The fire burns brightly; it burns with warmth. The flames shimmer, but the fireplace is electric; the fire's not real. That’s kind of how I feel about my life here. It’s not my real life. It’s sort of an along-side life, you know, like living in a parallel universe and all of a sudden looking around, thinking, “Oh, sh**, how’d I get here?”
I can remember feeling that way in Russia, too. I was living this whole other existence. It was so out of the ordinary, so fantastical, that it did not fit in my actual plane of existence. Of course, Russia was more real than here. Sure, in Russia I couldn’t’ understand what anybody was saying, but I could, you know, find a liquor store. There were large groups of women waiting and wanting to be friends. There were exciting places to find and visit each day and new foods to taste.
I want to get out of this Pohl Anderson life and go back to my other universe where I belong. In that universe, I take three ballet classes a week; in this one, I don’t have all my shoes. :o Here I wake up at 5:50 AM (enough reason right there for a change) to drive my husband to work. In the mornings there, I sit with my coffee and think deep thoughts.
It’s not that this universe is awful on any level; it’s just that it’s not mine. It’s weird here. (I’m not weird, oh, no.)
I know the blandness of this place will subside as new experiences take hold. I know I’ll meet friends, and I am almost certainly sure I’ll find a liquor store. (I did, yesterday, and we found an AMAZING Greek restaurant.) This philosophical bent of mind will pass, which is a good thing. I may be waxing, but sure as shootin’, nothing’s shining.