Betty and T and I were all holding balloons that were bringing us up up up with no padding and no net, we realized, so I watched Betty drop down onto an oak and I did the same thing.
My homeland follows me in my dreams. This makes sense to Mongolians, who are as wedded to their landscape as I am to mine.
“Her whisper brought us to the tundra,” said Chilaajav through his translator. He was MCing at Fulbright Scholar Lisa Finks co-reading with the Mongolian poets whose work she translated this year. The three poets who read had starkly different styles—one middle-aged man who recited poems from memory in a passionate voice that bordered on a shout, eyes screwed shut. One woman with spectacles who read in a whisper, which accentuated the unique aspects of the Mongolian language’s sound. And one young woman damed Delgermaa, or Degii, whose style might in the US be called goth-influenced. She had heavy eyeliner, all black clothes and funky boots. Her earrings were metal disks with a design in relief and then long strings of black beads down to her neck, which mimicked the Mongolian traditionl headdress for dancer--in that case the strings of beads come down on either side of the face from a headband that fits across the forehead.