Russia - Weather as uncooperative

My kingdom for a shadow, or a shadow of kingdoms or even a feifdom, something, some kind of contrast, some morsel of dark and light in opposition. The last three days have been overcast with only occasional bursts of blue that are quickly swept aside by the armada of clouds coming down from the north. Its miserable. My camera has been sitting in my closet for days now. I've snapped a few indoor pics of our illustrious office staff and that's it.

I'm heading out on the crime and punishment walk in two hours to see the hosue of Roskalnikov and then head to where the murder happened. I think we may go the the Hay Market as well (now called Gostiny Dvor). I'm going to make this short as I want to take a walk down Nevsky to the open air art bazar. I might go and see Skidan after class and see if I can find that store that is run by a friend of his that has the clothing that poems are written and sowed onto. Avante garde poetic dress... how's that for fringe?

There's talk of a private outting tonight. I'm not on night watch, but I do have to open the office tomorrow. Its wednesday, right? I forget here. Time is imaginary. Time is a cruel joke that never makes up its mind between dusk and dawn, between the hours of gray clouds and blue skies, time exists as a reminder that it must exist somewhere, but not here.

Yeah... not much to report today, maybe more tomorrow. Oh, I went back to Kilikia last night taking a group with me and ordering for the lot of em. Several people tried the bliss that is Shashlik Kurduk. After Kilikia it was back to the brick I was going to say goodnight to some people but then you sit down and someone thumps their neck and says "nu shto? po pedesat?" and the night begins anew, or maybe it never ended as you down one shot of Ruskiy Standard Platinum after another, washing them down with half liters of Baltika and making faces as the waitresses who are watching us few speakers babble in a mixture of russian and english. (They understood everyting I think.)

The Peterhoff trip is coming up, I'm looking forward to that. I didn't get into the castle last year as we arrived alte. Foreigners get in up until noon and then the rest of the afternoon is reserved for Russian Federation Citizens. We're heading out early. Sasha and I sat down and I told her what we had to do and how, the line to get in is insane and we have to keep the people hearded together, if they seperate and we get in, they will miss out. Its a small castle/palace, time is short, lines long, and this time I hope I won't have to yell at anyone. The hermitage is calling as well. There are lectures all day tomorrow, I think I'm going to blow them off and head over... I need a trip to the hermitage... its necessary.

Right... I'm off... there's a bazar with my name on it and a murder to track...

shislivo!

Russia - Distance and insignificance

Long night last night. My bed and I found each other around 6 in the morning, maybe sometime there after. I woke up after having smoked far too many gauloises thinking I had skinned a small kitten and then coated my teeth with it's hide. I was quite sober all night long.

This is going to be a bit of reverse and then forward making, I hope. The day before when talking back from the internet cafe I swung through Kaznaskay Cabor. The place is marvelously dark and gothic. Its very quiet in there and I like walking around th gorgeous marble floors looking at the antique icons while relishing the smell of beez wax candles burning and filling the place with that subtle aroma. I stoppe near the end of the nave. A man was walking around with a camera and a large lens (sigma, I noticed) he came up to me and in not so good english asked me if he could take pictures here. I recognized the accent and answered in Russian, better not, I don't see anyone else taking pics. St. Isaacs is more of a museum but Kazanskay seems to be a more austere kind of place where people go to pray. There is an icon that people wait in line to approach, touch and then pray at. We talked for a fwe minutes and I found out he was Israeli, originally from Russia. He asked what else there was to see to which i was floored, there's so much! His friend came over, he was from Israel, he spoke russian but so so, his name was Manish. He asked how long I was in town for and I told him 3 weeks and he said he would go mad there staying for three weeks and had a generally unpleasant disposition. He found everything distasteful then proceeded for giving me shit for never having been to Israel because I was a jew. Actually, I really didn't like him. He asked what I did and I told him that I was a student and worked in technology teaching part time, to which he told me that I would never have a life and get married as it paid nothing. I think he missed the bit about me working full time, but the pronouncements this man made.. OY VEY!

Saturday has been arranged: I'm going to see Madame Butterfly at the Marinsky Theatre, St. Pete's largest and most beautiful. I think its several hundred years old. Saturday is the premier. I didn't bring slacks but I have a nice shirt to wear, that should suffice. I'm thinknig of getting tickets for Tourindot later in the month. We'll see. There's a ton of ballet performances at the Marinsky but I'm not a dance fan as some of you know, but I'm quite fond of the Opera.

We have readings tonight at the Mayakovsky library. Stephen Elliot will be reading and Saskia Hamilton. I'm on shore leave till then, but time is running out. I had quite the late night making sure a splinter group of students made it home ok. We had a brief run in with the cops who wanted to see our papers. We presented them and got off with a warning to go home. I was ridiculously sober, had a couple beers on the boat and that was it. Monday nights are my night for "Notchnoy Dezhurstav" The night host or night watch, along with Katia who stayed at Fort Ross with the larger group. No one was relieved of any rubels or dollars. Our "spravkas" have come in from the University. These are temporary identification cards with offical seals which are quite helpful when dealing with the local sheriffs. They searched a couple people but seemed to be pleased with having me as an interpreter there, once again marvelling at my good accent. These guys though didn't make any kind of faces when i said where I was born or that we had emigrated out of the country, as the ones last year had. It was nice to pass through the situation so quickly and easily.

