If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.


- Kurt Vonnegut. A Man Without a Country

I have made peace with the world

At least for now.

And even though I may end up owing five dollars to a few friends here and there, the silence on this page is proof to my current tranquility.

For the time being, I shall try to redigest this zen into a readable form.
It may take some time.
It's still new to me.


So, until then, boys and girls.

Until then :)

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Heres some advice:
Don/t take it.

The last exit, it exists within us. Within each and every one of us. It/s dark. It/s mad. And it/s honest.

But honesty is one thing we aint buying. Honesty - it just aint marketable. You can/t spin it.

But you can write it.


For those of you who have any inkling of what I'm talking about here, you will be very interested to see this: HUBERT SELBY JR:
It/ll Be Better Tomorrow

You can also check out an interview


Enjoy it.

The Hunter

The hunter, he does not see the forest. He does not see the jungle.
They mean nothing to him.

The hunter, he walks into a restaurant. A lounge. A bar.
Gently, he leans on a wall by the entrance. He stands still.
He lets his eyes do the walking.

And he is no longer capable of seeing the bar. The lounge. The restaurant.

And his eyes report back: Busy three star bar and grill looking for an energetic self-starter. Two years in the industry required. Knowledge of wines a plus. Apply in person.

And he leaves.
He keeps walking. The eyes, they stand still. They roll back at him. They see nothing.

And he enters a doorway.

And his eyes report back: Hip casual restaurant. Searching for new prep and barista. Opportunity for advancement. Paste resume into the email. No attachments.

And his nose gathers the thick coffee aroma. And red brick walls surround him. Several paintings are scatter throughout the space.
But he does not see the walls, the people. He does not see the paintings.
They mean nothing to him.

And he keeps walking.



The hunter, he does not see his own eyes.
The hunter, he misses them.
Because this is one job for which he never asked for.

Because the hunter - he's starving.

It's a Beautiful Day

A beautiful day. A perfect day.
It has to begin the night before.

When you sit at your desk. The whole night you sit at your desk. And you look at the blank page. Into it. The characters, they're all there. They're talking.
You listen more closely. You wait until it gets quiet.
You push.

And the characters tell you to go fuck yourself.
To hang yourself off the chandelier.
To beat your head on the radiator.

And you know it will be better in the morning. The arguments always seem silly in the morning. You just have to sleep.
But your body is already miles ahead of you.
"Sleep?!" It laughs. "Go fuck yourself!"

And you walk outside. You do circles around your house. You walk your feet numb. You smoke. You smoke your lungs tired.
You drink. You drink.
And drink.
You drink your body dumb. So it won't care. You outsmart it into falling asleep.

The arguments always seem silly in the morning.


And in the early morning you awake. That urgent wakeness. The hot and cold flashes. The whiskey, it wakes you up.
And you feel like a million bucks.
You shower. You eat.

You sit back at the desk. You smile coyly at the page. The arguments seem so silly.
But the characters, they want to have nothing to do with you.
You sit. You stare.

By midday you flee.

And in the train you can't read. You can't sleep. You think about having children. About nurturing them. About how they will do so much more than you. Because you won't do anything. Because you can't. Because you won't. Because it's pointless. You're pointless.

And you think about a carreer. You think about the future.
And it wants to have nothing to do with you.



The streets are flooded with people when you come out. In jeans in sunglasses, vendors, professors, models, bums, freaks, they all crowd the sidewalk. Bike messengers cut through traffic. Waiters smoke outside the cafe's. There's barely room to walk. They crowd around you.
And you're suddenly goddamn glad to see them.
Each and every fucker.

You've been using the same earphones. The same goddamn earphones, found in the back of your closet. Graham Bell must have used them. Last night, the scotch tape holding them together finally snapped.
You buy a new pair. It's not the top model, but it isn't the lowest one either. You've been wanting to do it for months.
And the muscles around your lips begin to spread within.
You don't really get it.

You keep walking.

And on the corner a brother is hustling rap cd's. He makes eye contact and you stop. He starts selling.
Last time you heard rap, Michael Jordan was playing baseball. But you listen to the guy anyway. His eyes are tired.
He gives you a cd. You hold it.
"Free?" you ask. His eyebrows narrow sadly.
"Come on, man," he stretches out. "At least spare five bucks."
And you shake your head. You give back the cd. "I can't," you offer. "I have no money on me."
He chuckles softly to himself. He grimaces. He's been hearing this all day.
"Why?" He snaps.
You pause. "I'm looking for a job. I'm walking around, looking for a job."
It's not the truth, but it's the closest thing to it you've said in a while.
And his eyes suddenly focus on yours. And all of a sudden the both of you understand each other.
He nods. "God bless you, man," he says.
And you nod back. And suddenly you feel real whole inside.
You don't really get it.


And a few blocks down a woman is yelling on the top of her lungs. Free samples at Ben and Jerry's, she screams. Go get yours, she screams. And she looks at you. You look at her. Her face is flushed red from screaming. Her hair is grimy. And for a second she smiles. You smile back. You get your cherry garcia sample. It's a milkshake. And it's a beautiful thing.

You go to Strands. This was the one thing you wanted to do. Because you want to check up on Fitzgerald. This Side of Paradise. You flip the book. You windowshop. You already know the pages. The jems you come to look at. The jems you don't yet have.
And you reread the preface. Begun during college. Completed at twenty-three.
And you nod to yourself.

You put the book back. Coming out of the isle you bump into something. You look.
Her face is covered in freckles and she has auburn hair. You don't say sorry. You smile. Like an idiot.
And like an idiot, she smiles back.

And the both of you stand in the middle of the store. Smiling.
And a huge mass of fat suddenly plops into both of you out of nowhere.
"Idiots!"

And you laugh. You laugh and feel something rising in you from below. And you suddenly feel about as light as a snowflake, even if it's August.


Somewhere below your belt vibrates. And somewhere below a hand reaches for it. You're not quite sure if it's your hand. You don't really care. You smile.
"Hey," an old friend says at the other end. She's calling from work and her voice is low and tired.
"Hey," you say, smiling the words into the receiver. At the other end there is a brief pause, as if she's checking whether she has the right number.
"What's up with you?" she asks.
"What?" You ask. Still smiling. You can't stop smiling.
"You're high or what? Got a date or something?" She's puzzled. And for better or worse, so are you.
You shake your head. "No," you say. "No date. Just a beautiful day out there, that's all."
"A beautiful day?"
And you nod. You're standing at the crossroads of the isles. Unsure of where to go, blocking everybody's way.
And you can't stop smiling.
"Yes," you confirm, taking a look around you. "It's a beautiful day."

