hudson heights.

from fort tryon park.

when i was a little girl my father was constantly traveling to russia.

he'd return with beautiful items from the one of the country's many outdoor markets. small wooden toys. intricately carved santas. hand-painted matryoshka dolls detailing native fairy-tales. and from these items i gleaned what i could from a country that felt a world away. a lifetime away, really.

i remember once dreaming that i was there, in russia, swinging on a swing set. i went to jump off (as children do at the peak of a swing when you're young and without fear) and off i flew. and off i fell--off the edge of the world--i disappeared from the image. as though the world was two-dimensional and i had died. (think old-school video games).

that was my impression of russia. that the world was flat and russia was the edge.

sometimes that's how i feel about my little corner of new york. aslant on the hill. just next to the river. quiet.

and at the edge of the earth.

as though at any moment i might simply fall from the screen.