It is day 115.
Russia defends itself. Unexpected.
In the metro, shoulder to shoulder with an entire country in a marble mausoleum, I had long been accustomed to dissipating into the grains on the wall, falling in the cracks on the floor and I had long given up on the eye contact. I had been meeting old friends in books brought from home, been hiding my face behind pictures of authors I'd never met, but only presumed to know between the long pauses between chapters. Waiting for the train was a jockey game, a small spat in chess between pawns. Those closest to the doors that open would be least likely to be pushed into the train, pushed out at the next station. That day, like those before, I rejoiced in small victories.
Enter the Defense. She was old. Not old like the Russian women whose beauty peaks at quarter life and the plummets down taking every bit of loose tissue with it, pulling color and life from skin and hair, but old like Grandmother's house smells on winter days when she's been waiting for you for hours. Dinner is already ready. Even if you couldn't smell it, you could see it in her eyes. I glanced at her over my book. She hid her face with a shaking hand, caught my glance then quickly looked away. Maybe she carried the need for kindness with her, but irregardless of where it came from, I moved from the doors and took a place behind her. I could keep the crowds off her back if need be.
She was so shaken, so visibly startled. Conspicuous in her own state, but more so against the cold apathetic grimaces of face after face you meet in this country. I couldn't help but watch, and couldn't help but make her nerves quiver audibly as her hands scattered over her face and clothes. I wanted to ask her, talk to anyone, invade the detached comatose commute home and find out whats wrong. The empathy was consuming.
Enter witness 1. He was old. Not like the old men you see in this country: The Soviet Union continually at war since the Great Patriotic War (WWII) has very few old men, for obvious reasons. He had no beard, no sunken or sagging eyes, no wirey stray hairs pointing eccentrically at all corners of the room. He was tan, clean and neatly dressed. Hair white as paint. He touched her and I wanted to attack him. But she turned and thanked him. Over and over again she thanked him. What had this man done?
«Thank you. Thank you much.»
«я был такой afraid. I thought что вы.... what a horror! Вы у верен everything is okay?»
The gaps in conversation raged my panic. Adrenaline surged. Was she attacked? After weeks of practicing apathy in public, why am I so suddenly altruistically charged? Should I ask this man to leave?
«I» the white haired man began, «two» The Russian is too quick, and my understanding trails off like poetry left unfinished.
«No.» She kept repeating herself.
Exhibit A. The train arrived and the man had unoticeably forced himself between the woman and me. He herded her to the bench, but she escaped him and stood by the door holding her free hand to her face. She carried an old dirty plastic bag full of strawberries. She's making desert, I though, without explanation. I leaned against the opposite wall of the train where I could now see clearly the white haired man staring at the back of this old Grandmother. The train begins to move and she is forced to use her free hand to steady herself. The man stood, but did not approach her. Taking two long steps across the floor of the train, he points a finger in the face of a man not much younger than me.
«...»
«I'm sorry.»
The young man quickly vacated his seat and the white haired man pulled the Grandmother to sit down. She's said no, but he wasn't listening. I'm not reading my book.
Now the train was too noisy for anyone to speak. The man stared at her across the train, but the old woman was again using her free hand to hide her face. It wasn't until the train lurched to a stop at the final station and she reached down for her bag that I saw the long cut across her forehead. She had fallen and he had helped her up.
Exhibit B. A chocolate bar. Much too dark for my taste, but it's a local product, the confectionery company of St. Petersburg. He handed it to her as they exited the train, as I passed them by, already putting on my apathetic face and hiding my book back in my bag.
Russia: 1
Emotional Apathy: 114 Days.
*************************
This is a true story, but I'm not that apathetic.... I'm trying to spin this into something else.
Upcoming Reading List:
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay - Chabon
Pride and Predujice - Jane Austen
Master and Margarita - Bulgakov
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Double Shifts
and I am so tired.
Before you wake, the wind picks up and smears rain across your window. And though you haven't opened your eyes (you are tightly tucked, with nothing to hold), you can see it. You've seen it a thousand times already.