During my time at the Datch club which was openned by one of the two founding members of "Dva Samoleta"(Two Airplanes - the Pearl Jam of Russia). The club is tiny and they play everything from Funk to 80s and rockabily. Its a strange place. Datcha is a funny name too. It means summer house in russian, but it also has a conotation that means "my pad" or a place to get drunk that is owned. So one going to the datcha can expect to get sauched. Period. Beers are reasonably priced and people dance, if th eplace gets packed it spills out to the street. Strange bizarre place I tell you. Met a guy from Morishas there who had just finsihed his practicals to become a doctor. He's been living in St. Pete's for 7 years. He's dating the girl that now runs the joint.

I stood outside with Jeff Allen for quite some time discussing the parcitulas of Hendrix's death. He didn't have to die. Jimmy's girlfriend wouldn't call the cops because they had a ton of hash in the flat. The story goes, as Jeff just read a biography on Hendrix, she called Eric Bourdon who told her to call the ambulance. Instead she goes out and buys a pack of smokes and then pours red wine down his throat thinking it will help. What a needless death. He was flat broke by then. He had been scrweed by his lawyers to and fro. He died with less than 8 dollars in his account and his estate has been poorly managed ever since. Michael Jeffries his manager didn't help out either. In some ways he was like a child, all he really wanted to do was play and make music. He had no business saavy at all. I just caught an add as I logged out of MSN that Michale Jackson got off. I don't know if I should be sad that Hendrix died a needless death or MJ gets off, I don't know nor care if he's innocent or guilty. The verdict isn't a surprise and from this distance seems even more irrelevant because this city is lined with the bones of needless deaths.

I heard a lovely story. As we headed back to the Moyka canal last night on the boat we passed the rose colored Michaelivski Dvoretz (The Michael Castle). Its an unusual color, different from any of the other castles or palaces in St. Pete's. The story goes that Michael (prince?) had fallen for a woman who wore an exquisite rose colored dress and that they had met at a ball. She vanished leaving behind a single glove, never to be found again. He took the glove to his artisans and instructed them to paint his palace in that color so he could be reminded of her. Its a one of a kind.

And with that... adieu...

Russia - The fashion this season...

I've been walking around town. The office has become somewhat of a prison. Although there is an abundant amount of merry making there between the assistants and our russian counterparts (e.g. the girls Sveta [she's the boss], Tatiana [Tanya ticket queen and probably most street saavy] Olya [The airport goddess], Anna [I sleep in the office and never go home and study too much] Sasha [Dorthy who lived in Kansas for a year] Katia [My partner in crime tonight] and a the rest of the SLS staff) we make each other laugh as often as possible. Its necessary, bloody important! Still, the office has taken up every moment of my last three days. I'm feeling quite tired and thinknig that a nap might be in order. I could really use it. I decided to forego a nap and take in the nice weather (which was growing overcast) and take a walk down Nevsky Prospect to get out, see the town. I was hoping to go down and cath the afternoon light (not unlike the light all day long, as its light all day long) and take a picture of the Bronze Horseman that inspired Pushkin's poem, it elluded me last year. Part way down Nevsky the skies thwarted me and unloaded. Figures.

To avoid the rain I stopped in a small art where I bought a few prints last year. I was happy to find it still on Nevsky but sad to see the painting I debated buying last year gone. I don't remember the artist so its not like I could find him out and see if he or she has more of the same. I'm not surprised though, it was gorgeous and at 18,000 Rubels, a steal. I love this store. There are galleries all around town. A small square infront of a church on Nevsky sells local art, most of kind of cheezy but the occasional gem--there's just an abundance of art. On every canal sits an artist trying to capture St. Petersburg: an answer that preceeds a question. Its like playing ontological jeapordy. I looked over some lovely handcrafter Russian Nesting Dolls (Matroshki) I like them more than the fabricated ones that are mass produced, although quite beautiful they don't have the rustic charm of these artist (student) creations.

I have that record (the internet cafe has wonderful music, and in this case, I have this record, its a chicken lips remix of an artist whose name escapes me... )

The facts:

The fasion this season ladies and gentlemen are pointy shoes. They border on elf and sometimes cross that threshold into Santa's little helpers. This fashion applies to both men and women, its really obnoxious.

According to Tom, men have taken to wearing Capris in Moscow. (doesn't seem to have caught on here.)

Fight for your change, they hate breaking large bills.

The genuflecting old woman is on Nevsky every day. I want to take her picture. She breaks my heart a little more every time I see her and I've taken to giving her more and more money each time.

There are too many pharmacies in this city. A cornacopia of pharmacology. (I remember Stacy telling me something similar happens in France, they love their meds.)

Weather is unpredictable (but we've already discussed this.)

A nap is in my future before our midnight boat cruise...

Shislivo...

