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.