I’ve begun to write about Kiev. It’s not a particularly rewarding process at this point, because my purpose is as of yet extremely fuzzy and unformed. Kiev looms large in my mind, always has, always will, but what I am actually trying to articulate about it and its denizens (ones I know, ones I have had to imagine, ones I heart, and ones I’m severely allergic to) is obscured by the muddy waters of emotion at this point. I also have no plot. I like plot. I don’t understand the snobs who balk at the mere hint of a plot. I think they all need a spanking.
In the meantime, the Kiev (Kyiv, in Ukrainian) group on Flickr is especially rewarding. Never mind the fact that I have recently been posting hysterical comments about how I want to go home on practically every photo. Thankfully, if you don’t read Russian, you won’t be subjected to my wailing.
Kiev is famous for its golden domes, but really, there is so much more to it. Bums, Bentleys, museums, cobblestone, ghosts, flowers, trash, my relatives walking around (I feel as though I am looking down at them, watching them rush to university, to work, to the corner shop for calamari and beer. It’s a good time.).
I want to go hoooooome. I want to go hoooooooome! Who wants to lend me money to go hoooooooooome?