Up, up and away

I'm going up. Way up. They tell me there is no humidity there. No people.
The good life.

I'd put a vacation flag up, but I hardly post enough for it to be down. So, instead, I have offered some readings from the previously unpublished absinthemind archives.

That's right folks.

All that black soot holding the mind together.
Now yours.

Only $2.99 a minute.


.. I really should make a paypal here.

-------------------------------------------------------------

10.22.05


Alone.

The hours approach morning, and the word begins to gain new meanings. A black crow, it begins to slowly flap its wings in the wind of the coming morning. Somewhere far away, a taxi scratches its way through the grid of this island.

Alone. Me and the clock. Tock, tick fucking tock.

I want to sit on my roof, breathing the last warm winds of summer, cutting the moon like a watermellon into slices, having a feast with old friends. But the gusts are cold at the peak. I shudder.

Soon it will be morning. Soon the ants of the world will step out from their buildings and apartments, emptying out into the streets, seeping through tunnels and elevator shafts, filling the world with a march of random, well articulated noises. Their proud hymn will fill radios and televisions everywhere.

But for now the world is empty. White from the moon, it lies flat and round beneath it. Towards the morning the world loses a dimention, becoming its own shadow, collapsing onto itself. Flat, like a clock, it keeps running, keeps breathing. Soon, morning will come. Soon, this all will be gone.
It knows this. I know this.

For the time being, it stretches its larger hand towards me.
I shake it.

Thanks for the company, I say.
Thanks once again.

Don't read me.

Don't even look at me.

Give me my pen. Close the door on your way out.


Thanks.

The Last Autumn

В последнюю осень, ни строчки, ни вздоха.
Последние песни осыпались летом.
Прощальным костром догорает эпоха,
И мы наблюдаем за тенью и светом



There are several songs that I listen to almost every day. I have listened to these songs when I was 16, and I will probably listen to them 16 years from now.

There are some streets where I walk every day. Some of them are near my house. Some in my memories.

I have often ridiculed myself for this. Move on, I would say to myself. Move the hell on. Find something new for God's sake, you're not an old man.

No, I am not an old man, and I realize this the older I get. If this will keep on, the most youthful day of my life will be the day of my death.
Life is not without a sense of humor.

But I digress.


I have often wondered why I do this. Why I return to these songs, these streets.
I had my theory, and in a way, it was confirmed today after reading an interview with Jonathan Safran Foer, the author of the recently popular "Everything is Illuminated" and "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close."

In the interview, Foer speaks of how Joyce Carol Oates, (who he was fortunate enough to have as a professor) wrote to him: "You appear to have a very strong and promising talent coupled with that most important of writerly qualities, energy."

Yes - energy. Energy.

Often I can't contain it. Often I sit at the same spot for eight, ten, sixteen hours at a stretch. And I write. By god, I write.
But at other times I have about as much energy as a lamp during a power outage.
The bulb is there. The wire is plugged in.
But there is no current.
None.
Zilch. Zero. Nada.

The last time I saw a grown man cry, it was my father.
He was constipated.

I finally understand him.



But even during the darkest outage, these songs, these memories - they are still there.
Little capsules of energy. A whole case of them.
Break in case of emergency.

This is an emergency.
I turn the player on. To the memories I stretch. In them I draw in every ounce of sunlight. I feel the heat on the leaves. The streets. The people.
Because this what it's all about. Because this is where it all began.
This is where it's going to end.

Some jump from bed to bed. Some develop healthy drug habits. Some walk across continents. All in search for one thing. That one little thing.

But the drugs fade. The sheets empty. Continents sink.
What remains?

You know what.


Someone turn the power back on.

Death in the afternoon

In his original, Hemingway wrote of glorious death in the afternoon.
But you wont find it here.

Eyes loose. Loose over the shirt hanging out. Bouncing. Over the shirt loose. Bouncing the train the eyes over the shirt bouncing here there the train the car the people bouncing
                                                                 pulling out over the bridge the sun bouncing around the car the people the eyes the shirt but no one sees it no one sees it -
You wont find it here.

Hello can you hear me?
Can you hear me Can you hear me NO HE CAN'T HEAR YOU -
YOU'RE IN THE TUNNEL now, fucker.

Dark all around.

In his classic Hemingway wrote of a glorious death in the afternoon. But you wont find it here. The sun rising the whale awaking breathing in breathing breathing, breathing in all the microspasms in from the surrounding boroughs breathing in to eat to eat COOK FASTER MOTHERFUCKER!
                            IM COOKING! Grilling as fast I can, as fast as I can my hands are burning at least the meat is fresh.

The afternoon. Finally the afternoon. The death. Each day the same death. The eyes hang loose from looking at it for so long. Because in the end, we all want to die just a little bit differently.

Boredom.
        Diversified.

But you won't find that here.

Inspiration Tremble

I wrote a great blog today. In fact, it was the first one in a while I was really happy with.

Then the electricity went out.
POP.

And now I cannot bring it back. It is still in my head. I can see it. I smell it.
It's right there along with everything else.
But nothing comes out.
Nothing.

Something died there.
Just like that.
Gunshot.
POP!


People often pass me in the library or in the park and see me writing. The pen to the paper. No PDA touchpad microwave oven scribble scrabble.
Their look is somewhere between disgust and curiosity.

But more and more I'm beginning to be glad for the process. When I put it down, it's down. Down for good. If the electricity fades, so much the better.
I swim in the ink and go within my head, smelling everything, tasting everything.
It is then that the well fills up.

See you there.

Echoes

And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys


In the day, in the evening, the city chokes in its own breath. The sun has set and it's past midnight. Only the echoes of the day could be heard. In those echoes we live. In those echoes we breathe.

No one showed us to the land. But we are here. We do not see it. We do not know it.
We hear only its echoes.

Somewhere there are our parents. We do not know them. We do not see them.
We hear only their echoes.

We run, circles we run around the skyscrapers we run in the playgrounds for the bored we run and we bang our fists and ask for more. The dream. Supersized.

Around the skyscrapers we run. Chasing the echoes.

Echoes of our parents' steps. Echoes of ourselves within our memories. Where are we now? What were we thinking then?

Can anyone hear me?

I hope I am making a sound.

                  sound 
                              sound
                                        sound
                                                   ...

Happiness, or something like it.

Over the rails, me and the homeless man been traveling in laps the whole night. Stop go. Stop go.

His face is round. It doesn't look homeless. He sits in the plastic subway seat in peace. Over the fuzz of his beard a few bread crumbs bounce along. I am so hungry that I want to eat them.

