13 April 2015

howl

Late on a Sunday night a wind whips through the city. Limbs thwack against the windows of the balcony. They say more than thirty trees were uprooted in the last week. I imagine green buds on branches dropping to the dry earth below. The baby sleeps. N is turned half on her side, her glasses still on, her eyes closed. I pull the bedroom door closed very slowly, turning the handle so it does not squeak. 

There are voices from next door, traveling through the walls, passing around the windows maybe the wind helping them reach us. Between the howls and the curtains flipping around I hear a woman. She is crying out. She is wailing about her life, her disappointment. I hear something slapping against the wall in-between our apartments, hoping it is just her hand. E runs to the kitchen. I ask if she can understand what the argument is about. A man's voice reaches us next, completely calm, in low rumbling sentences. E shakes her head no. 

The woman is shrieking. There are electric silences between the sounds she produces. I wiggle my head, suggesting we go to the living room. E is nervous. We go through her school bag, making sure she has everything for tomorrow. She gets into bed and I throw the top blanket out in the air, and it floats evenly across her. She smiles up at me. I am glad she does not remember all of the screaming when she was a baby, or that it feels so foreign to her now. There was a time when we were those neighbors. 

E finds sleep. I wander the rooms, now cracking the door seeing the humidifier pumping out a consistent cloud in the bedroom, N in the same position, V on her stomach, hands curled. The fight continues next door. I guess the woman is talking to her mother now. 

The wind howls. 

I see someone with a tiny dog downstairs. They are running in the darkness.




06 April 2015

only time

E's hand went to her throat and her face turned in on itself. I ferried bowls of soup to her bedroom, kept her at one end of the apartment, a kleenex in her hand when she needed to touch a doorknob to go to the bathroom. She rested. She chattered with her friends from school over the phone, getting each day's homework assignment and working away at her desk. No fever, no throwing up, just bouts of sneezing and a little mountain of used tissues from blowing her nose. 

A few days later she was rested, a little bored. 

Then, my throat grew tight. A headache seized me in the middle of the night. I took to walking around with a surgical mask on, keeping away from N and the baby. I made a new pot of soup thick with garlic and ginger and chili, with the last of the fresh spinach but soon I was sneezing wildly, wrapped in blankets on the sofa. E rested her head on my shoulder and told me to sleep. I worked when I could to distract myself, already feeling so far away from N and V, peeking at them through a crack in the door, wondering if V had gotten a tiny bit bigger, if her face does new things when she is sleeping. I missed the sight of her carrot-orange poops, the changing of diapers and that trip to the bathroom with her in my arms to wash her tiny red bottom, to make jokes at her face in the mirror oggling up at me.




The chicken soup is bright yellow, with tiny puddles of fat on the surface. I boil fresh noodles, wander around the apartment seeing my face in that mask when I pass a mirror while everyone sleeps. I bought these masks as props for the film I shot last summer, as a metaphor for futility  - that they would protect no one during a bombing attack, but people put them on to make themselves feel better, an adult pacifier, a golden ticket for a show that would never play. Of course I imagine they do something to keep my germs from flying around, but cannot help but think they are just as useless. Only time will correct this. 







30 March 2015

the comb of the wind (part 1)

The wind is coming down hard on Kutuzovsky. Dirt whips into my eyes as the empty bag on my arm snaps around like a scarecrow. Sometimes I think there is just a finite amount of grit that circulates throughout the city, transformed to mud, to grime, to dust, never leaving just taking laps around the third ring on an eternal race with no finish line. This is the same dirt that flew into Genghis Khan's eyes, that plastered Napoleon's boots. This dirt has no name.

The city looms empty. 

I pass the same stores, the same windows that hold no interest. Here are the same children's mannequins, the same overpriced liquor store, the same coffee shops with their sour tasting cappuccinos. It is a barren place, where nothing grows, just the throaty scream of traffic, the pickled faces of people hunched down against the wind, the stray trash flipping around the curb. There is no smell here, nothing sweet, nothing alive. 

It is exhausting to walk on Kutuzovsky one more time. 


It was two years ago, that I brought you to Spain for a few days to escape the end of Moscow winter. That was my official excuse, when we stepped off of the tiny plane onto the tarmac in San Sebastien where there was no luggage carousel, just a neat row of suitcases lined up on the asphalt. By nightfall I was sipping txakoli and we were taking a walk along the beach. There was the low moan of the ocean, the smell of cherry blossoms, the salty wet air on our cheeks. 

