered her yet, who’s looking to do away with the divine and the divide I imagine it effects. I suddenly understood Yoko Ono, and I no longer hated her, but understood her, and John, of course, and how female power is the bloom of sacred flowers. //Emilīja Blūma (at Downtown Fredericksburg) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFm4cl2h-35/?igshid=w9ztkxnr2nr1

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☁️ We live in a world where most people walk around lily-livered of life, evading existence, avoiding the possibility of seven. Instead they flounder and drown in the fear of their own reduction into a mere glimpse of vapor of wisp of cloud. Into an atom that might dissolve in the weather of the day— constantly checking the barometer, the temperature of our more tempestuous selves. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ But this was her comfort, her gate, her armour. She strode along happy, open and embracing, allowing the particles of other people to permeate her porous presence; even affording the mistakes of the ambiguous Prospero a home in her ethereal essence. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ That was the shapeshifter in her; her habitation, her burrow into something or someone you recognized in the river: a painting, a cherished song, or stranger still, that picture of yourself on the mantelpiece— the child of six or nine— in the home that raised you, next to the bookshelf with that book full of Orwell’s essays, which were never assigned in school. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Emilīja Blūma (at Washington D.C.) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFfsRt1hxhm/?igshid=7bwqbckop1fd

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These were the days you loved me best, when slumbered mornings stretched in lovely uninterrupted rest; and you captured another side of me, a fleeting likeness reminding you of the girl you wanted me to be. No dog barked, no baby cried, no roommate scolded our sugared sleeping with the sound of her clanking and cleaning up of beer bottles. The trumpets of your Frat Star existence, which you claimed was so much more important than mine, did not sound. No one called you Mother. Your brothers were sleeping and I had no sisters, because to me Greek life wasn’t the Good, but rather a time passed, a moment missed— I’d come too late to enjoy the long table feast of Bread and Wine— which to me was was just another college experience that slipped away. Yet, my deciding to pick up that Women’s Studies minor was really something! That jarred you into a misogynistic state and I was sad to see you so irate, but by that time Love had unlocked her gate, and my rational mind had arrived too late to even think of leaving you. But my activism for child care for students like me wasn’t nothing! Which understandably you didn’t get. It’s okay. But go ahead! Add Winter Formal to that endless list of grimy basements in which we never kissed. All the things that meant so much to you, all the things I couldn’t do. I’m sorry. I knew I’d miss them—No, consciously decided to skip them the moment I had a baby at nineteen. You said I ruined our love and in a moment I didn’t miss, was when you said this: “Emily, if it weren’t for William I’d propose to you right now.” ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ //Emīlija Blūma (at Virginia Tech) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFZ58ywBxK6/?igshid=bs8tqxkt78dh