Anna loves Anna

•August 1, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It’s a strange, strange day. Today I feel beautiful. Things like that happen a couple of times in a year, so it’s strangely fascinating.

Capturing the moment of self-love – and I can’t lose this! – was quite a hard task due to the impossibility of using Zenit and the absence of a normal camera.

Warning: crappy digital photos with tons of stupid Lightroom tricks. I’m so mainstream.

Here we go.

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Lemon chaos

•July 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Nigthmare, panic, horror, doomsday, chaos, apocalypse, end of the world. All in one.

The life of a university entrant is hard, harder than you can imagine. Queues, queues, queues and queues. And yes, queues. And mackle-paper. And queues. In a week or so my destiny will be uncovered and… well, let’s talk when it happens. I still have to pass through tomorrow’s branch office of Sodom and Gomorrah, I mean, an interview at MSU Journalism dept., and a few more exams. But we’ll see then. This is not the scariest thing, in the end. Worse things are the other ones that happen.

“And once again the wind is on the hill”, people said.

It is a chaos, and I don’t know, what’s stronger: its piercing bitterness or its pleasant sweetness. Here I am, in a sea of lemons instead of oranges, spending nights talking to Pierrot – sometimes I even think I am his sister – and the moon. We are all stuck here. And where is the path outside, I don’t know. These bodies, words and breathes won’t let me escape, they won’t. Chains? No. Not puppet strings either. My own thoughts cut sharper.

…and after collecting all the pieces of broken glass, they lit a candle in front of a sacred image and started to pray, softly breathing out: “Make the wind go back to the hill, please”.

Did you want it? Here you got. And be careful with your wishes next time, silly girl. Your midsummer night’s dream is going way too deep, and will sink even deeper. Cure? …There isn’t a need in one. Anyway, who told you that oranges are better than lemons?

Love has torn him apart

•May 18, 2010 • Leave a Comment

30 years, exactly 30 years ago Ian Curtis, the poet of grey mancunian streets, left us alone. I won’t say anything, I don’t want artificial, unnatural pathos. I’ll just post one of his lyrics – only one, because today I’m in the mood to quote every single Joy Division song.

Procession moves on, the shouting is over,
Praise to the glory of loved ones now gone.
Talking aloud as they sit round their tables,
Scattering flowers washed down by the rain.
Stood by the gate at the foot of the garden,
Watching them pass like clouds in the sky,
Try to cry out in the heat of the moment,
Possessed by a fury that burns from inside.

Cry like a child, though these years make me older,
With children my time is so wastefully spent,
A burden to keep, though their inner communion,
Accept like a curse an unlucky deal.
Played by the gate at the foot of the garden,
My view stretches out from the fence to the wall,
No words could explain, no actions determine,
Just watching the trees and the leaves as they fall.

The Eternal.
1980.

Quicksand

•May 11, 2010 • Leave a Comment

This is a quicksand, ladies and gentlemen.
A quicksand.

Welcome and make yourself comfortable: no one will get out of here chaste. All of you will pass through it, some will drown immediately, some will get drawn in slowly, making the shipwreck pleasantly longer for us, the audience. Well, some of you will get off with only a few grains of sand on your jacket, but it’s more of an exception, and, as we know, there are more rules than exceptions.

Your humble compère ended up being a luckless sailor on this dry land, too. Can you see those dark clots of sandy soil under my fingernails? I can’t get rid of them for hundreds of nights already, and when I’m  starting to hope that I’ll get up in the morning with clean hands, when I’m starting to believe that all has passed… (covers his face with hands) And after a strange-looking girl holding a pair of carnations – unusual ones, I can be mistaken, but I swear they looked green – made me pass through it once again, I’ve lost all my hopes to stop hiding my hands in pockets every time I leave home.

That’s why I have nothing more to do than to stand here, in front of you, ladies and gentlemen, and look as you all drown. Inch by inch. Maybe one day I’ll recognize a familiar face between you, but I won’t even give you a hint. Maybe one day you will be the ones to drown me once again. But it will be one day. And now…
(makes an inviting gesture)
Please!
But do not forget that you already have no choice.

Golden dawns of Novgorod

•April 27, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Ah, those golden dawns in Novgorod!
Ah, those wonderful boy-alike girls and boys with Portuguese songs!
Ah, Sophia with its cats, icons and dark light, John the Baptist and mirror fields!

