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(looking for) the heartbreaker

It has been more than two months sitting at the little white table in the living room, writing. Pushing out pages, fixing these pages, living with these pages then waking up and chewing them apart again, then adding on a new section. It is a mill, grinding the raw ideas down to a fine powder that may somehow rise and become bread. Or it may not. So many thoughts begin with "what if". What if they get stuck in an old elevator? What if she is not home when they come the first time? What if she is coming back from the market and passes them on the stairs? What if the driver is older? Or younger? What if his brother shows up instead? The questions are greater than the results on the page, the dialogue is whittled down to nubs of something recognizable.

There are cold cups of coffee, emails that go unanswered. The light comes and goes, and most of the work is done in the dark in more ways than one. Cooking dinner helps. Playing some guitar helps. If you are not careful you forge…

the in-between moment



E's new snow pants make whisking sounds in the darkness as we walk the few blocks to the marshrutka stop. These little buses weave through the lesser known parts of the city on marshrut (routes), connecting old women and men without cars to metro stations. They do not charge me for E most of the time. Some drivers look eternally angry, miserable. One smiles at us, even says "dobrei utram" (good morning) and the more familiar goodbye "shastliva" (happiness).

Today she slumps against me once we are inside, cheek against my arm. Often the lights are bright, like an arena inside the little bus but today they are dimmed. I do not have to pull my hat down over my eyes to drift halfway back asleep for the fifteen minutes it takes.

Outside, Kievskaya stands cold and grey. The shopping center is buzzing with colored neon and giant blinking commercials on screens, all shouting for attention with the sound turned off. The ground is crisp from last night's frost. It crunches quietly under our boots. People are smoking cigarettes everywhere, sucking hard before going inside to work.

The streetlights are blinking off just as the sky is just starting to move towards dawn. This is the in-between moment, not here not there, not asleep not awake, not at school not at home. There are no pickle jars full of cigarette butts falling from balconies. There are no people pulling cars fast around corners to jump away from. The streetlights are working. The fountains are off, their empty bottoms littered with dry leaves.

Winter is here, but not here.

The news channels scream stories that are meant to sow fear, each headline more convincing than the next. There are wars going on. Soldiers are coming home in body bags. Somehow, life seems exactly the same. Old women shove at each other at a farmer's market on a Sunday afternoon. One says she was next in line to buy a cheap pumpkin. Another says, "No I am next". The first says "You c*nt! I am next." Then there is a swatting of hands, even some kicking. All over who is next on a warm Sunday afternoon, safe and quiet under tall trees.

I will never understand what motivates people here to get angry at one moment, and what brings them to swallow their feelings at another. Wrong is wrong.

I head home, alone on the marshrutka not closing my eyes, watching the river and the bridges swish past the windows. The sky is brighter now, a dull flat nothing.








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