re-diasporization

Dear Laura,

this is how it feels:
It's been cold the last few days in LA and I feel homesick, curling in my IKEA blanket that requires bedding that I brought with me from Poland the first time I left for the US. My dad packed my stuff in two old pieces of luggage. One of them, he bought a few days he left for the first time for Germany. The second one, my mom got as a gift from our neighbor in Berlin for our trip in the old car, across 516 km or 320 miles to Warsaw. It took us 5 days to get there. So these days and nights, as I curled up under my blanket I miss the days and nights in places that are not here, unable to pinpoint where those places are, maybe they are spaces, forever in the process of being made into places. And I feel lost, clinging on to my yellow bedding with red flowers which carry with them the memory of a history, a war - Czerwone maki na Monte Casino.
this is how it smells, the yellow flowers dubbing for hoa mai that we take from beside the road at the end of winter to celebrate a holiday that no one but us knows about. And it is hard to explain to other thirteen years old that time can be measured in so many ways, that the world does not move forward always, because sometimes we must return, in full circle, to the past. Silence smells of incense.

this is how you live, in déjà vu, because every time you move through space you are also moving through time (in the same way multidirectionally), while engulfed in white noises that conceal more than they express. And you reach out, frantically, with your whole body to touch a ground, no longer able to distinguish between up or down, back and front. Sometimes, in the process, parts of your body are left out of sync with each other, forever disconnected, lost from yourself, forcing you to move, again, to find away to be and to exist as a whole, if only an imagined whole...
Do you hear my feet moving?