When I was growing up in the Soviet Union, I was obsessed by two things; digging trenches and swinging on the swing. Free of worries I shifted tones of greasy soil, noodled with earthworms. During my digging breaks, I would get out from the trench and jump on the swing. And, from shadow into the light, and back to shadow. My legs flew high above as I aimed towards the light and my body would cease to weigh upon me. Sometimes carried away in the lightness of motion, I flew so overly high that my seat would tremble and ropes abruptly jolt. When infringing that highest point, the lower half of me was petrified, while the rest of me almost deliberately wanted to flip out. I felt fluttering outside the margins of my body and was able to see another version of myself, in the swinging zenith wedged between segments of a squashed moment. In the flash of that fright, the duality of light and shadow would be joined by this life craving sensation which alarmingly pulsated between my bum, testicles and stomach. And then, when in the backward sweep, my shadow licked the ground, the divided selves were once again reunited and breathed out in relief. In those after scare moments, the things around were stripped off their names and the whole world, filled with this previously unappreciated values, seemed brand new, freshly rinsed.