And he tells me get a grip on yourself man. Get a goddamn grip. So I grip myself and grip on to the seat and we keep bouncing and keep lapping and lapping the city.

And somewhere he tells me drink my poison. And I take a gulp and somewhere inside a ball of warmth rolls down through my toes. And somewhere a Dire Straits song comes on. And somewhere. I'm somewhere. There, there.

This is love and its ending one stop at a time.
This is happiness.

Or something like it.

Help

Help. There is a wolf at the door.
Over my bed he stands when I am asleep. I do not see him. I have learned to sleep with my face to the wall. But he is there. I feel the loneliness of his breath over me. I feel him watching me.

He does not harm me. He does not touch me.

In the doorway he stands. Over my bed he stands. Behind the shower curtain he stands. Behind the darkness he stands. In front of me he stands. I look down.

He does not scorn me. He does not blame me.

Help. There is a wolf in my house.
Before the sun he brings them out. I buried them so long ago. But he brings them out. He takes them out. Before the sun they come out. Before me they sit. They crowd the living room. I no longer have a place to sit. So I stand. I look down.

The wolf never travels alone.

I long for the sun. I long for the day. I long for the emptiness. I long to sit. I long to be warm.
I long for the night. I long for the wolf.
Put me inside.
Put me inside.

Help.

Untitled

in our cobblestones we lie between the cracks lie between the cobblestones I told you that you told me that I should walk farther stretch farther fly farther like a cobblestone kicked from the road knowing not where its flying only for the sake of flying kicked only for the sense of being kicked only for the sense of kicking I only wish I saw the foot I only wish I saw the boot that walked over me a thousand times walked over me only to kick me out of the cobblestone street where we meet where we sink into the mud you and me next to the curb for a thousand years you and me next to the curb I only wish I saw the boot the foot kicking the root sinking the place where we raced to the place we sank into for a thousand years me and you in cobblestones I only wish I saw the foot I only wish I saw our place a disgrace I am now not knowing where to come back to walking farther stretching farther not knowing where coming back to coming back only for the sake of stretching walking back only for the sake of walking I wish I saw the foot that kicked stones out of their roots I only wish I saw the foot of which I told you in our cobblestones we lie

Workshop

Today my faithful iBook decided to lay its final words onto the page. It is still alive, but it is ailing, and so I found myself on my aged desktop. The documents on it span the last eleven years. That would be half of my life.
Brr..

So, for today, I shall offer the first poem attempted by yours truly, that was not written in a romantic Rebert Frost meter. It was first hand-written (as everything tends to be) and then typed on this great old box.

So here is another verse from the saddle of the old horse. Wow, that even rhymed. I'm going to go give myself a cookie. You guys can read.



Workshop


Our horizontal weeping done,
I draw the curtains open, and return.
In the soft slumber of her closed eyes I live
Alone.
It’s easier that way.

But in the swaying of the curtains’ pose,
The ticking clicks of clocks in prose,
On my back heels I backwards race,
To done undo, to steps erase.

But it is useless -
Soon breakfast will be served.
I find the busy chatter of meaningless words
Soothing.
My heart is let to sleep.

Somewhere in Switzerland

On the water
The swan sits
Alone.
It does not weep
It merely cleans
Itself.

Our words get lost
On the dock
You are no longer
Speaking.

You fix yourself
In your mirror
You are
Alone.
You do not weep
You merely see
Yourself.

To catch a moon

In the style of Marquez, a dedication to my very close and ailing friend.


Sometime after the war, he made out to watch the moon.

First week upon arrival, uniform still on, he came out onto the rooftop of his building. The rooftop was black and empty, the view of the city scarred only by the black antennas around him. Twilight had already set in, and the silver disk of the moon hung just over the horizon of antennas.

He set out then, once and for all, to never take his eyes off the moon.

He lay down, keeping his eyes fixed on it so that he may be able to see it move gradually and not in random ticks of directed glances during the day and night. He lay down, watching the white moon pass over him during the night, following its path as it continued to pass over and under the building as an eternal jump rope, never missing a day, even when it would rain, glowing through the gray overcast like a radioactive copper plate.

Autumn began to approach and his friends, who often watched the moon with him, began to worry that he would not survive the winter. But he would hear nothing about it, and his friends, weary of his abstinence, descended within the building.

The winter passed, and he continued to watch the moon. Hardened by the sun and the city air, his body grew hard and emancipated, washed only by the autumn leaves that came to pass over the roof. Years passed and his body became flatter and flatter, seeping gradually into the thick tar of the roof. Friends no longer came up and relatives visited at increasingly longer intervals, and then no longer visited at all, giving in to the silence of his withering, and ultimately to the silence of their own deaths.

Before her death, however, his mother came to the roof. It was the windiest night in the history of the building and the winds awoke her. They rattled the windows and ripped the dreams of those asleep out of them. Caught in the drafts, the dreams began to mix and intersect, so that soon nobody was sure if their dream was indeed theirs.

The gusts swept into the apartment and out and back within. They passed under the building and above it, sprinkling their remnants over the rooftop. Vigilant, his mother would not let go of her dream. So she held and held, and soon she too was dropped over the rooftop. And so there she sat, watching her son, ignoring the siren of her own death that was rising from the street.

She covered his body with her dream so as to save him from the coming gusts. She sat with him for a short while and went downstairs. Alone, he lay in the tar. He was cold, and feeling his chill the dream began to creep over him.

In it he still lived in his old room, beneath the room of his mother. It was night, and he was leaning out of his window. The moon was out, and his eyes were fixed upon it. Sensing his glance, his mother leaned out of her window, watching him below. But he never saw her. She watched him and he watched the moon, and seeing his eyes fixed on the white gleam she would slowly form small tears, and they would roll down and fall, one by one, until a small drizzle would descend upon him. But he did not feel it. He watched the moon and she watched him and a rainstorm of a thousand tears would wash his face and his hair and he would do nothing about it, never knowing where it came from.

The dream crept over his body, covering him to his neck, tucking him in. There was no one to bother him now, save for the company of the aged dreams resting along his side. Two thin screens of salt formed over his eyes. He suddenly wanted desperately to blink, so as to clear them, but his eyelids could no longer close, not even for a moment.

And so he lay on the roof under the sky, the moon fixed in the film of his eyes.

And so he lies on the roof under the sky.
I just hope I could visit him.

A resurrected suicide

Today I am in Prague.