The alarm shrieks with impending doom. The cat, laying at the foot of your bed, lifts his head.
He lays back down. He knows you can't help wasting his time.
You pull the curtains back, thinking it would be so much easier if the sun would just go down.
It doesn't. You know you can't help wasting time.
So you go through the day, coveting the bright tenacity all around you, while wishing it would just burn away. You make it home in time to see the cat lift it's head, pull the curtains on the sun, and crawl into bed to get ready to do it again tomorrow.
and you're praying for rain in double shifts.
before you've even begun to move your lips.
Before you wake, the wind picks up and smears rain across your window. And though you haven't opened your eyes (you are tightly tucked, with nothing to hold), you can see it. You've seen it a thousand times already.
The alarm shrieks with impending doom. The cat, laying at the foot of your bed, lifts his head.
He lays back down. He knows you can't help wasting his time.
You pull the curtains back, thinking it would be so much easier if the sun would just go down.
It doesn't. You know you can't help wasting time.
So you go through the day, coveting the bright tenacity all around you, while wishing it would just burn away. You make it home in time to see the cat lift it's head, pull the curtains on the sun, and crawl into bed to get ready to do it again tomorrow.
and you're praying for rain in double shifts.
before you've even begun to move your lips.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
All at once, I want to tell you I love you and push you away.
I want to walk away from you and follow you wherever you go.
I want to hold you at night and then steal the covers off your back.
You are so not ready for me.
You make me tongue tied. You make me want to beg out my insides and present them to you. You make me want to point you toward the sky, wish you luck, and walk away.
You see none of this.
I can't see me the way you do. I was where you are once. I can't go back there. I remember my father telling me it's always easier to pull someone down then lift them up.
I want to pull you up.
Can you let it go? Will you hold onto me instead? I can't be fine, but I can be ready. Crash. Smooth and Glimmer. Land on me. Let me see your broken parts. Kill me with your mistakes. Blind me with honesty, mute me with passive aggression.
I want to walk away from you and follow you wherever you go.
I want to hold you at night and then steal the covers off your back.
You are so not ready for me.
You make me tongue tied. You make me want to beg out my insides and present them to you. You make me want to point you toward the sky, wish you luck, and walk away.
You see none of this.
I can't see me the way you do. I was where you are once. I can't go back there. I remember my father telling me it's always easier to pull someone down then lift them up.
I want to pull you up.
Can you let it go? Will you hold onto me instead? I can't be fine, but I can be ready. Crash. Smooth and Glimmer. Land on me. Let me see your broken parts. Kill me with your mistakes. Blind me with honesty, mute me with passive aggression.
Monday, April 20, 2009
He doesn't know the song's for him.
...and you don't want to be here in the future, so you say the present's just a pleasant interruption to the past.
and all the songs he plays on piano, he's heard them all before. He could tell you where but that's not important. He points to the piano keys as if it's right there. "Man, you can really feel this song." He keeps playing, even though he knows you're not feeling it just like he is. It's not about you anymore. He is raptured in rhapsodies you can hear, but not understand. You can see he plays well, if not well, at least passionately. He exists somewhere in this song. It is other worldly, and that is a bit frightening. You want to take a step back, or cough, or drop pots and pans from the roof. Anything that well make him turn. Just make him stop playing that piano. But you can't. You can't because the notes he plays kiss the air. He draws them out like flowers from a vase, handing each one to you, one after another, on bended knee. And so you stand wanting the song you never want him to stop playing to end. And you are oh, so patient.
And it ends.
He tells you that it's over. He sits expecting. You can't find...
He is not the same after that. You can't understand why you can't understand his understanding, his existence between hammers and strings. You can't look at him. You're afraid to find out that all the hope he had sent into the sky had crashed. And it did. Because of you. He is not the same after that.
He exists between hammers and strings. Between you and your big dreams.