Russia - Academics day 1

Well classes are in full swing. I woke early this morning unable to sleep, not surprising, there's no night. Oh I must definately be in St. Petersburg. Actually my room mate was sneezing all night and I was snoring, we did a wonderful job of harassing each other out of sleep but it was great. We went across the street and bought water and coke and sat around drinking and smoking for an hour. He ran a photography business in LA so we had a ton to discuss. James Boobar, my room mate, is our resident Dostoyevsky scholar and leads the Roskalnikov tours around town. I'm going to go on one with him. Very friendly man who teaches at the University of The Redlands in southern California.

WEnt tot he office to help Tom get the classes ready for the students. We managed to heard our participants to their rooms after breakfast. Everyone settled into the groove and then Tom, Sasha and I retired for our breakfast which was comprised of Cirniki (fried cottage cheese with sour cream and honey), an omlet for tom, tea and vinigrette for Sasha. Svetta, our Russian coordinator called a meeting of all staff members. We discussed some upcoming excursions to Peterhoff, dolled out morning duties in openning the office, I have thursday mornings, and then assigned partner teams to monitor the attendants when they are out and about in the evennings, I have Monday nights with Katia.

Tonight we're going to take a boat trip down the Nevya river at 12:30 to watch the openning of the bridges. St. Petersburg should be seen from the water. Its magnificent. Floating down the Nevya gives you a view of the winter palace, summer gardens, hermitage, Peter Paul Fortress, Admiralty and everything else that makes this ctiy a majestic jewel on the rim of the arctic. The weather is perfect for such an event. The reason for the late launch of the boat is the weird spectacle of the bridges openning. Now bridges openning on the Nevya is not strange, but when yuo consider the people lined up on the banks of the river to watch them open, partying, screaming at their openning, it becomes odd and wonderful. Boats of Russians and tourists alike sail down the Nevya greatting each other and screaming "ooooooooorah" or "Udatchey" (good luck or best wishes). The bridges open at 1:35, all of them, to allow large barges and vessels to pass don the river. They close at 5 AM with brief 20 minute closer in order to allow auto and foot traffic. Pedestrians rush to the banks to be the first ones across the bridges when they lower for that 20 minute window. There's always accidents and the roads nearest the banks on the PEtrograd, Vasilevsky Island and mainland side are thronged with cars trying to escape their temporary incarcertaion on one or the other bank. Spectacular really.

Its warm, actually hot today and I'm in sandals. My left foot is relishing this light wear. Although my boots are comfortable, the amount of walking i've done over the last two days has generated a huge blister on one foot. I've had to tighten the belt. The weightloss has begun which is a rather nice feeling. Considering how much beer we've all been drinking, you still loose weight as the diet consists primarly of protein. I've had potatos once, and a little bit of bread, but mostly meat and eggs.

I'm looking forward to the first days to be over with. I'll have more time to walk and what I'm hoping, read and finish Memory For Forgetfullness by Mahmoud Darwish which I put a dent in while I was flying from JFK to Moscow. The book chronicles a single day in August which was host to the worst shelling ever of Beirut by Israeli forces. It was written after the invasion by a Palestinian poet in Exile who was living in Beirut then. He wrote it as a way to cope with the carnage and the destruction of his adopted city. Its a meditation and paradox that one has to remember in order to forget or the way he lusts for coffee and the simplest most banal things that become hallmarks of our daily routine and when they are absent the distended reality of coping with desire and hunger. Its a fantastic read, part prose, part poetry, I recommend it to everyone who has an interest in memory, horor and how to represent it without it representing you.

So much to see. I've decided to use my one roll of Color IR film in the Summer gardens. If the weather holds up I'll have time this week. Its so easy to put things off, as I'm here for three weeks and say I have time, but i'll be busy when the second session comes in and I have to take advantage of the cooperating weather, yesterday it rained cats and dogs...

Alright, back to the office to prep the afternoon classes which will be underway in about 90 minutes, maybe grab lunch at Taromoko, the blini stand near the Moyka canal, a blin with ham and cheese and a bottle of kvas are a definite treat. Oh, and one more gastronomic tale, had Satsivi last night, its a georgian chicken dish. I've heard that its the premier dish of the Georgian kitchen but I didn't have it last year. Don't even know whats in the sauce but damn is it good... Zach... weigh on this one mate, what the hell is Satsivi?! Tastes peanuty... clear the fog!

Be well my friends...

Udatchey vam vsem...

Russia - 8 Hours... unbelievable!

I had the most amazing night of sleep last night. Albeit I didn't actually get to bed until 3 am, I slept like the dead until my alarm went off at 11. I probably could have slept well into the afternoon but work and duty calls. This was probably the first night that I slept that hard and that long. I wasn't even drunk last night, I drank my beers slowly and had a good dinner at the golden brick with the rest of the group that had arrived so I sipping beers alnight didn't get me tossed. After I woke I heard voices, tinny and forced in their approach through my window. looked through my vertical blinds and saw that my room faced the courtyard of the building. That's why it was so dark. The courtyard is very small and we're on the second floor. A heavy metal grate is over all our windows. I'm starting to like this minihotel. The minhotel is a combination hostil and B&B. The woman that runs the place is very sweet and everyone who stayed there in past years said its the quietst of the places to stay and probably most secure. We have the entire mini hotel. Its the entire second floor of this building. There are about 12 rooms in there. Maybe moore. Bathrooms are communal but you get a room with clean sheets and a clean towel. I think that addresses most of one's needs. I'm gong to be rooming with James Boobar, our resident Dostoyevsky Scholar. He's a hoot, a hard drinkin' man with a wonderful sense of humor. We got along well last year but I only met him in my last few days.

