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no gold (things will have to wait)

There is an old Russian expression for the inevitable moment when your neighbors begin renovating. "Searching for gold in the walls." They say, to describe the epic sounds of drills in ancient concrete. You might appreciate this odd humor, this dark joke, this survival tactic. I am not so graceful a man to wrap my thoughts around it. Those drills and grinders, they shake the very walls of our apartment. Early on Sunday mornings and often long into the evenings they go.

This has been going on for the last four months, maybe more. I stopped counting.

I cannot imagine there are any walls left, that there is an entire open floor below us, the wind whipping through the naked beams and nothing else. That is the only explanation. Or that they break down walls, build new ones, find a flaw, some grand mistake and then break all of the walls down again. Not swiftly with sledgehammers, but with one crappy old drill with a dull bit, mashing away, so that children hundreds of miles away…

this is Monday



Fifty souls, and surely more when the day is done. Mothers, sons, uncles, loners, school teachers, some with tattoos, some with red hair, some in a favorite pair of boots. I can imagine the warm air. There was laughter and cold beer. Then, people running wild, down airport runways and filling the streets. The pictures come. The gritty videos. The screams. The slap of the gunshots. In all of its ugly, unvarnished truth, this is our world and this is my country. 

This is Monday.






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