.: awakening this morning, loose-barked branches scratching my eyes, the cold density of snow on my tongue: it is strange what lands I must traverse while sleeping. I cannot remember most of my night’s journeys, ever; I wake only with fleeting impressions and emotional echoes. It must have been a long pilgrimage last night, back to the lands of my ancestors, for I woke from a long sleep still quite exhausted, thirsty, and somewhat famished.

Perhaps it is the fog and the snow lately, or perhaps it is the bewitching of the lesovikha, or maybe it is the looming pile of papers that casts a dire shadow on my life. In any case, I heard a voice singing in the night; now, in the light of day, all I can think of is pine, oak and maple; of ice and stream; of grey skies streaked with a smeared, wintry sun. If I weren’t such a responsible man these days, I would be off again to the mountains. There is something there, I can feel it. It calls to me while I sleep.

My ancestors were assuredly forest people. My very cells know this: I am descended from a forest-spirit, some beautiful and inhuman dryad who seduced a young man on a bed of pine needles and moss. I know this as assuredly as I know my aquatic lineage, how my blood pumps sea water, how i dream of kelp beds.

Ok– time to prepare some breaking of the fast and go to do the responible teacher-thing. Best to you all, may you always be found beneath the mistletoe, so that life may kiss you (again).