Back in time now... just a bit... It was a long day. Between the tours I did for the incoming crowd, there was tons of helping situate people in their respective domiciles. Some had to be taken to the "Profilactory" AKA Dorm, in the center of the Gherzen University complex, to helping people order lunch at the cafe In the Inn which is staffed by some very curt girls that are well on their way to becoming old soviet women. Wait, the USSR is gone... hm... must be genetic. The food at the inn is great. I had breakfast with Tom this morning (I should say Tom 7. There's also Tom 11 (AKA Tom Hill of SFSU (in)fame[y])) They were nickcnamed that by Tony Mochama who is arriving from Kenya today along with a large party of Kenyans from Nairobi. We had omlets, tea, bread and I had Olivye (russian potato salad) and Tom had a greek salad. Sleep and a good breakfast, essential fuel to function through the day. Today is going to be more tours, more arrivals and then the comencement dinner at a restaraunt not far from The Church of Spilled Blood. After that I'm sure there'll be a night of revelry and then hopefully people will have the sense to get to bed earlier because classes start tomorrow morning at 10am.

The disorientation of new arrivals is infectious. After the group dinner at the Zalatoy Kirpich (Golden Brick), the new Georgian Restaurant under the hotel, we went to the beer garden. One group went to Fort Ross, but wound up at the garden. I kind of wish we had gone to the Fort. There were an interminable number of drunks on the streets due to the holiday which decided they wanted to see "The Foreigners". I think with a group as large as we have, we might be taking the party indoors in the future. Its more epxensive. The draw of the garden is that its really bloody cheap. But its just more pleasant not to have to worry about the revlers that range from recent high school grads proving their adulthood by downing more booz than they have blood in their body to your average russian bumb in the throw of a bottle. Things will calm down soon. But yeah, the disorientation. Its infectious, although I got my bearings quickly, remembering which way to walk, what to avoid, e.g. groups of drunks on the side of the street or near the park, just cross the street and take the extra steps. But yeah... they'll learn quick. We'll have a talk about all that tonight at the reception dinner. How to keep a low profile in a city that invites you to live as large as the literary gods that line the avenues that bear their names.

Oh on another note. This world is bloody small... I mean so bloody small I could die! You will never believe who is here. So at dinner, I'm sitting one table away from this woman that looks oddly familiar. I mean really familiar. She and another woman migrate to our table because we're smoking up a storm. Later we sit down together at the beer garden asking each other the usual questions: "Where are you from?" SF!!! Yeah, I just moved from there to Brooklyn. Oh really? Then it dawned on me, you're not Rebecca Anderson are you? Boom... yes... Rebecca Anderson, former graduate advisor to Fourteen Hills and mastermind of the Ecstatic Monkey literary promotions... Wow this is a small bloody world. Mind boggling, really! Anyway, we had a good chat, it was good to see a friendly face. Her last semester at the university was my first. I had seen her at oneo f the EM events.

Well enough for now, duty and honor call... or my cell phone will start ringing in a minute. One thing I was contemplating last night, it has to do with the sound of language and its relation to the individual. Although by sound I feel at home, I know that the sounds I produce mark me as a foreigner. A Russian girl bummed a light from me. I said sure and spoke to her in Russian as I was standing with a group of Americans at the time. She was a little floored, or maybe didn't expect to hear her native tongue from the mouth of someone that spoke such clean English, beer soaked but clean. In any event, the ability to identify with the language, which creates a false feeling of familiarity bears a counter weight in the fact that my familiarty is the exact distance in regards to how distant I am to the city and the people. The closer I try and get the more distant I must ultimately feel by the fact that I am so close, but so far away thanks to accent and limited vocabulary. I'm wondering if Walter Benjamin could shed some light on this. I feel like a facsimile, a work of photography in the work of art that is St. Pete's. But this is all erudition and right now I have actual work to do.

Vsevo dobroyo...

-L

p.s. apologia for the spelling mistakes, the keyboards drive me nuts here!

Russia - Arrival 6/10/2005

I'm here. Can I say that again? I'm here.

Í've been pondering how I should write this first post since my arrival. Should I just list the specifics? Perhaps a detailed chronology? Maybe impressions. How do you impress the feeling of being back in the city built on bullets and poems? Problems abound.

