This is a Romanov. She is strikingly beautiful. Though she is not the woman whose photograph would later captivate me, when I saw this image of Princess Olga and she took my breath away...I felt she was a good way to convey how I felt the day I DID see the visage of the stranger on the other end of the phone.

Dear Ether,

Somewhere in Odessa there is a photograph of me.  It might be stored away gently in a envelope.  It may be crudely covered in rubble in a dump.  But somewhere…..somewhere in the Ukraine there is a snapshot of me taken when I was in my mid 20’s.

The original keeper of the photo was a woman I never met.  She spoke no English and I no Russian.  My glossy print sat on her mantelpiece for about 5 years in her modest studio flat.  It shared space with images of her grandchildren, husband and daughter and a few tattered black and white photos that survived the war.

English gent is half Russian.  His mother is this woman’s daughter.  To me she was only known as Babushka.

I only spoke to her a few times on the phone.  I muttered foolish statements that English gent had taught me.  “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia” (I love you).  She laughed with good nature into the phone and repeated. “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia Tour-Jah” (I love you too).  It felt sad that I was crippled by language and couldn’t communicate with a woman who I knew had a tremendous history and warmth.  I had never been handicapped by language before—in fact, it was something I was so good at.  I always handed over the receiver feeling like a puppet who’d just done her job entertaining.

One day, I asked to see her photograph during a visit to English gent’s house.  His clan are a family of pale, fair-haired, light eyed, slim people.  Babushka was in her twenties in the photo I was shown.  She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall.  She had coffee-colored hair and brown pupils. I know it seems crazy, but I felt a sudden closeness to her.  I felt she was from my stock.  That English gent’s genes had all come from his father’s UK side (and even his mother was shockingly fair—she didn’t resemble Babushka at all).  Though I’m much taller, we were both the dark horses.  I asked English gent’s mom if I could send Babushka MY photo.  I felt if that made me feel a connection to her where words couldn’t, maybe my photo could create the same spark.

When she received my photo, Gent told me she cried.  That she “understood.”  She loved my dark looks—and it made her so happy that he was with someone who reminded her of her heritage.  After that, I made sure no longer to be a marionette on the phone but to have a translator and convey true feelings across the line.

But, as we all know, time is a harsh enemy.  And she was not young.  She no longer could speak on the phone or read letters.  And then she died.  When English gent’s mother went to her flat for the last time, she said she noticed my photo immediately.  It stood out more than the others and looked as though it had been fingered the most.  It was slightly dog-eared and had many fingerprints on its finish.  I like to think that she passed it around for many to see.  By the time Gent’s mom came back to clean the flat, the mantle had been tidied and to this day, those pictures have never resurfaced.

Though we never got to know each other, when we looked into one another’s eyes from so far away, we had an understanding.  I often wonder what my photo got to see in her little flat?  I wonder what aromas surrounded it as she cooked her traditional meals?

Wherever I am in Odessa, decaying in a landfill or safe in a drawer, at least I can say for a moment in time a picture spoke a thousand words for both of us.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

My words began to haunt me.......

Dear Ether,

To become haunted by oneself through ones own words is disturbing.  I would see the same pattern in my writing that happened in my real life.  I started out with promises of friendship, stories, fashion, beauty—and yes, life as it truly was (the good, the bad and the ugly).

But as time progressed, all I began to do was write about the bad and the ugly.  See Ethers, this is what always happens to me outside the sphere.  I lure people in, friendly with a sense of humor, witty banter about vacuous pop-culture.   I even look the part wearing trendy clothes and a big lip-glossed smile.  But as you get to know me, the facade cracks and all I am is gloss.  A shellac that you brush over worn out wood or cracking paint to make it appear glistening.  But, underneath this varnish, what you have is damage that needs repairing.  And even through my anonymity, my veil, I still couldn’t stop from being who I was.  I could have hit the delete button or not published certain stories—but I did.  In doing so, One of 365 just became another ugly appendage of the human being sitting in front of the screen.  I was afraid of people leaving me.  Becoming bored of me.  I felt self-conscious, like I was moaning about the same woes for months and no matter what advice I was given, couldn’t change.  Being deserted again horrified me.  I couldn’t bear being a failure in yet another forum of my life.  So, I pulled a Houdini of sorts and disappeared.  I didn’t check my e-mail for One of 365, leave comments on posts of fellow bloggers who I love, Twitter became a ghost-town for me.