I carried the ring with me, tucked into the bottom of my camera bag. I was waiting for the right moment, the right light, the right stones to sit on. But that is a story for another day. Right now I think of how it has been two years, and how you are too tired to remember this anniversary because you sleep in tiny stolen moments. You talk to our child with such grace, such gentle confidence. I wish you could see yourself, or see what I see. Two years ago, me mumbling metaphors next to a roaring ocean, waves slapping hard against the rocks in the darkness, you maybe not even hearing everything but hand out, the ring sliding on, the moment passing, a sense of relief, a door opening onto a corridor that lead us to here and this home, this kitchen table, this quiet moment when you are nursing in the other room and I write.



23 March 2015

tiny dancer (a hall of mirrors)

It happened quite gently. N stood up from our bed in the middle of the night and said something. I trailed her to the bathroom, the floor slick under my feet. She was already calling her sister. It was time. 

There was a series of hallways. A big room we waited in, her with the monitor strapped around her. Everything was shared in hushed fragments, words dropped, faces nodding. A nurse turned the main lights off and I watched her in the bed, just one light behind her like she was in an opera. I held her hand, sat in an awkward wobbly chair and closed my eyes for a few minutes.

The sun had come up, and I listened to the sounds of women wailing, shouting, swearing unspeakable things. Their voices echoed down the corridors to us. And then there was a silence. Just as the light of morning inched across a door, our child was coming into this world.

There were clusters of doctors and nurses, white tile walls. I stood out of the way but as close as I could. N was not scared, I think concentrating on some imaginary dot on the ceiling. I studied her face, upside-down, luminous under the fluorescents. This was the day we had imagined so long ago, a day we prayed for, wished for, planned for. I watched her, as if pushing a mountain a few feet might be effortless today.

And then V was crying out, arms flailing. I imagined every kick she had made inside, me feeling the skin on N's belly late at night. This is our tiny dancer, I always said. Her voice was strong. Wrapped tight in blankets, I was holding her already, her eyes rolling around, red cheeks like plums, a soft blanket of hair on her head like the most delicate moss. 

We were lead to another room. V felt so light in my hands and at the same time, the same as E ten years ago. That identical feeling of relief, the smell of mucus and blood and the throaty cry all twisted down a hall of mirrors, ricocheting back to me. That sense of E hearing my voice, me singing to her in those first minutes and now doing the same with V singing the very same song, but me such a different person, me halfway across the world, somehow with N, somehow living by trees and grass, somehow breathing in this air, all of it feeling impossible, all feeling so precarious as every note wobbled out of my mouth, with those big blue grey eyes looking at me, the fear fading from them, the cry winding down, the lips pursed, and the understanding that you are mine and I am yours.










16 March 2015

no post this week

for the first time in years, I am not going to be able to post this week, but be sure to check in next monday - it should be a very special one.

09 March 2015

the disappearance of imaginary messages

On most days the sidewalks are a lumpy sheet of ice. I have gotten good at tiptoeing across them, sliding, skidding but not falling. E grips my hand as tight as she can and we make our way. I stopped realizing this high wire act has been going on for eight years now. They say you do two years in prison, the day you go in and the day you come out. I think I know something about what that means now.

There was a time when I spent every day forcing my will, imagining an invisible page turning, a phone call, a message and us on a plane the next day. Each day I whittled away at this fantasy, refining it, crafting the language of the message, each time more terse, more empty, more blunt. I know it was spring when I felt this way, maybe three years ago. I was counting the days until our release, based on absolutely nothing but desire.

I wondered if we should empty the fridge, because we would be gone soon. Did E really need new school clothing if we were leaving? Did we need a five pound bag of rice, or a small package? Surely the news would arrive any minute at this point. The words repeated in my head, rolling around like those circus motorcycle acts in their steel cages. 





At one point, I could hardly walk alone in the street without wanting to cry out.

Something snapped.
I smelled ozone and burning diesel the entire night.
The imaginary message disappeared the next day.

Within a week the ideas evaporated completely. There was no defeat, no surrender, no admission. They was simply a light that turned off. The wires were ripped from the wall, the breakers demolished and the door hammered shut. If that room was going to be opened again, it would need to be though the window, climbing in from the balcony.