Lets start with logistics. I arrived in NYC after a long flight. I shlepped to the international terminal and sat in line; Aeroflot only opens its countes at 5 pm. While sitting I ran into Polly, a student in the program that had emailed me that we were on the same flight. We checked in, left the luggage and began searching for Michael, my other charge. We never found Michael, at least not at JFK. Time flew an we found ourselves on the plane. It was delayd on the runway for 1 1/2 hours. Oh how I hate that, but this is typical for Aeroflot, my experience last year was unusual and its smooth and streamlined opeation, the airline that is. The flight was long and miserable. The chairs are inredibly uncomfortable and narrow. 8 1/2 hours to Moscow. We deplained and got ourselves into the passpot control line where I looked at someone standing next to me and casually read his immigration card that was sticking out of his pocket, low and behold Michael Cohen of NYC. It was good we found him, what followed really sucked.

Immigration was a zoo as you can imagine. We waited for over an hour, closer to 1 1/2. They only had half the windows open. We were finally at the red line, waiting, waiting. All of a sudden peopl are brought my airport officials in military uniform into our line infront of us. The people behind grumble. We let one group through, not like we had a choice. Then another group, they kep sticking them in our bloody line! Then another, at which point we all exploded. A family with a small boy, the mother went a little ape shit, then cut into our line. I was livid and starting to loose my cool. Somoene "senior" was called. I was worried about our luggage, where was it? Who was going though it? A boy of twenty some odd years came walking out of the office with epauletes on his shoulders. In my best, sternest and most concerned voice I said "Look, we're trying to catch a plane to St. Petersburg, can you please let us through, we've been waiting and are concerned we might miss our flight. Can't you put some of these people in other lines." The woman behind me screamed "Can't you put them in the diplomatic line? Its empty!!!" His response was terse and matched the disgruntled expression on his youthful face: "No, I can't" Well that was that. A woman in military dress came charging up "Tovarish Capitan!" Our boy captain was power tripping and probably enjoyed my broken russian plea, fruitless, or perhaps just what he needed after a serious night of drinking who knows.

We made it through the line and got our bags which seemed untouched and dusty from the trip. Out into the throng of waiting relatives and friends, peppered with cab drivers trying to con you into a $35 (US Baby) trip to Sheremetyvo domestic terminal when there's a free bus. We fought some off, changed some dollars into rubles and then proceeded to the bar for a beer. We had a while to wait for the bus and our flight wasn't for a couple hous. The domestic terminal is small and paked, so the international one is a better place to kill time. We caught the free shuttle, my charges were extatic that I was there to navigate them through the wilds of the Russian transit.

Changed: last year you would wait in the airport lobby and someone would lead you into the parking lot where the bus stopped. This year they finished the constrution on the road and it pulls up to the front entrance, glad I asked the woman at the window.

Our flight from Moscow to Petersbug was delayed by an hour. I later learned from Katia, who met us in Petersburg that this was happeneing to everyone, everyone seems to have been late.

The flight was utterly miserable. I couldn't lower the tray without it hitting me in the chest. This was the most cramped plane I've ever been on. It was like some Tupalov jet, not one of the propellor props that sat on the run way. Thank god the flight is less than an hour.

We arrived around 8pm... and the sun was up, as if it was 3 in the afternoon. Michael couldn't believe it. He'll fit in niely. We got our luggage and Katia took us to a waiting car and off we went down Moskovsky Prospect heading for the heart of Petersburg.

Things learned from the cab drive:

Speed limits are 80km on the highway.

City streets are 60km but no one will touch you if you do 70.

71 will get you pulled over.

The city will be empty this weekend in observane of Russian Independance Day (federal holiday)this was confirmed by the sheer volume of traffic heading out the city.

There's a beer festival in a few days.

The military is starting their holidays (let the party begin).

Moskovsky Prospet was built shortly afte the war. Its all Stalinist architeture, big bold buildings that display the soiet might and grandeur, pretty run down now.

Ah... the Gherzen. Everyone is here. Tanya, Sveta, Misha, Parker, Mariya. It was wondeful to see old faces, shake hands and exchange hugs. I left my stuff at the office, gave my charges over to Sveta who took them to their rooms and Masha gave them a tour.

Parker, Michael and I walked around the corner to KILIKIA (yes... heaven, what I've been dreaming about for months now... ) and I ordered SHASHLIK KURDUK!!!! Oh I've arrived, I'm a happy happy happy traveller now. We ate, drank 300 grams of vodka and a half liter of beer. I made a true believer out of Michael who confessed to not being a mutton fan but "this is excellent!" A call later informed us that a paty was headed to the beer gardon infront of the church (Kazanskay Cabor - See the russia galleies for a piture). Enroute it was determined that bathroom trip was necessary so we made haste for Chaika, a trendy restaraun where Igor Chesnokov works, one of Parker's friends. He wasn't there, we ordered a round and took turns leaving the previous one. The place is packed with hookers who get the boot from The Grand Hotel Europa ($400 / night). They were giving us the eye, it was comic. We later saw one of them walking with an olde gent down the canal... ah commerce, it takes all kinds.