So, why today?  Is it because it’s the 1st of February?  A new start and a fresh month?  No. A dear friend of mine dedicated a post to me.  I didn’t deserve her kindness, as I didn’t answer a single e-mail from her for 3 weeks.  But my bosom buddy Wildernesschic (who if I could have a smidgen of her passion and kindness…) kept at me.  I couldn’t believe someone was willing to see past being ignored.  And then, with a deep breath, I checked my inbox and comments area.  I was surprised to see that others had asked after me too. I was so grateful.

I don’t think I’ll ever be writing about cotton candy and keg parties.  That’s just not me.  And you know what else isn’t me anymore?  ”One”—at the header of my page.  The story will always be there for all to read—it is my first entry.  But, I’m going to re-write that page as an “about me” instead.  The only thing that still stands true in that piece is my hope in One of 365 to discover something in the journey of blogging.  So far I have already.  And one of the realizations is that a huge part of my writing here in the ether no longer has anything to do with that girl and her night with Mr. X.  As said, it will always remain in One of 365’s archives, but it is no longer who I am.   And, I’ve thought about the title One of 365.  Yes, I will do my hardest to post daily.  But one day out of 365 doesn’t necessarily mean consecutive days.  Fair compromise?

To all you who cared about me and didn’t just “gloss over” this varnished set of numbers….as always….

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This may look like a cartoon, but this is no joke. I mean business. I'm sick of people out in the world thinking they can abuse bloggers and THINK they can get away with it. Read on....and see that your "mouse" is gonna be trapped starting NOW.

Dear Ethers, 

My good friend Wildernesschic has a brilliant blog that I enjoy reading tremendously.  I like it because it’s written from the heart.  You never feel like she has a thesaurus sitting on her lap while she’s writing, her stories never cease to fascinate, and she writes with humor and wit that are honest and organic.  She’s also extremely supportive of other bloggers, never failing to visit sites leaving well thought out comments and taking an interest in the world of the blogosphere.   She’s a reliable source, in my opinion, on blogging.  

A few days ago she posted an entry called “What Is A Blog?”  It fascinated me.  Again, she wrote straight from the soul and really begged the question about what we bloggers are doing every time we hit that very scary publish button.  She mentions that her blog is her “…own Hyde Park Corner.  Where I can express my freedom of speech.”  I agree completely.  She, unlike myself, is NOT an anonymous blogger.  Every single time she puts out a post she is risking her neck.  Her friends and family read everything she writes—her name is completely exposed to the public. 

Recently, she received a barrage of E-mails that were abusive and hurtful about her writing.  Obviously I don’t know the intimate details, but I do know that she has taken down a certain post that she feels might have hurt someone’s feelings and feels more guarded with her special part of her “Hyde Park Corner.”  I think this is completely unacceptable.  I too have received hurtful E-mails and comments from people about my blog.  I’m not going to indulge these abusers by telling you the details, but they attack below the belt and use ones own words to be vicious and malicious.  I have since blocked them from access to my website, but I wonder, why do people feel the need to be so angry with a blogger when all we are doing is expressing our experience and our memories?  I can understand disagreeing with a point of view, but I cannot understand abuse.  If you have an issue, it is perfectly acceptable to leave a comment asking questions about the post and, indeed disagreeing with the bloggers point of view.  But to hurl abuse and to ensue fear into someone’s life is abhorrent. 

I don’t see the blogosphere’s manners as any different than the normal manners of society.  Just as you cannot harass someone or verbally abuse them or stalk them on the streets, you cannot do so on their blog.  There are ways of finding out who you are, for those of you who DO take advantage of the vulnerability of bloggers.  You are easy to track and it is illegal to leave a torrent of insults.  You can be arrested.  You are no different than a stalker.  You have to remember there is a huge difference between freedom of speech and threatening people.  Tread carefully.  Is it really worth it?  At the end of the day we are just people who take the time to write about our lives, our interests and our views.  If you disagree or have any gripes—-either leave a calm mannered comment that will allow a fair debate or walk away if you don’t think you can control yourself.  Think of it as hitting someone.  You wouldn’t just beat someone up if they said the wrong thing would you?  You’d take a deep breath and either walk or talk. Well, at least one would hope. 

I will be seeking anyone out who hurls abuse at me, WILL trace you through your internet provider and WILL call the authorities.  I have spoken to the police and they have said that this IS a crime and people HAVE been arrested.  I will not be censored or threatened.  I will write what I want without fear.  And so should every blogger.  I warn you again, tread lightly, because you will be caught and you’ll be eating YOUR words hopefully without ever hurting anyone else again.   

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365