The kitchen is empty and I sit by the computer, the balcony door open slightly. I exhale a strand of smoke, and it lethargically makes its way outside. There, children race between the trees. Soon it will be time for dinner. The sun has set.

Today I am in Ukraine.

I am hiding behind my sofa. Soon it will be time for dinner. But I do not want to eat. I look out into the yard where I can still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing. I want to go join them.
The memory is so real. I can smell my Great-grandmothers supper. I can hear the kids. I can taste my own feelings at that moment.

Today I am eleven years old.
I am back in my Brooklyn apartment. It is summer, and the air conditioner is on. I am lying on my stomach over my bed, the ever faithful laptop in front of me.
I am writing a book. This summer I will write it. By god, this summer I will do it.
Today I am eleven years old.

I am in Brooklyn.

The air conditioner feeds the air into the room. It is ever the residential oxygen mask. I am lying on my stomach. On the same bed, in the same corner. Telling the same ol' story.

Today I am twenty-two years old.



The years add nothing. They take away nothing.
Only strength.
They can either add it or subtract it.

The choice is, or I like to think is, always up to us.

The Return

I come out onto the roof. I no longer know where I am. The black rooftop floats like a lost raft amidst lights and buildings. Between the gusts of wind, the lights blink. They wink at me.

In the distance, skyscrapers still scrape the sky. In the distance the sun has set over behind them. Tomorrow it will rise again on the other side. It will find nothing new. All is as it was. All will be as it has been. It will find nothing.

I walk around. I know this raft well. I have sailed through many nights on it. I inspect it for changes. It has none. Several empty beer cans roll around in the wind.

On my sides the island lies empty and dark. A thousand dead babies, the buildings surround me. They blink their windows. People are dining inside, where its lit, in the womb of each child. But the children are not yet pregnant. They are not yet alive. And so the night lies quiet. The river flows empty, only its current swashing on the sides of the raft.

In the womb of the city it is quiet. The children do not speak.

Neither do I.

Summertime

Summertime is a time when it rains. When dark factory buildings stand huddled together under an umbrella of their smoke. When drunken college kids pull up their collars in search of the next big place. When florescent lights sway on their wires over the soaked and sterile streets. When Janice Joplin dances within the earphones. When her voice rattles and screams like a tortured electric guitar. No wonder her and Hendrix were around the same time. No wonder they both went so early. Sensitive souls do that. They scream with the rage of their time and expire. They are in tune to the winds and rains that fall to their sides. This world was not for them. This world is not for us.

Summertime is a time when the living’s easy. When the fish are jumping. When your daddy’s rich and you mom is good looking. Summertime is when you hush, little baby, and you don’t – don’t you cry.

Summertime is a time when it rains. When the sky weeps over the rooftops and washes our cheeks with its salt. Summertime is a time when you yearn to rise up singing. To spread your wings. To take to the sky.

As Janice sang, “Until that morning, nothing’s gonna harm you baby.”

It is when we finally sing that this world no longer becomes our stage. We simply outgrow it. We shake off its salt and rise to the sky. The curtain opens then. Its shadow no longer protects us.

Summertime is a time for Janice. Summertime is a time to sing.
The mornings start early then.

Your Title, Here

I was on the sidewalk when it happened. Standing by the curb, a breeze came sweeping through the avenue, and I closed my eyes, tasting its sweet smell. It smelled of a flower, perhaps a tree – I did not know. But the smell had a taste to it, and I opened my nostrils and ran the tip of my tongue around the rims of my mouth. Then, with its taste within me, I opened my eyes, moving them lethargically around the buildings on both sides, as if I was – at that point, being born for the first time.

The buildings stood happy and not too tall. Perhaps they were sitting – lounging under the white cotton of the clouds. Their paint, once bright, was now chipped. But they smiled at me nonetheless, and I smiled back. Several people, waiting for the tram on a small strip of asphalt in the middle of the avenue, saw me and smiled as well.


The ambulance did not yet turn its sirens on when it turned the corner. Having gone into the corner with excessive speed, its tires screeched over the cobblestones and bounced over the tram rails. But that’s not when it happened.

Racing down the avenue, the ambulance headed straight for the tram stop. Not to the left, where trams passed it, and not to the right, where cars where to go. It headed for the middle, over gassing and heaving like an out-of-breath horse. That’s almost when it happened.


The ambulance swerved to the right, then to the left, and then back to the right, as if unsure where to go. Catching the curb, its right tire screamed against the pavement and suddenly sideways, the ambulance began its descent towards me. But I simply stood. You do not think in these moments. You just stand, still tasting the sweet smells that were there just a moment ago. And so I stood.

But the ambulance did not come over me. It flopped as soon as it took off, sliding on its side, shaving the painted marks off the street, screaming and heaving. Its back doors suddenly popped open and bodies flew out over the street like toys from a crowded closet. They bounced around and became still. Close to me lay the ambulance. A thin stream of smoke began to rise from its hood. Its taste filled my nostrils with a metallic aftertaste.

For a moment the street was completely silent. Or perhaps I could not hear anything. The lights on the roof of the ambulance suddenly lit up, and began to circle around without a sound. I heard nothing.


On the sidewalk lay the bodies. They were bent out of shape and dirty and beaten. I wanted to pick them up and clean them. I wanted to play with them. I would return them to the closet, I promised myself then. Moving closer to the bodies, I began to feel the heat of glances behind me. People again regained their movement, and began to crowd around the wreck. They looked at the young man sitting at the curb with his toys. They shook their head, passed their hand over their mouths in thought, and scratched the back of their necks. But the young men did not see them. He had now lain down next to the bodies, feeling their last warmth. It was then that he finally knew.

It was then that it happened.

А помнишь, друг, команду с нашего двора?

Prelude: Apologies

To my English speaking readers: this post could not be written in the English language.

To my Russian speaking readers: this post could not be written in the Russian font.

....

Sevodnya ya stoyu vozle okna. Eto okno novoye. Eto okno viglydivaet na dvor. Vnizu pesochnitsi. Tuda viglyadivayut okna okruzhayushih domov. Sevodnya Subotta, i vo dvore igrayut deti. Skoro nastupet vremya obeda, i mami viglyanuv v okna pozovut detei krikom na obed.
No moye okno pustoye. Vozle nevo rostet kashtan. Vchera bil dozhd i smil beliye lepestki. Teper ostalis odni listya. Pochasto duyet veter, i oni zaglyadivayut ko mne v okno. Oni sprashivayut esli vse normalno. Vse tak i normalno.