02 March 2015

losing time


It was a few months ago. The snow came suddenly, just after breakfast with drifts over a foot. The cars were sliding wildly up the hills even with winter tires and four wheel drive. The mashrutka came after a long wait and I wondered if it would make it up the hill. A long line of shiny black cars stood in front of us. E was waiting for me to see her Christmas show. It was the last day of school before winter break. 

I jumped to my feet and asked the driver to let me out, less than a hundred feet from where I had gotten on after 15 minutes passed. The snow was almost to my knees, and I bounded through it suddenly out of breath. Weaving past the cars whirring and skidding with clouds of exhaust around them, I made my way to the main street. The sidewalks were not clean here either. My back was wet with sweat. Old people were standing on corners with the saddest looks on their faces as they looked for the mashrutka. 

All of the way to Mosfilmofskaya, I turned to see the mashrutka churning past me. The one I was just on. 

I would take the trolley bus instead. Big, heavy, it would surely plow through the snow and I would make it to the train station and then I would walk to E's school from there.

The trolley bus did come, and it was so full of people I could not pass the turnstile. I hovered by the front door, next to the driver, a young woman swearing profusely with a small towel on the dashboard that she wiped the windows with then went back to the giant steering wheel. We lurched to the corner and the trolley bus would not turn. The shiny black cars were grinding past us, and there was no way to turn without hitting one of them. She swore and swore. People on the bus were laughing, reading books, staring out the windows. I checked my watch and tried to call E to tell her I was getting closer.

The bus rocked back and forth for some time, as the light turned red then green then red. I saw two more mashrutkas pass the window and throught to get out of the trolley bus and get the next one but that is the kind of thinking that got me here in the first place.

Eventually the bus did turn, and the passengers let out a sarcastic cheer. More people shoved in and I did force my way through the turnstile into the throng of people. As I made my way to the middle of the crowd I understood I would need to get out of the side door to exit by the train station. 
"Excuse me." I said to the people around me, forcing a hand through the crowd to show where I was trying to go. Some leaned to the side, some ignored me. I knew the stop was coming soon, and began to be less polite as I shoved towards the door. A young man shoved me right back and I stared at him, gesturing at the door now speaking in English "come on you motherfucker" and squirming around him instead as the bus did stop and I pushed hard against the doors only to feel a shove against the center of my back that put me face down in the snow as the bus pulled away. My neck hot, I looked up and saw the young man laughing at me. I waved a middle finger at him and shouted "thank you" as sarcastically as I could with snow on my face. 

In the school, I calmed down, not as late as I thought I was. the thing about Moscow is that there is always someone terribly late and no one seems to care. E was in her dress, and I tuned the guitar for her. She played a piece, recited poems, danced with her friends. I stared sometimes at the watch on my wrist, taking in everything that had happened in the last few hours. 

The play ended. The children drank juice and ate cookies. E was given a dancing sheep for the new year. 

The streets were now being plowed, long after lunch time. I imagined the ride home would be uneventful. E pulled on her snow pants, and we strode out into the street. I did not tell her about what had happened. It was too embarrassing. I did not want to start her winter break with another story of disappointment.

On the ride home, the mashrutka was crammed full of people. A man stood next to us, he smelled foul, like burnt rubber and mold. I closed my eyes, pulled my scarf across my mouth and put my head down, waiting to sense the turn onto Mosfilmofskaya. 

A voice shouted at one point for the bus to stop and we did. I heard laughter, a man on the phone talking to someone. 

Walking in the street and going back upstairs I felt relieved. There was a pot of soup to warm, noodles, and strong tea waiting for us. Everything would be better in twenty minutes.

That afternoon I looked at my wrist to check the time and saw my watch was gone. I tried to remember when I had taken it off. I remembered looking at it when we were in school, and waiting for the mashrutka. It was not on my desk, or the kitchen table or in the hallway. Then I remembered the man laughing, and understood that was the exact moment when I had lost it. 



Today I took the old clock on the wall down in the kitchen. It tells terrible time to begin with. Better to see a photograph of children playing than that. I don't want to know what time it is. I want to forget how I lost my watch, the one that sat in my friend's house in Connecticut, and then another friend's office as it missed the chance to get tucked in someone's luggage, someone coming to Moscow. It waited six months for me to came back to New York, to retrieve it and enjoy the weight of it, the snug fit, the red inside of the strap, the clean steel edges. It was not so expensive, and I liked it very much. It was made by a small company in New Zealand. Now my hand feels naked.