no post this week

ok, obviously no post this week. back next monday though!

rumashki

A woman I was involved with on and off for more than 7 years once confessed to me that the only happiness in her life could be described as fleeting moments, odd surprises that vanished as quickly as they surfaced. The rest was predictable and disappointing. Naked under her sheets, I was struck by her sadness. I made us breakfast, as she shuffled around in her great blue silk bathrobe, wearing old glasses and looking wistful. I wish I could ring her up right now and ask her if she is happy. I imagine she would say yes, after a long pause. I imagine she would say "just not the happiness I might have expected".

In the face of chaos in a country described as a police state by the locals, I am grasping for these moments, not as a form of satisfaction. No, as a set of stairs to climb. These moments give me strength, and resolve.

Last night, one of the kittens was attacking the newly decorated christmas tree in full force. At 3AM she took a leap from the top of the tv set, and landed high in the false, plastic branches. A sparkly bird in her mouth, she rode the tree down to the floor with a tremendous crash of German ornaments bought at the Saks on 5th Avenue so many years ago. In Russia, when a glass breaks, a vase - anything fragile - they say it is for luck. Little grey Julia stared up at me in the darkness. She had accomplished what she had set out to do. She looked satisfied.

A few days ago E came home from detskie sad with the nanny to find no one in the apartment. She asked to come to the studio, and they surprised me, jumping around in the window in front of my desk. For dinner, we ate milk and cereal from coffee cups and drew pictures of girls named Masha and Sasha. On the way home, after 10, E chattered away in her rickety pink stroller. A few pretty girls called out to me, joking and asking why I was out with a child so late. E burst into laughter. I sighed a few minutes later and asked E what in the world I was going to do. She smiled up at me and told me "Dodya Feya" - -which means "Fairy Godmother". She told me she was coming, and I should not worry.

This morning I went to rinock to buy fresh bread and raisin pastries - - bulochki iziom. For the first time, I read the little paper for them and saw they have a nickname - - rumashki (wild daisy). These are E's favorites, that she eats in the middle of the night when she is hungry. If she only knew she was eating daisies.

tiny movements

A midnight snow, now slush

and the women clicking on high heeled

boots clutching umbrellas

the workers pushing

makeshift, plywood

shovels, and great brown

puddles back and

forth.

Me, clean shaven

working with the lights

off, sipping the first coffee

in a week. Some sweet

bread

and people to call

meetings to hustle to, waving my hands

around, hoping things translate

hoping these guys really have money to spend

not just half-baked questions

like last time.

Ah, remember to take those

vitamins, remember to set the

right time on my watch

remember that some things

get solved by ignoring them

remember that there is nothing

better in the world than

a guitar with new strings, or a

Sunday night lasagne

or the snow that just fell as I

wrote this, as the smell of

a woman's hair, as money found

in pockets of never-worn coats

as my daughter's tiny

movements

as she sleeps.

Cracker Jack

Carrying E home in my arms, on a wet rainy night I stopped and rested against a ledge. Her face hid in my coat. I watched raindrops splattering on my shoes, in puddles on the cobblestones. I thought about a dream I had a lot when I was her age.

I am in a small boat in the center of a clean white lake. Objects that looked a bit like Cracker Jacks are popping up all around me in the milky water. Its surface is covered with the carmel corn, and then they all turn black.

The dream would repeat itself, and I would sit perfectly still, watching from the little boat. I did not cry out, as they was no one there to hear me. I did not struggle as I knew the burnt candies would always smother me.

black on black

I cannot say very much

about the black on black

the bloody days and

nights

the tense moments making life

count while I wait

for the police to come

but they never do

just a trick to

scare me

but I am not scared.

I will spend my last moments of

freedom with that

little girl who eats peanut butter

with a spoon right

from the jar

every time the police are

supposed to

bust in.

I will walk in the cold air

and buy

raisin pastries

for her, every morning

no matter what.

I am her father, no matter

where I sleep.

I will listen to Beatles songs

and think the

black on black

cannot be more

dark

than this.

That the snow did come quickly

and yes, we made miniature

snowmen and

snow women together before

she got cold and we went inside

for soup and

cartoons.