V naushnikah zvuchit Vizbor. V naushnikah, Vizbor poyet o proshlom. O proshlom katorovo bolshe net.
No v moye okno eto proshlo zaglyadivayet teper kazhdii den. To zhe proshloye kotoroye ya sto let nazad pohoronil. No v etom dvore ono vstalo iz zemli. Ono roskrilo krilya, smilo listya s derevyev i podnyalos ko mne. A shto mne? Ya evo uzhe ne pomnyu.
No vihodyav na ulitsu ya ne mogu evo ne vspomnit. Ono pokrivayet menya do golovi, ya tonyu v nem. Ya plivu ot nevo, no po vsem ulitsam navodneniye. V aleye parka, stoit krasnii tramvai. Roditili gulyayut s detmi. Patcani butsuyut futbol vokrug polyani. I ya bolshe ne znayu – idu ya cherez park is proshlovo, ili po nasoyashemu zdes.
A voobshe, shto takoye “zdes”? Ved kogda vsplivayet starii mir, kogdato poharonii navsegda, to togda novii mir pokrit starim – noviye ulitsi zamiti vodoi do krish, i mi vse plivem, yeli yeli pitayemsya ne zadohnutsya v nostolgiye.

"Да, вот это наше поколениe," poyet Vizbor, "Рудиментом в нынешних мирах..."

Mozhet zhe eto bit nashem pokoleniyem? V takom ne lovkom meste, kak budto na tonuvshem ostrave mezhdu proshlom i budushem? Kak pel Vizbor, mozhet kak raz "Вот наша Эльба"?

Otvetov u menya net. Da i sil plit u menya poroi chuvstvuyetsya ostalos ne tak mnogo. Zemli po storonam ne ostalos. Iz morya vidno - kazhdii nashel svoi ostrov, "каждый выбрал веру и житьё,".
Edinstvenii vopros - a gde moye?

"Вот это жаль, вот это, правда, очень жаль..."

Obeshat budusheh posts ya ne mogu. Poka, budu prosto pitatsya viplit na bereg. Kak ni bud, do plivu. Vi uvidete ot menya signal.



"Отставить крики, тихо, Сретенка, не плачь,
Мы стали все твоею общею судьбой -
Те, кто был втянут в этот несерьезный матч
И кто повязан стал верёвкой бельевой."

Bonjourno

"Italians, my friend, are the only people I have known who think both with their heads - and their hearts."

The wheels of the plane touched the tarmac, and these words of Jan Weiner echoed the descent. I remembered Jan now - a 70 year old fighter who told me of his time in Italy during the Czech holocaust. He fled there at the time, and was in hiding. There was a family who took him in and saved his life. Naturally, there was a young woman in the story as well. But that will have to wait next time.

Florence.

It met me with its bridges that stood still in a very uncharacteristic fog. Had it been a bit colder, I would have thought I was in St. Petersburg. But the city would not let me go as far. The evening flooded the narrowed streets with people, and I began to swim through them. American, English, French - students lounged on steps and by fountains, their hands warming the cool night air with constant motion. Under the silver coat of the moon, the city stretched and danced as a melodic, and welcoming playground.

Into the night, the flood of the evening kept rising.

And I kept swimming, holding pen and paper close, keeping the eyes open in the water.

More to come.

Lou

Lou was a three-hundred pound black man in the heart of Prague.

How he got there, I did not know, nor did I ask. I have learned not to ask such questions. Abroad, people are usually somewhere because they do not want to be somewhere else. This makes for a intriguing back story, but also a tiresome conversation. And Lou was not into tiresome conversations. He stuck the clapper into an empty beer glass and let it rip. A young Czech student tried to keep up on the piano.

"You know I love you baby," his voice cried over the piano. "But. But but butbut buuut... not like that!" he wailed the last notes, his circular face cringing, eyes closed tight like it was an oversized orange being squeezed for the last drops of its juice.
Then he started again.

I was having my first frozen margarita in months. People around me were eating steaks and fries and tortilla chips. I no longer knew where I was. Prague? Missouri? I have never been to Missouri. Only in the Missouri within myself.
Have I been to Prague?

Over the garden, the half-eaten piece of the moon hung indifferently. It has seen this before. It will see it again.

Over the piano, Lou wailed and cried and laughed. Lou was a black man in the heart of Prague with a heart weighing three-hundred pounds. It is not easy trotting the world with a heart like that. I would cry as well.

After the show, Lou was all smiles at the bar. Perched on a bar stool, he was tapping the bar to a blues track coming from the overhead stereo. The drinks were shaking at the other end, and a few Scandinavian tourists readjusted themselves uneasily in their bar stools.

"Good show, man" I said, looking over at him.

Lou nodded and hit the bar twice as hard in response. "Where you from?" He asked after a moment.

I no longer know how to answer this question. Most often I randomly choose from a number of places, picking the one that best suits the topic. But with Lou, I was at a loss.

"Russia, then America..." said, stumbling over the words. I lived in Ukraine, which now only exists within my memories. In America I lived in New York, which houses anybody and everybody except those born on the continent.
Have I ever been to Russia? To America?

I should have made up a better reply.

"I used to play with a Russian," Lou replied. "Vladimir. Ain't ever seen a man beat a bass like that."

"Was this here?"

"Naw man. New Orleans. Heard of a city like that?"

"Of course," I laughed, and then instantly retraced my smile. "It's a shame what happened," I said, referring to the flood.

Lou's smile also waned for a moment. He nodded.

"It's like with Russia," I said, attempting to lift his spirits. "It sank too. The old world is buried under as well."

"Ain't no problem, man," he replied instantly with a shrug. "Cities are sinking all over. It's a new world we livin' in."

"So what's there to do?" I asked.

"What else is there to do?" Lou said matter-of-fact, his round face growing even rounder in a smile.
"Sing, man. Sing."


And so I sing. And with each song, the lightweight heart throws on an extra pound or two.
I just hope I could continue to carry it.

Verbal Photography

He puts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip of his beer. Placing it back, his lips grow thin in a smile. They sit somewhere there, lost between his outward chin and the long shadow of his nose. His eyes move slowly and indifferently about the room. It is filled with smoke and chatter and quiet static of an overhead radio. The radio is playing something of an 80s flavor. His glance continues its stroll about the room. Coming around it settles on me. I look into his eyes. They are fixed in a perpetual squint, and so I look down. I look over at the waitress, who is sitting across the room on three crates stacked up. "One more?" her glance asks me. I nod.

In my hands I have the collected photos of Victor Kolar. Born and raised in Ottava, Cz he had spent the first half of his life photographing its people. His people.
I sit and remember my days within this pub in mid-January. I had just arrived here then. I sat then too, and attempted to peer inside the people. But I was peering from the outside then.