You know that it's always you in his big dreams... but only when he dances on those keys, only when he brings it home. Only when he can make you hear exactly what it feels like to be alone. So you can blame him. You never liked the song anyway. Just how he played. Why doesn't he look at you like he looks at that piano. Furtive glances in sideways directions. Ashes off the ends of cigarettes. And all this thinking doesn't get you anywhere.
"Play for me?" he asks.
And you can't. You pull your hair out of your eyes and look down. You wait for him to change directions, make a new invitation. And you are oh, so patient.
Isn't this what you thought this song meant?
and all the songs he plays on piano, he's heard them all before. He could tell you where but that's not important. He points to the piano keys as if it's right there. "Man, you can really feel this song." He keeps playing, even though he knows you're not feeling it just like he is. It's not about you anymore. He is raptured in rhapsodies you can hear, but not understand. You can see he plays well, if not well, at least passionately. He exists somewhere in this song. It is other worldly, and that is a bit frightening. You want to take a step back, or cough, or drop pots and pans from the roof. Anything that well make him turn. Just make him stop playing that piano. But you can't. You can't because the notes he plays kiss the air. He draws them out like flowers from a vase, handing each one to you, one after another, on bended knee. And so you stand wanting the song you never want him to stop playing to end. And you are oh, so patient.
And it ends.
He tells you that it's over. He sits expecting. You can't find...
He is not the same after that. You can't understand why you can't understand his understanding, his existence between hammers and strings. You can't look at him. You're afraid to find out that all the hope he had sent into the sky had crashed. And it did. Because of you. He is not the same after that.
He exists between hammers and strings. Between you and your big dreams.
You know that it's always you in his big dreams... but only when he dances on those keys, only when he brings it home. Only when he can make you hear exactly what it feels like to be alone. So you can blame him. You never liked the song anyway. Just how he played. Why doesn't he look at you like he looks at that piano. Furtive glances in sideways directions. Ashes off the ends of cigarettes. And all this thinking doesn't get you anywhere.
"Play for me?" he asks.
And you can't. You pull your hair out of your eyes and look down. You wait for him to change directions, make a new invitation. And you are oh, so patient.
Isn't this what you thought this song meant?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Losing the Past.
...and all of this because the search has begun. Somewhere, someone screams, "Danger! Danger!," but the warning is lost on me.
Take time to make time to write yourself in letters, not fearing the yellow of the page. The doctors warn you it could spread--the cancer, because the initial diagnosis lacks the certain threat that it could be worse.
...and you waltz through the city, stepping on the toes of stranger skyscrapers. You wait for the other side of the world to wake, to ask you dance, to be safe there.
Because you try and try and nothing comes. So you fight back, you push back, and hurl insults into the face of everything you've come to call God. The notion that God isn't even real certainly isn't lost on you, but you've to expect some kind of reaction, using the disappointing want to ironically prove your thesis.
...and this night you feel six feet under--the first words that sound deep enough to carry you home. Lean into it, dangle your feet in the water and watch the world creep on the surface of the water.
Then, pitch your heart in. It's carried you this far, but it is the heaviest to bare.
*********************************************************************
As stars whispered in speculation, the boy traced his heart into the sand. Waves broke on the beach and threatened all that brought him this far. As sweat beaded on his brow, he removed his shirt, flagged it on driftwood and knelt in sand. In the end, sand was found in between his fingers, wiped across his chest, stuck to the heels of his feet. He dug into his heart and in the refuge built the castle of every fairy tale--the sleeping world where waking isn't worth it. Working through the night and into day, the sun painted summer on his skin and still he built towers and gates, walls and windows--everything that was promised. The sun fell over the edge of the world and pulled the moon over the other side. He rejoiced in his love--his favorite star, and she beamed down upon him in light both white and pure. Waves crashed closer and closer to his castle, his refuge, his heart and in faith shouted into the night of nature. He preached determination, patience, and understanding. He stood over his castle warning the sea it could never disarm his heart. But the dark ocean bottom knew the principles of tide: change. And as the sea spilt into the walls of his heart, he heard the salty whispers. Betrayed, he still stood over his castle staring up to his moon. Waves licked into seams double and triple sealed, crumbled the foundation of refuge and stole the castle, wall by wall, into the sea. Now, as the remnants of his heart drift out to sea, he feels no shame, no longing, no pain. He feels nothing at all. Everything he lost was everything that brought him here and now that it is gone, he is unburdened for his heart was the heaviest to carry.