We left Chayka and headed to the beer garden, sat for a beer, then got a call from Misha that he was Lima. We left the garden crossed back over Nevskya and headed in for a beer. Tom Burke was there, waiting for Tom Hill's arrival, who was sent last minute on businss to Kiev. I got a text message from him... something about gorgeous women in the ukraine. Caroline from Kenya was there, it was hugs and shock at my clean shaven face. Last year I sported a beard. She cut off her long braids and had a funky 70s due... we chatted about her older brother, a bit of a supestar in Nairobi, a journalist, that has a drinking problem... but we still love him. He's MIA right now, probably gave us the wrong flight info, a bit absentminded. He should be in today or tomorrow.

Misha fended off a drunk that wanted to have one of those heart to hearts you're prone to want to have with a stranger at some random table discussing the most intimate details of your life. I gave a grandmother with was selling lavendar 20 rubles, she was breaking my heart. We wished each other well and a girl from inside Lima, hostess, came out with a small package of food. She broke my heart. This is what kills me about this town, most of the people doing the begging, that aren't stinking drunk, are old women. There are no social programs. I'm sure she'll get more money from me... its just inhumane not to give. I can't help it.

Oh, we walked by the 24 hour store in the hotel and what do you know, the same drunk teenager from last year was still outside the shop begging for money, still drunk. I can't bloody believe it... he still has a liver and still drinknig and still going at it. Wow!!! He didn't ask me if he was my girlfriend this year.

After a beer we walked back to the hotel and I passed out in the office, finally... woke up to the sun, which never quite set last night, just dippd down where you cuoldn't see it. Saw a gorgeous moon, might be my last for a while. Woke up to the sound of the shower running, had one myself... cold water only... yeah... that'll wake you up after only about 5 1/2 hours of sleep.

The storm begins around 1pm. We have 70 people coming in today. I'll be giving tours with Masha till 1am when the last boat load arrives every hour, alternating. Dinner tonight is at the golden brik, a new Georgian place under the hotel. I hear the food is quite good.

I'm back... did I say that? The novelty is gone, but I suppose the romance is still alive. Maybe I just feel more romantic when I'm here, in love with a heritage I don't know, a place that I can't call home and a people that aren't my own. Yet the ability to understand the langauge, some of the manerisms remind me that I've spent my life not quite one, mostly this, but not quite, a cultural fence sitter of sorts, and here I'm the same, still foreign but something familiar.

Udatchey Vsem
-L

Houston - We're ready to go...

T-Minus 7 hours and 50 minutes... I'm ready to go...

No, its not such a big deal, not right now it isn't, but it'll become more so later. I've needed a break for quite some time. I'm finally getting it. That's not the big thing. Several times today I was asked if I was ready... Does born ready mean anything? Yeah, I'm ready.

Now, as for meeting my family in Moscow on the way home, well I'm not so sure about that. I mean I'm excited, but I'm incredibly nervous. Lu said it best, "That's kinda scary and kinda cool." Yes to both, a bit more of the first rather than the latter, but still both.

Isn't it alwys the case that both fear and an anxious joy lie in wait of each other? Its like in the play Runs With Scissors where our hero is deciding between leaving this world at the mercy of ALS or on his own terms that he also puts forth the nature of a good narrative as a tension between "death & love". Sseems as if there's some truth to that. A certain cause and affect. "Why do men chase women?" asked Olympia Dukakis in Moon Struck to which Danny Aiello replied "Because they're afraid of death." Is it that we need love as a way of fending off death or do we gladly sacrifice a piece of our own individuality in finding love so as to die a little on our own terms? And like any good shaman, reborn into plurality. Oh wait, I can't pontificate on this subject at this hour, its not even that late, but I'm that dog tired... so off to die a little death---"Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death"

Houston!

T-Minus 30 1/2 hours...

Houston!

T minus 46 hours and counting...

Houston!

T-Minus 76 Hours and 42 Minutes...

Heading East

I've started a habit of making a CD before I go on a trip. I'm leaving in six days for the motherland. So here's the soundtrack for Russia 2005:

1. The Beatles - Back in the USSR
2. Gogol Bordello - Greencard Husband
3. Vladimir Vysotsky - S.O.S.
4. Bright Like Sun - Summer Moon
5. Hectate's Angels - Half Moon Cafe
6. Robber Barons - Music For A Hanging
7. Nick Cave - Come Into My Sleep
8. All Pugacheva - Zhuravlik
9. Aqvarium - Dead Sailors Don't Sleep
10. Genesis - Land of Confusion
11. Depeche Mode - Russian Cover of Little 15
12. Modest Mouse - The Cold Part
13. Woven Hand - My Russia
14. U2 - Like A Song
15. The Decemberists - We Both Go Down Together
16. Louque - Cry, Cry
17. Beck - Farewell Ride
18. Iron & Wine - Freedom Hangs Like Heavan
19. ThaMuseMent - Protest Song
20. Four Year Bender - Rainy Day

A day at the beach

Here's a picture and its worth... lovely day indeed.

The Quotable Mr. Kirson

"Remember bro, I'm a caveman"


"No problem, no problem... I go with the flow... like water on a rock"

"When you get to the Metreon call me and I'll tell you how far away I am"
"You know what bro, there are more ATMs than payphones here!"

A 10 year overdue meeting is no longer in deficit.