I realize more and more the paradoxes of travel. We tell ourselves we have seen the world. But what have we really seen? Monuments, sculptures, beggars. How silly must we all look to the monuments and people at whom we peer incessantly through our lenses. Always looking outward, never within.
Friends of friends come, eager to go everywhere, see everything. But glancing around on the tram, they see only the architecture of the faces. It makes for tough tour guiding.

For those of you from the big apple, think of showing an out-of-towner the empire state building, while having yourself worked within it. It's something like that.

And so I look at his face. Lines cut across it like runways over the airport field. For months I have been attempting to peer inside the terminal, but alas in vain. I do not have the proper papers.

But I keep looking, keep clicking the shutter. The waitress brings me my beer. She is blonde and voluptuous, perhaps a bit too much on both counts. Few younger men send their glances in her direction from across the room. They then huddle together. They crack up. She continues moving around the tables. Effortlessly and graciously.

I lower my eyes into the book.

"In fact," Kolar writes in his brief introduction, "even when you are capturing something, it stores itself in you, you remember the moments... they mature and remain as latent material somewhere within, prepared for the moment when you press the shutter release elsewhere..."

I look up, catching the glance of the old man. Seeing that I had not started my beer, he raises his glass to me. I nod, and raise mine as well. We smile.

Kolar better be right.

Eyes open blind

See also: Inspiration No. 528

In the park, children race around the trees. Their fathers wear beards of solitude. Their legs are tired from racing.
The city sleeps. The city wakes. The children race.

Across the city, anti-Communist rallies cover soccer fields. People walk with banners. Their screams fill the quiet streets like a lost concert.

Today I shaved my solitude. My legs are no longer tired.
And so I open my eyes.

In the park, the children race. The city sleeps. The city wakes.

I do not join the concert across the city. I do not understand its music.
The children continue running. Watching them makes me happy.
But I cannot join them. I ran my races already.

And so I sit. I do not move. No longer because I do not want to, but because I no longer know where.

When one shaves off the mask of solitude, when one rips off the lids of loneliness
where is he to go?

Hills Like White Elephants

Reading Hemingway a long time ago, I could not buy his description of rolling hills as white elephants.

After all, hills do not stand on four feet, and if asleep, then how many sleeping elephants does one see through their lifetime? To this day, I personally have not seen any. Do they sleep standing up - like horses? Or do they bend their feet and stretch over the land?

I did not know.

Regardless, the hills stretched to all directions. They stretched and stretched and stretched into mountains with white tops and stretched into rolling fields and stretched and stretched like - well, white elephants.

We made our way through them, following the curves of the road. Across the whitened bellies of the elephants lay Austria. We were on the southern border of the Czech Republic, but snow still lay in patches across the shadows of the forest.

"It still snowed here last week," said Shtepanik, shifting the gears with his right hand. He snapped the car into 2nd; it nudged like a faithful horse, and began to rip into the hillside. However, this was not an old Shkoda, nor an Opel or a Moskvich. We were driving a shiny blue Passat. Driving to a remote village in the southwest Czech countryside.

If Steve Jobs would run a farm, this would be it.

"I came across this place eleven years ago," Shtepanik said, looking over the road. "And since then, my life has been nothing but trouble."
Clean and freshly shaved, he was not the image of a local farmer I had in mind prior to our meeting. In fact, there was something cosmopolitan about his nature - the gray streaks in his slightly disheveled hair, the silent schoolboy smirk beneath his clumpy nose - an air of a boy playing in the sandbox, knowing that school is in session.

Indeed, my instincts were not far off. Born in Czechoslovakia, Shtepanik fled over the border into Germany at the age of 20. There, he became a travel photographer, and as I learned, adopted his last name basis. Shtepanik, after all, was only his last name.

"They would call me all the time - Shtepanik, go there, take pictures of that, then go there, then there... Shtepanik, we need you in China or Istanbul or Paris..."
"Not such a bad life to lead, no?" I interjected.
"No, not at all - but one is always moving, in the homes of others, stuck in his lens, never in a home of his own." He paused.
I kept silent. In the distance, a cluster of rooftops appeared above a hillside. They exhaled chimney smoke into the sky, looked over the blue spec of our car, curving left and right along the road, and then disappeared back into the hills.

“I was in Austria then, doing a shoot,” Shtepanik spoke suddenly. I shifted my glance back in his direction.
“For two weeks it rained. All of Austria was under a thick gray cloud, and there was nowhere to go. We simply had to wait. And so we waited. Each day sitting in our trailers, playing cards, watching flies circle around our heads. And then I just couldn’t take it. After two weeks, I split. I knew the magazine would probably raise hell, but I didn’t care. I just had to get out of there, you know?”
He sent a quick glance my way, and I nodded in agreement.
“So, I was trying to get back to Germany through Czechoslovakia – anywhere, just to get away from this rain. I had papers back then, so the border police let me cross from Austria.”
Shtepanik suddenly paused. We were coming over another hill. Ahead, the country stretched across, an occasional line of wires black against the green of the fields – like a misplaced scar on the skin of the earth. Over the surrounding mountains, the sun was hiding amidst a group of clouds.

“Just like that, it was,” Shtepanik suddenly exclaimed, losing his reserve. “I was driving along a road like this one, trying simply to see in that god forsaken rain, when all of a sudden, the mountains came out of the fog – far, far away. Over them, the clouds were breaking, and there was a bright, bright sun. So bright that I almost lost my sense of direction on the road.
Either way, I remember I pulled over and got out of the car. There I stood, simply watching the sun excavate its way out of the rain. And so I decided right there and then – it wasn’t a decision, really – a simple truth… it suddenly seemed crystal clear to me that I must go where the sun is shining on the fields. I could not see it from where I was standing, but knew then that those sunrays had to find a place somewhere below. And so I got into my car and started chasing them. It was really the most spontaneous thing I’ve done up to that point, and probably since. And the most lethal.”
Shtepanik’s voice trailed off. Our thoughts went their separate ways, and the car grew quiet, only the occasional pebble bouncing off the frame of the car.
“So, did you find them?” I asked after a prolonged silence.
“What?” Shtepanik asked, seemingly somewhere else.
“The rays – did you track them?”
“Oh,” Shtepanik paused, “of course.” A silent smirk again set across his face. “They landed right over there.”
“Where?”
“Right over there,” he said, pointing to a tiny cluster of houses ahead of us. A road post flashed past us.
“Slunecna?” I asked.
Shtepanik nodded. “That’s what the village was called.”
“Like ‘slunecko’ in Czech?” I asked, still attempting to make sense of it.
Shtepanik again nodded. “That’s right – slunecko. Or in English –”
“The sun” I said to myself.
Shtepanik's face stretched in a grin.