Take time to make time to write yourself in letters, not fearing the yellow of the page. The doctors warn you it could spread--the cancer, because the initial diagnosis lacks the certain threat that it could be worse.
...and you waltz through the city, stepping on the toes of stranger skyscrapers. You wait for the other side of the world to wake, to ask you dance, to be safe there.
Because you try and try and nothing comes. So you fight back, you push back, and hurl insults into the face of everything you've come to call God. The notion that God isn't even real certainly isn't lost on you, but you've to expect some kind of reaction, using the disappointing want to ironically prove your thesis.
...and this night you feel six feet under--the first words that sound deep enough to carry you home. Lean into it, dangle your feet in the water and watch the world creep on the surface of the water.
Then, pitch your heart in. It's carried you this far, but it is the heaviest to bare.
*********************************************************************
As stars whispered in speculation, the boy traced his heart into the sand. Waves broke on the beach and threatened all that brought him this far. As sweat beaded on his brow, he removed his shirt, flagged it on driftwood and knelt in sand. In the end, sand was found in between his fingers, wiped across his chest, stuck to the heels of his feet. He dug into his heart and in the refuge built the castle of every fairy tale--the sleeping world where waking isn't worth it. Working through the night and into day, the sun painted summer on his skin and still he built towers and gates, walls and windows--everything that was promised. The sun fell over the edge of the world and pulled the moon over the other side. He rejoiced in his love--his favorite star, and she beamed down upon him in light both white and pure. Waves crashed closer and closer to his castle, his refuge, his heart and in faith shouted into the night of nature. He preached determination, patience, and understanding. He stood over his castle warning the sea it could never disarm his heart. But the dark ocean bottom knew the principles of tide: change. And as the sea spilt into the walls of his heart, he heard the salty whispers. Betrayed, he still stood over his castle staring up to his moon. Waves licked into seams double and triple sealed, crumbled the foundation of refuge and stole the castle, wall by wall, into the sea. Now, as the remnants of his heart drift out to sea, he feels no shame, no longing, no pain. He feels nothing at all. Everything he lost was everything that brought him here and now that it is gone, he is unburdened for his heart was the heaviest to carry.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Preacher's kid
my parents are preachers.
excuse the mess on the communion table.
we haven't eaten there for years.
and Jesus Christ,
we didn't even mow the grass
while taking the lord's name in vain
and of course
one of us ran away, one of us killed herself
and me, well i'm just gay
my parent's are children pastors.
so, excuse the mess they've made
i'm still working on it
the neighbors kept their blinds drawn
and didn't say much about the junk cars on the lawn
you can excuse the white trash man of god, at least he doesn't drink.
I drink alot.
It's okay, i've got alot of baggage for the bottles.
they klink and klang when i'm trying to play it cool.
i've stopped trying to be suave.
it never mattered to me much anyway.
now, i am completely and utterly a mess.
there's no hiding it for that guy, my new friends say
he never hid it well anyway, my old friends say
here's to the little bird, i say and i drink to all the things they say
because when you're out there
and you're doing your thing
it's always nice to be reminded
somethings never change
people will always shit out their mouths
and people will always say the same shit
so excuse my mess, excuse me to hell and back
because it's less about the mess, and more about trying to make the mess look pretty.
and man are you ugly.
excuse the mess on the communion table.
we haven't eaten there for years.
and Jesus Christ,
we didn't even mow the grass
while taking the lord's name in vain
and of course
one of us ran away, one of us killed herself
and me, well i'm just gay
my parent's are children pastors.
so, excuse the mess they've made
i'm still working on it
the neighbors kept their blinds drawn
and didn't say much about the junk cars on the lawn
you can excuse the white trash man of god, at least he doesn't drink.