__________________________________

The grayhound station in SF: Afterhours: Its a sketchy sketchy place.

Sitting waiting for Mr. Kirson to arrive from S.D. Couple comes in, man is saggin' really low like a b-boy. He walks past me as I read the Guardian looking for the skinny on what's going down this weekend. He inserts a five dollar bill into a vending machine; The machine eats his money and doesn't give him anything.

His girlfriend, a skinny blond with a large umbrella under her arm comes around. We have to go, "I aint leavin' without my muthafucken five dollahs"

She goes to see the sole ticket seller behind the counter. At the same time two security guards are trying to wake up a man completely passed out in the hallway. The light is a very sterile kind of flourescence without illuminating anything. It cast more shadows than it dispelled. Maybe it was the karma of the terminal.

She comes back telling him that they don't have the key to the machine. "We have to go we're going to mis sour buss, I'll give you the five dollars on Monday."

"I aint going, I want mah muthafucken money."

"Baby, if you love me you'll stop this and come away."

"Fuck that, I want my money"

"If you keep this up they'll call the cops and you'll wind up in jail"

"Shut up bitch!"

WHACK!

I didn't see him slap her in the head, only her double up next to me and scamper off, and he walked off in antoher direction. Cops arrived 5 minutes later to wake the drunk and get him up. She came back "Did you see the guy that was causing all that trouble?"

I pointed to the hall he disapeared down.

She went back to the cops.

I heard the bus pull up.

I walked out onto the run way an there was Mr. Kirson...

Lingering thought: That was your chance to leave a man who thought you were worth less than five dollars. Yet you pleaded for him to go. He was perfectly happy sitting there waiting for someone with a key that may or may not materialize tomorrow (more likely not as those were independantly owned machines). You had your chance.

I will never understand obsession with that kind of misery. It's an odd safety being able to expect despair... to be able to say this is my lot, and that's just all there is to it.

I saw a man sitting on the stairs, he had the most inwardly terrified stare I've seen in a long time.

I'm done...

But I don't feel it yet... the elation is underwhelming to say the least... Maybe because I signed up for another 2 years of graduate studies to finish an MFA, who knows, whatever the case or reason, it's not a monumental feeling by any means. Perhaps when I get to Russia and actually take my first vacation in a year it will settle in my gut like a shot of vodka, warming everything on the way down. I don't know, but it's not there yet... but it's still nice.

An odd interlude...

Driving to work this morning from the Russian Consulat in Pac. Heights I had a strange and bizarre run in. I was heading down Gough when a big Cadillac sedan pulls along side me. I ignore it until I realize the driver, a grizzled old ogre of a man, is trying to get my attention. I roll down the window thinking this will be yet another offer to "fix those dents". To my surprise he asks me "Do you know what old Submarine seamen call that?" pointing to the missing door guard along my passenger side that I scraped off in a tight parking space in my old flat by an iron pole hidden in a shrub. I replied "no." He said "Too much speed and not enough rudder!" and then drove on laughing as I said "Thanks." Needless to say, I was left feeling puzzled, like maybe this was some kernal of divine knowledge and I wasn't grocking it...

This land is not your land...

Driving in this morning I was listening to NPR, getting my dose of somewhat liberal radio when a report came in about a fundraising dinner/show of support for Trent Lott in D.C. the night before.

Two things:

1) I wasn't surprised that a dinner was thrown in the honor of this ethically challenged congressman. I wasn't surprise to hear that the conservative coalitions banded together to celebrate the disenfranchisement of gays and lesbians from entering into unions of marriage, continued hacking at Roe v. Wade. I wasn't surprise to hear another joker call Lott "A man who gets things done in Washington. Not the prayers, the hoopla, the cost of the plates nothing surprised me, or the fact that this was done in order to combat his dwindling image in the media. No, what did shock me was the appropriation of the tune "If I had a hammer" to celebrate Trent "The Hammer" Lott's political career. That song, at least in my mind, was always linked to a folk/hippy/counter culture movement. The rendition of it played on the radio angered me.

2) Protestors outside the hall where this red faction played out were conducting a carnival protest. They handed out bars of soap to the guests coming in. Nothing new, liberals and their antics. What was of interest was the carnival concept, for it brought ot mind a joke by Billy Crystal from his standup show in Moscow many moons ago "Midnight Train To Moscow" where he said to the whos who of the Kremlin, pre perestroika, "The Soviet Union & America aren't very different when you think about it. Lets see, you had Borishnikov, we have Borishnikov. You have the moscow circuse, we have congress."

Elegy For Noc Noc

I don't even have a poem in my head, just grief: pure unadulterated grief over the state of affairs that is Noc Noc. My favorite bar, for the last two years, located on the haight (lower) between Filmore & Steiner, a grotto, a cavern of post modern apocolypses in art turned on its head, is no longer a smoking establishment. Not that SF has allowed smoking in its pubs for years now, but this place, this place was special, it did, its dark facade covered in grafiti was a sanctuary for nicotine fiends that cavorted like neanderthals in a dark cave.