…to be continued...

Coda

"“In nine months a man can think a lot of thoughts, from the height of philosophical conjecture to the most abject longing for a bowl of soup... And if at the same time he's a bit of an adventurer, he could have experiences that might interest other people, and his random account would read something like this..."

So read the words of Ernesto Che Guevara, in his memoir "“Motorcycle Diaries."

Like an onslaught of waves, time has a way of polishing even the most distinct stone into a pebble identical to the ones around it. So it goes with days. Days flow in, days flow out. Small wonders begin to take their place in the daily routine. Daily inspirations begin to turn into weekly. Weekly into monthly.

Fortunately that's not what is happening here.

If anything, the days have been utterly unselfish in their inspirations. And like a mad sailor coming upon an island full of treasures, I have been keeping them to myself. For that, I apologize.

So, visit again. And with weather permitting, I should be able to pull out chest or two.
I hope they will sparkle as much in your sun as in mine.

Until then,
-V

Awakenings

In the basement of a Czech supermarket "Tesco", crowds move. It is 6 pm. The people crowd and race through the isles, groceries in hand. Coming from the ant farm, the ants move back and forth through the store, gathering provisions to bring back to the places they call home. Overhead, an aged Scorpions song accompanies their dance.

"Here I am. Will you send me an angel?" The song repeats its chorus.
"Here I am.."
"In the land of the morning star."

And so I move with them. I pick up the meat and the wine and the butter and the bread and search for the register that is least popular.
And so I move with them.

On the way home, the tram is crowded. Somebody’s dog is barking. It is going through the crowd, back and forth through the tramcar. I break it off a small piece of bread. It sniffs me, sniffs the bread, and grabs it to bring to its owner for inspection.

At home, my table is filled with pages. Pages that I myself hope to send back for proofreading. I sniff through them and make my way back and forth through the apartment chewing on an unlit cigarette.

Outside, the first spring rains are attempting to descend. But the air is still cold, and the raindrops turn into grey flakes of icy residue. Not one raindrop makes it down.

It gets dark, and I turn on the table lamp. It gets darker and I turn it off. It gets darker and I sleep.

It gets darker and I sleep. Within my closed eyes, it gets darker still. In the darkness, I search for words that once seemed so close. I search for paints that once seemed so fresh. In the darkness I search for places where I saw these words last.

And so we travel within ourselves - nomads in our own strange and alien world. We travel from the islands of madness to the ocean shores of peace. We travel from the deserts of insecurity to the mountains of loneliness. But we keep crossing our feet through the dust.

But we keep crossing our feet through the dust. Somewhere in our darkness we remember that there are rivers of inspiration that run through the mountains. And in the deserts, there are oases where words spring up from the dry earth.

And so we keep crossing our feet. Hopping from island to island. Crossing border after border. Checking into city after city.
In the dark, we do not see our own blindness.

To anyone reading this who is searching for their own oasis:
I dedicate this post to you.

Keep walking.


-V

The faceless name dance.

A night drunk with wild air dancing, shifting between the locked walls. People, faces fragmented in motion – eating, chatting, talking. Eating other faces with their hoarse laughter. I see a face, faces in a face blown apart. Then they come together. I stretch towards it.
“Name, address.” I ask.
It gives me its received location and its given name.
“Now,” I say, stretching to it, “you are fiction. You know that, don’t you?”
The face remains blank.
“I made you up. Just now,” I exclaim. “I own you. I am you!”
Indifferent, it stretches its made-up hands towards the hollow glass, and sips its contents. I look away, at a loss at what to do. I sink into the seat.
I gave you no purpose. What are you here for?
“What is it exactly that you do?” I ask.
The face looks at me, then looking down, bites its cuticles thoughtfully. It has no eyes, no nose – smooth as an unfinished painting, perfect as a childhood memory. Searching for an answer, it remains mute.

Blood rushing within me, I slam the glass into the wood of the table. I suddenly yearn to get out of here – of this madhouse of faceless puppets, faces that I could not paint, tongues that I could not write. My own tongue stretched around the corner, I race through the corridors. At the bar, a marionette hangs tangled in its own lines. I remember the story: it was a girl-meets-boy type of an affair. It now lays crumpled under the table under a nose-full of napkins. Poor girl – I meant for it to end so tragically, but always hoped it would be with flare and art. It was overrated.
So it goes.

Searching through the corridors my legs give way and I slump into the floor. Black drowns me and I succumb to it. I swim and swallow peace and it finds me and it is wonderful. Yet I awake.
Faceless ovals within the walls stare, crowded around me. In hunger their eyes bulge out; tongues wiping the idle paint from their faces. Tongues in me, their lips flush with health, and eyes spark with color.

And aboveground, my friends are waiting. They peer inside the hole of the rabbit. They wonder who would descend into it, and why it has not yet been filled up. They have a cigarette and joke. They go home.
Inside, the marionettes dance in their feast. And within the tunnel, the light goes black.
And aboveground, my friends are waiting.

Change of pace

Prague is an odd concept. In its right hand, it holds dark clouds, bitter weather and a dark, morbid, solitude. In its left, it holds warm, cozy taverns, a glistening nightlife and a spinning whirlpool of culture. And so often when it snows, these two hands, cupped together form a snowball so thick and mysterious, one is left at an utter loss if hit by it.

So in a city where the clouds are as dark as the gothic castles under them, where do its citizens gather for warmth? As an inhabitant of this mysterious playground, I began to wonder this myself. Without knowing it, each day I began to dig just a little deeper into the plethora of rabbit holes here. And in turn, each day has included its own set of adventures - some positive, some negative; all perplexing.


It was Saturday morning, and the street clock showed a little bit after 8 am. Across the square, a crane moved sluggishly as it reached to pick up a cinderblock. An aged woman passed me, shopping bag in hand, a puzzled look in my direction.

I had just stepped out of a movie theater. From midnight, into the morning, a marathon of independent european films ran. And as students of this city, we, of course, ran with it.

A movie theater here is worthy of an aside.
As a visitor, you may forget about the popcorn scent that usually greets a moviegoer in the US. Instead that scent is replaced by a warm haze of cigarettes and the cool scent of beer. Black and white photos line the walls, and an eclectic mix of locals and foreigners populate the small tables, hands dancing in conversation.

