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molecules and potholes

There is a rift between daily life, and the news that trickles across. In our little bubble, this quiet neighborhood, the price of a bouquet of roses does not change. The eggs are painted in shit and feathers, but taste the same. The little fresh market works on the weekends again, now that the weather is not terrible. Here, they sell overpriced red onions, stalks of broccoli, maybe some green basil if we are lucky.  The potholes sit  half-full with murky water. New buildings grow slowly as construction workers stare into the horizon on cigarette breaks. None of this changes, not a molecule.

But the rest of world is upside-down. Wild laws are passed. Prime ministers become dictators. Bombs are dropped here and there, like rainbow sprinkles on a doughnut - the more the better. Great decisions are made over dessert now, fueled by whim.

Being an expat means more than living far from home. There are many distances to bridge each day, and in times like this I want to throw my hands wild i…

two storms


All at once the windows are slamming. Papers flip from the tables. A low hum pushes through the air. Hail is dancing off the windshields of cars below. Thunder cracks beyond the train station. Lightning flashes once, then again. I catch a sour, metallic taste in my mouth, like I am sucking on dirty pennies. 

E is terrified. I go from room to room, closing windows, wiping the miniature floods from the sills. 

"It's the end of the world!" She cries, not joking.

I want to take pictures, but she hugs my legs, not letting me move very far. She does not want to sit under the blankets, or in a corner of the sofa. She wants me to stay in the room. 

"Pop, don't go in the kitchen or you'll DIE!" She says, starting to cry.

I come back, rest my camera on the table. I stare at the messy living room for some time, as she hugs my shoulder and we wait for the storm to pass.


I am anxious these days.

Passing through a crowded parking lot that leads to the market, a black mercedes guns its engine and starts turning, about to crush E and myself against a triple parked truck. I bang on the front fender, shaking my fist in the air. I am yelling in English, not Russian. I point at my child. I give him the finger. He guns the engine, gives me the finger back. The militia next to us say nothing, staring off into the horizon.

E looks up at me, that scared and helpless face she always makes when she used to hear me yell. I hate this moment, this expanded heart-thumping minute, when I find myself furious in the street. Sometimes, it is necessary - literally to keep from getting run over. But the aftermath is the same. A sense of resentment. A sense of failure.


It is raining suddenly again. I am making pasta in the kitchen. I have the music up loud. N is shouting.

She appears in the doorway.

"Get your camera." She says. "Now."

I stumble through the mess of the living room, over E's painting project, maybe crushing the leg of a doll in the process.

Just outside the balcony, a rainbow is hanging in the sky - maybe 100 meters away. You can see everything. The base where it blooms from the river, the arc now echoed by a second rainbow that fades off. I click randomly, out of focus, overexposed. I am laughing at myself. N raises an eyebrow, amused as always.

People on boats in the river are shouting. Cars are honking. The streets are wet, shiny.
I set the camera on a chair and just look instead, holding N's hand.

In a minute, it is already gone.

Comments

Incognita said…
Your post just took my breath away. May that be your lucky rainbow and may that luck be far from fleeting!
Banker Chick said…
Here is hoping the storms pass quickly. E will always remember that you are there protecting her, when you can, and the rainbows. You are a fantastic writer.
Annie said…
Ah - gorgeous photos! I'm glad you got to take a few, anyway.

What I'd give to live where you do!

I said something about how he protected me from getting killed in Moscow. How the cars are crazy there. Ilya responds to me, sternly: "Cars SHOULD have the right of way; they are bigger!" He is a Russian. Their way is best. He still uses a broom on the living room carpet. Vacuums are not as good.
matthewjoy said…
Hello. I started that blog that I talked about in my earlier message. It is a collective of similar stories as ours from around the world. A collective of sorts. Anybody and everyone is welcome. Here is the address: http://lostchildrenand.blogspot.com/
matthewjoy said…
Thank you very much from my heart to yours for believing in me and what I am attempting to do and your posting this. I appreciate it and we connect in a special way.I wish I were there in Russia, although I would rather live in Siberia where I can do ethnographic research and have fun with life, I wish you and your sweet daughter(I have one and two sons) were here in the US of your origins. Farms and pigs need love too. They would make perfect additions to the changing of this world for the better.

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