I saw gangsters hanging out with hipsters, marina types mingling with punks, never heard an angry word there. The beats were eclectic, you might hear a piano concerto right after the incredible bongo band followed by Deep Purple and then maybe some simple minds and breakbeats right after. It was unreal, and now, sadly, its joined the reality of our PC culture. Its a sad day.

The story from behind the bar was simple, someone ratted them out. Som granola crunching pink lunged lame-ass let the cat out of the bag and took away our sanctuary, there's no more smoking, and their business has suffered since. If I knew the name of this imbecil I would crucify him right infront of Mythic Pizza, two doors down, so that his or her corpse could hang as a reminder to those that venture outside of their lines and can't leave well enough alone. I would drive the nails in slowly, allowing for the salt to do its job with each agonizing strike of the mallet. This I would accomplish with the utmost joy and gratitude... but like an old nag or a dog thats past its prime... I hope that Noc Noc soon closes.

I don't want to think of it without smoke, without a thick wonderful cloud of tobacco smoke filling every nook and cranny: as if the bomb that hangs in the center of the room had exploded. In many ways, that bomb has detonated and we are left with a bar that isn't unlike Terry Shaivo, soulless, a shell of its former self, for this, I hope it closes its doors so that the memory and joy I had there over the last two years will remain intact. I should be extatic: I turned in my thesis this morning, but I'm sad, I had planned a night of quiet celebration but found dissapointment... good bye my dearest Noc.

Mothers and Days of Rememberence

Yesterday was mother's day. Today is the 60th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe, VE Day. May 7th was the official surrender, May 8th the surrender was ratified and celebrated. The majority of the world celebrates on May 9th. Yet in Russia, its still the 8th. However, Bush is in Russia hanging out with Putin today. He's watching Goose Stepping soldiers march up and down Red Square with old soviet flags in commemoration of an event that still unforgettable. St. Isaacs Cathedral in St. Petersburg is riddled with bullet holes on one side and a plaque to commemorate the blockade and bravery of those that kept the city from falling. Near this day is Yom Hashoah, the day of Rememberence for the 6 million jews who perished in the "Shoah" (catastrophe) as its known in Hebrew. Horst Koehler, Germany's president declared that "racism and right-wing extremism have no chance in a modern Germany." About a mile away 3,000 neo-nazis pledged their hearts to Rudolph Hess (Hitler's Deputy). Its a confusing time filled with more emotion than any made for TV movie can capture. Everone has a stake in something like this, a piece of collective memory that is ever ripe for harvest. Whatever the distance, historically and physically, from these times and places, sitting on the right of my grandmother yesterday at brunch for her, my other grandmother and my mother, I know the five of us raised a glass to the end of the war that shaped so many lives and fortunes. This much I know personally, it's still here, over a half decade later, there's still memory surrounding this day.

Translation of Hillary's Casa Milà

Radial

I can’t draw a straight line
bodies aren’t lined

yet there’s a course to round
if my hands draw thighs

suggesting the St. Louis Arch
the same Cassiopeia at night as in

the slatted light in your bedroom
egg cartonned a captive grace

enough for expansion
as a road to a mountain

and maybe from obscurity
through the inadequacy of straights

your delicate smile appears.

Akvarium Lyrics

Mariya kindly helped me translate the lyrics of a song by Akvarium: Dead Sailors Don't Sleep. I'm currently obsessed with it... I can't remember how many times I've listened to it... and so I thought it best to post them here... if you get a chance, find it, listen to it! Boris Grebenshikov's lyrics paint a barely liminal picture obscurred by the sea and a well of tears. Its rather stirring... anyway, here goes:

Who would've thought
we'd meet under this star

I didn't look at my watch
I thought I was passing through

But keep yourself safe
don't waste your poison on me

Everything's already happened
and dead sailors don't sleep

I didn't think I was part of this war
I was going about my business
and fell down in the crossfire

I doubt I'll ever know
for whom this shot was meant
but its just as well -
dead sailors don't sleep

don't ask me I can't remember
how to feel sadness

the salty water has allowed me to remain silent
the salty water knows me by heart

if i knew ahead of time what was awaiting me
I would have carved your name in my chest

everything happened so fast
I didn't even notice your gaze
but now I know:
dead sailors don't sleep
dead sailors don't sleep


And the original...

Мертвые матросы не спят

Кто бы сказал, что мы встретимся под этой звездой,
Я не смотрел на часы, я думал у меня проездной.
Побереги себя, не трать на меня весь свой яд.
Все уже случилось. Мертвые матросы не спят.

Я не знал, что я участвую в этой войне
Я шел по своим делам, я пал в перекрестном огне
Едва ли я узнаю, кому был назначен заряд
Впрочем, все равно. Мертвые матросы не спят.

Не спрашивай меня;
Я не знаю, как испытывать грусть.
Соленая вода разрешила мне молчать.
Соленая вода знает меня наизусть.

Знать бы загодя, что уготовано мне впереди,
Я бы вырезал твое имя у себя на груди;
Все было так быстро, я даже не запомнил твой взгляд,
Но теперь я в курсе, а мертвые матросы не спят.
Мертвые матросы не спят.