So my verdict on European movies? Unfortunately, nothing to write home about. Those in search of French post-modernism, I wish you much luck in your quest. And should any discoveries occur, please do let me know. Thus far, however, my opinion is that the European movies I have seen have been simply a stale collage of recycled cliches from Hollywood. It is an opinion, however, that I hope will soon be proven wrong.

Not too long into the marathon, my gaze shifted from the movies onto the moviegoers. Each local place here has been a small theater for me, and this was certainly no exception. While the nature of entertainment will vary from place to place, one thing is for certain: as the night finds the city empy and cold, its belly - the endless network of caves and cellars - pulsates with life. Initially introduced into the old town by the Romans, cellars seemed to have become a cultural staple of nightlife. Each night, it seems, the worker ants of the city enter its endless tunnels and caverns, their tongues beating with conversation until the morning rays signal a return to their assigned roles.

Coming above ground, we are met with cautious and puzzled glances of passersby's. They wonder as to why we are beaming with life at the beginning of a new day. But of course, we dont tell them.

Naturally, this is no different from other cities in which the youth attempts to carve itself a home. But if you are in Prague, do stop by a cellar or two. In their uncirculated air, you will finally be able to breathe. And in their darkness, your eyes may even find the sparks so long ago muted by the sun. And at the second table from the wall, you may even spot my outline.

I'll be waiting.

Ramble No. 249

It was the coldest day this far in the winter, and I walked out of my building. The frost scratched my unshaved face, and wrapped its cold hands around my neck. I pulled up my collar and zipped up.

There is a park that lies by my apartment. It is lined with birch trees and dark hills. As I walked, my feet slid across the frozen ice. It clung to the unpaved paths, the dead leaves caught like fish within. In the distance, a father and a child slid down a small hill on a sled. Towards the end, the sled hit a bump, and threw them onto the snow. The child rolled over the snow and laughed. Somewhere in the distant darkness, a dog barked in response.

For each of the million of details that remind me of childhood, lie another million that are completely opposite. If anything, the past ten years have been spent in an attempt to cleanse any Russian influence imposed here for the second half of the previous century. Anything from movies to the styles of small kiosks confirms this. Yet, looking out of my window later that evening, I could not help peering into the homes of those across the street and noticing fragments of my past. In an attic apartment, a bearded man in worn sweatpants struggled to balance himself as he replaced bulbs in a chandelier. In a lower apartment, a small child ran from her room into the kitchen. There she peaked in from the corridor, showing off a drawing to her parents. Even on the tram, I would hardly spot the age-old conflict between children who are raised by television and the grandparents who were raised by the revolution. Watching a teen giving up his place for an older man, I wondered if this dichotomy was limited to those shores within which we have made our new home of the past years.

But hearing of my Russian background, any Czechs, young or old, failed to share the excitement of common roots. There was no hint of animosity, but the feeling of deep reserve was not difficult to miss. Perched on a crate, along one of the many cave clubs here, a shorthaired girl with 8-inch earrings confirmed this. However an unlikely ambassador, she mentioned that there are two types of Russians and Ukrainians: the illegal workers who occupy most of the manual labor jobs, and the leather jacket mafia who occupy most of the Audis. So, while of a different origin, the reserve still remains strong. The mantra here has seemed to be that of fending off the many oppressing forces that come over the country. It is both comical and sad to watch these forces seep into the culture through the backdoor. However, judging from the language and architecture, it seems that this is an old and established tradition. That fact, however, does little to alleviate the burden one feels after even a day of bearing the actions of his predecessors.


Coming up a hill, I stopped and leaned on a tree, catching my breath. Through the small patch of forest, I saw an old theater ahead. A theater in a park - of course. And at home - my great-grandmother waiting for me with dinner and a story.

But my great-grandmother is no longer here, and neither is that theater where I used to play so often. They are simply lonesome fragments of memory, awaiting resurrection. And if nothing else, their resurrection is all that I thrive for.

"And so we beat on - boats against the current." And so we beat on. Circling in our own orbits through the darkness, looking down for the places we once called home.

I lit a cigarette and swallowed the smoke. Exhaling, I looked once more at the birch trees and turned back. If memories could not be real in reality, a process must take place to bring them to life.
I needed to write.

Absinthe

On the second night, I made a new friend. He is light blue, transparent, and when lit, he burns. Oh how he burns..

He told me about his comrade Van Gogh, and about their adventures. He told me that the moon is really a lost button hanging off the jacket of the sky. He told me that the curls of cigarette smoke over the table were really the hair of his mistress. I kept on exhaling, and he kept on burning. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

The tram moved forward, and I sat back. It was late night. Or early morning. In the distance, the grim, black statues of the Charles bridge stood freckled with white dots of snow. I suddenly felt amiss of the old russian cab driver who would usually take me home at this hour. The long expanse of the Verrazano was now replaced by the stretch of statues and the gothic castles piercing the river fog. I felt an urge to find someone with a common tongue and reminisce about the old times we never shared.

The aged, soviet tramvai bulged forward, empty save for myself. But Van Gogh tickled softly from within my stomach and I smirked. Perhaps this tramvaichik would not be so bad.

After all, who knows what stop would come up next?

New Beginnings

New beginnings are a tricky thing.
Every beginning of the new has its fine print, and it usually pertains to the end of the old. A jump has to be made – but what if one is left at the station, with both trains already departed? Is the risk worth it?

I thought about this as the plane gained altitude. Barely awake, I peered into the window, where the silver wing brushed apart the thick fog. A few lights flashed in the distance, and I thought finally we were at the altitude of other planes. But the lights did not move. Rising over the fog, I saw they were the tips of skyscrapers, blinking as lost ships within the white cloud sea. Like islands, they stood there, tips pointed upwards. Then they disappeared. I doubt anyone else saw.

So. Prague.
Coming from the airport, the college pattywagon moved forward along the roads into the city. Overvalued kids flashed their overpriced cameras and talked the talk of a tourist. I sat quietly, watching the scenery pass by. Fields covered with snow blurred into the outskirts – deserted mcdonalds and rows of khruchevski apartment buildings. A few aged women and an estranged husband waiting for the tram.

As the bus proceeded, I felt less and less in a new city, and more and more in an old memory. Everything I saw brought back flashbacks to my childhood, and I could not help but feel sad. And I could not fathom why.

Perhaps I felt that I was simply going backwards – retreating into my past. But was this necessarily a bad thing? Is life simply a matter of finding locations for escape that were previously unvisited? And in that case is a new beginning simply a new shell for our old complexes?

The city gave me no answers. But it gave me questions, and for that I am already grateful.

Stay in tune.