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There is no easy way to say it. I was married to someone I hid from. Tucking E into a sling, I would disappear for hours saying I was going shopping for dinner, and if she fell asleep the excuse was that she needed fresh air as I sat on a park bench with her tiny hand grabbing my pinky until she eventually woke up. I would make my way along the side streets of Greenwich as the sun went down, leaning into store windows but not going in. Eventually I would go home, and as I turned the corner there was a security light that would switch on - obviously attached to some motion sensor. In those strange and lonely moments, I would talk to that light. Each time it clicked on, I felt somehow that the night ahead could be survived no matter what madness waited for us behind the front door.

That was twelve years ago.

Another life, another country.

Today, I turned a corner in Moscow with an all-too familiar bag of groceries swinging from my shoulder. A street light flickered on and all at once I…

ALBINO (PART 2/SECTION TWO - the last excerpt)

One more excerpt of me reading from Albino this week, and then it will all go quiet again. No more visits to the past, to those naive, desperate East Village nights when the world seemed as big as a few square blocks. Everything else was noise, ancient history and completely insignificant. All that mattered was the sound of a saxophone on stage, those pretty girls with wide eyes, the cold sting of a good cocktail, the grit of the street under my fingernails, a long walk home with the taxis sighing past, the horn case thumping against my leg.

It is as if I have not really been in Moscow the past weeks, or just part of me has. Sure, I buy good tomatoes at the market. I work, sweat, take some pictures on a Saturday afternoon but that is just a fraction of the man. The rest is lost in odd nostalgia, knowing the fog will clear, the streets will be cleaned, the sun will climb high into the sky before we wake up as if none of this ever happened.

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