The sky is high. The Czar is far.
Here’s an awesome LotR fanvid:
There’s something about Gollum’s last moments that will always scream “T2” for me.
(I’m filing this post under “Good News,” because the apartment did not catch fire after all, and the strapping electricians even got our lights back on after a certain point. There was just a lot of smoke from the breakers. And general excitement.)
We used to make dolls out of little bags of seeds. She kissed me on the mouth in front of the other girls in our art class when she wanted to make a point. When we waited for our respective parents to pick us up, we turned off the lights in the studio and read Japanese horror stories we were entirely too young for by candlelight.
I’ve been on my longest stretch in Kiev since moving to the States. This time, I run into people. It never happened before. I had assumed the city had sifted and separated us out long ago, but now it has other ideas.
Just the other day, as I was buying gum at a kiosk, somebody went “Nataaaaasha! Antoooonova!” A little figure separated itself from the tightly packed, irritable group of people waiting for an obviously behind-schedule bus on the sidewalk. Her hair was still red. She still had her fluffy bangs and plump nose. She stood on tiptoe, put her hands on my face like a blind person studying the features, and said, “you haven’t changed. Well, you got tall.”
I don’t understand how anyone could ever recognize me after all of these years. I used to wear glasses then and little knit hats with knit flowers on them, for God’s sake. I had heard news of her before, heard she worked in some rotten branch of government, heard her sense of humour was the same, but I would have never picked her out on the sidewalk. I stare at my feet when I walk.
She’s a single mom, scandalized by the fact that I don’t have kids yet. “Why not? You don’t need to be married.” But it helps with the bills. “But it’s annoying. I lasted – I’m not kidding – three months.”
“Is it good to be back?” Yes (Well, now…). “What are you doing?” Working. Looking for messages in underpass graffiti. “What are your plans?” To take down your number and buy you a big frothy milkshake.
Her bus finally pulls up, groaning, overladen with more irritated passengers.
Open up your eyes now, tell me what you see.
It is no surprise now, what you see is me.
I had a really fun weekend, which means that Monday came around and cracked me over the skull with a lead pipe, and took all of my money. You know when you’re so tired that you can no longer sleep? That’s pretty much me at the moment. But hey, it’s for a good cause. Did I mention the interview with Jyrki, The 69 Eyes frontman, we just ran? I have four words: Elvis, Dracula, Finland, leather. Hello Halloween.
Red Right Hand – Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Witches Song – Juliana Hatfield
Strange Brew – Eric Clapton
The Last Chance Texaco – Rickie Lee Jones
Blue Lips – Regina Spektor
Boys and Girls – Blur
Sidekick – Lisa Mitchell
There is a Happy Land – David Bowie
Storozh Sergeev – Akvarium
Things That Scare Me – Neko Case
You know what scares me? Normal people:
(Although I’d give Mulder the benefit of the doubt, considering the porn and the sunflower seeds and, oh yeah, the alien thing)
But before I tell you about that, here are some tourist pictures (since it’s been dawning on me that most of the people who read this blog don’t really live in Kiev, and haven’t even been there):
I took the funicular up from Podol, and took a look at the bell tower of the Sofievskiy Cathedral. The picture doesn’t work at all and is blurry and rather crap-tastic overall, but I like the pretty colours:
And just off Independence Square, I saw this:
I think there are few urban centers where autumn is sadder, or more intense, than in Kiev. I know what you’re going to say – you’re going to say, “but what about St. Petersburg?” and while I haven’t been to St. Petersburg since the days when I ate dirt and tried to flush shoes down the toilet, I’m going to stroke my chin and point out that St. Petersburg is, um, crisper. Yes.
Anyway, the actual point of this post is the fact that I now have found, and bought, a gorgeous new tarot deck. It’s so gorgeous, that I squeaked “please hold this for me” and dashed out into the street and in search of an ATM. I never do this with these kinds of purchases; usually, I mull things over, call a friend and bug them for advice, wrinkle my nose, have a cup of tea, et cetera. Not this time, though. This was love at first sight. I was sitting there with a catalogue on my knees, telling the nice grandmotherly shopkeeper that I really, really wasn’t finding anything that matched my overall aesthetic and general philosophy, and suddenly, it was as if a mishmash of Eric Northman and half-forgotten dreams of giant cats and stars caught in trees had fallen into my lap. The lap went all a-quiver.
The cards feature Vikings. They’re weird and beautiful, and we’re having fun getting to know each other already.
Can be such an interesting experience. On one hand, it’s absolutely fantastic to see this friend transform herself. It’s like she has grown an entirely new skin. It’s magic, Dumbledore-style. On the other hand, your mind begins to race as you’re trying to reconcile her with the character, and you wonder if she has ever screamed and cried like this in what we like to refer to as “real life.”
*shiver*
As I was waiting for Anya after the performance, I honestly ran into the one person in the entire city of Kiev who wishes to discuss a particularly warped version of feminist politics after a theater performance. Head meet desk. Or wall – I was standing next to a good, hard wall at the time.
Here’s a paraphrase:
“She got naked at the end!”
“So?”
“Naked! NAKED! Naked-naked!”
“Well, as I already most eloquently pointed out: so?”
“NAAAAAAAKED!”
Right. Fascinating. You know, I thought I’d never use the phrase “I’d much rather discuss Meghan McCain’s Twitter picture with Twisty’s commentariat,” but, after those five minutes of rhetorical Hades crossed with Nancy Grace-style charm, I’d much rather discuss Meghan McCain’s Twitter picture with Twisty’s commentariat. (And thank you, Twisty, for some much-needed clarity)
Other than that, I just have to say – if you’re depressed like me, don’t be an idiot and see “4.48 Psychosis.” Well, unless your brilliant friends want you to see it. And get you a free seat. In front row. And hang out afterward. Then maybe, maybe see “4.48 Psychosis.” But after you’re done for the evening, just get home and log into, I don’t know, ONTD, as quickly as you can, to check out stuff such as – “The only way Jon could put his kids in more danger is if he somehow found a way to squeeze Roman Polanski onto that ATV.”
Nothing like a little rapist humour to lift the mood after a Sarah Kane play.
Natalia A. 