I drink alot.
It's okay, i've got alot of baggage for the bottles.
they klink and klang when i'm trying to play it cool.
i've stopped trying to be suave.
it never mattered to me much anyway.
now, i am completely and utterly a mess.
there's no hiding it for that guy, my new friends say
he never hid it well anyway, my old friends say
here's to the little bird, i say and i drink to all the things they say
because when you're out there
and you're doing your thing
it's always nice to be reminded
somethings never change
people will always shit out their mouths
and people will always say the same shit
so excuse my mess, excuse me to hell and back
because it's less about the mess, and more about trying to make the mess look pretty.
and man are you ugly.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Understanding Controversy
If it's a broken part, replace it.
If it's a broken arm, then brace it.
If it's a broken heart, then face it.
Hold your own.
Know your name.
Hang on.
Help is on the way.
Stay Strong.
I'm doing everything.
*******************
The windows on windows
cracked, bricked buildings
windows on windows
cracked, bricked buildings.
all of it is all of it
and all of it is.
..is trying desperately trying to remain relevant.
like the abandoned ports
long silent trolley-rails
overgrown dry docks
and decade old graffiti
headlines in communist newspapers
preach faded banners
dusty anthems
old sacraments of a dead regime
or dying
rattlimg like death
or chains
or the saber of little boys
with spelling tests
rearmament
or change
or loss
or change?
Because at садовая (sadovaya) they all look the same.
But at сенная плошадь (seenaya ploshad) they stop, maybe unsure, or disoriented, or lost, or reptitive, or stumbling, or wanting, or lacking, or missing, or...
And at спасская (spasskaya) they are glossed not like the eyes of dried fish in kiosks, but brilliant like the sheen on marble in newly built metro stations.
They shop in malls and they go bowling. And the sheen is wax.
They carry heavy loads in black bags or sitting on the back of their necks, half crushing, half suspended from thick fog from the gulf of Finland.
and the wax melts.
It hurts to see it all from the outside.
It hurts more to see it on the inside.
It hurts most to see it all and not understand any of it.
I just want to believe.
and the loss I feel
...because keeping quiet is hard...
is because i want it to be controversial.
my tongue is the only muscle in my body that works harder than my heart.
quiet eyes. like demise...
no rest for luxury.
things change, it's happening everyday.
If it's a broken arm, then brace it.
If it's a broken heart, then face it.
Hold your own.
Know your name.
Hang on.
Help is on the way.
Stay Strong.
I'm doing everything.
*******************
The windows on windows
cracked, bricked buildings
windows on windows
cracked, bricked buildings.
all of it is all of it
and all of it is.
..is trying desperately trying to remain relevant.
like the abandoned ports
long silent trolley-rails
overgrown dry docks
and decade old graffiti
headlines in communist newspapers
preach faded banners
dusty anthems
old sacraments of a dead regime
or dying
rattlimg like death
or chains
or the saber of little boys
with spelling tests
rearmament
or change
or loss
or change?
Because at садовая (sadovaya) they all look the same.
But at сенная плошадь (seenaya ploshad) they stop, maybe unsure, or disoriented, or lost, or reptitive, or stumbling, or wanting, or lacking, or missing, or...
And at спасская (spasskaya) they are glossed not like the eyes of dried fish in kiosks, but brilliant like the sheen on marble in newly built metro stations.
They shop in malls and they go bowling. And the sheen is wax.
They carry heavy loads in black bags or sitting on the back of their necks, half crushing, half suspended from thick fog from the gulf of Finland.
and the wax melts.
It hurts to see it all from the outside.
It hurts more to see it on the inside.
It hurts most to see it all and not understand any of it.
I just want to believe.
and the loss I feel
...because keeping quiet is hard...
is because i want it to be controversial.
my tongue is the only muscle in my body that works harder than my heart.
quiet eyes. like demise...
no rest for luxury.
things change, it's happening everyday.
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