Novgorod, a city where I unexpectedly woke up last Monday, ended up to be a marvelous place. A place where I feel so Russian, maybe even too Russian. The winds here are like curly boys who shroud me in questions and answers. Poems are read and written in this place in a very special and different way, and thoughts join last ice-floes that are looking for oblivion between the waves.

Infinite smiles, endless warm glances and perpetual feeling of no regret, unlike my Moscow days. And at the same time it was only me, me and 1150 years of history seen from my balcony. Waking up in the middle of the night and spending a few minutes outside guided by stars and a silver light reflecting from Sophia’s domes sometimes felt as heart-screwing as holding a dying swallow in your hand, I swear. And the ringing of bells echo off my teeth when I whisper elegies and eulogies to people, things and moments.

The dawns of Novgorod are golden.
The nights are forged by millions of wooden birds, the desperate children of shabby fences.
The days disappear, frayed by the painful looks of forgotten houses.

This is Russia, its real soul.
Photos. The film was spoiled by me and guys at the photolab, so it’s in fashionable lo-fi.

Golden dawns of Novgorod.

Golden dawns of Novgorod.

Continue reading ‘Golden dawns of Novgorod’

Doctor, I’ve got Spring. Is it curable?

•April 4, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Everything is wrong. Everything is so wrong that all that’s right seems to smell like something rotten and doesn’t want to ascend the throne in my head, breaking the last hopes of reinstitution of monarchy there. Just like the Soviet Union, for Christ’s sake!

Already as in the spring, already woken up from sleep and shyness, the sun jokingly turns hair into copper, words into silver and crystal, feet into lead and thoughts into well sharpened steel. Someone’s bitter lips with someone’s insults with someone’s retellings of their “last nights” with someone’s hysterics with someone’s fingers striking my hand with someone’s touching words. A whole whirlpool of what I was looking for. A whirlpool that washes away everything but the tears in the morning – tears are stronger.

When I break out from this all-absorbing whirlwind, I get into another tempest that, strangely, becomes a shelter. That’s how I live these days: hiding from one hell in another, by turns calling one of them a heaven.

“Spring” is not a state of nature. “Spring” is the name of the chaos inside my head that’s impossible to take away as a bag of rubbish after cleaning the house. This year for me the spring has begun on the 1st of January, when I confused it with symptoms of a hangover that came too soon. But it wasn’t over the next morning. Nor the following day.

#metro29, or A Monday morning.

•March 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Moscow metro

This morning started at a usual Monday morning. Laziness, yawns, frowns caused by total absence of wishes to start studying again after Easter holidays. This very morning all Muscovites started their day as usual: woke up, uttered some swearwords directed to the ones who had created the whole concept of a Monday morning, and found themselves, as usual, somewhere between the first morning cup of coffee and sleeping with their faces on the keyboards at work – at Moscow metro.

Everything was exactly like yesterday. Like the day before. And before. Like tomorrow…uh, no, I’ll pass to it later.

A classmate of mine entered the classroom, as usual being 30 minutes late, and announced that there was an explosion in the underground, at “Lubyanka”. We’ve started to spasmodically check out the news sources and reach our friends and families. The first thought was terrible: a panic-creating realization of the quantity of people at metro on a working day at 8am.

Then there was another blast, at “Park Cultury”. Then the mass-media told about the third and the fourth ones, but they weren’t confirmed, even though there are tons of witnesses of one of them.

On a certain moment I’ve understood that a friend of mine could have been on one of them exactly at that time. I’ve tried to call him, but mobile services just died on our hands. (Right at that time he wrote on Twitter that he really WAS there, but everything was ok.)

The scariest building in USSR, right above the blast

It was scary. It was scary, even though personally I was quite far from both places and all of my friends and family were ok. It was scary not being sure if we know all or the truth is hidden. Not being sure in personal safety anymore. How can I be sure if innocent people die on public transport? For what? What’s the reason?

And one of the facts that makes me grin, if it’s even suitable now, is that the first blast happened at Lubyanka, right under the building of the Federal Security Service. (Yeah, the so-called “scariest building of the USSR”, former KGB headquarters). The second one had to happen, according to the news sources, at Oktyaborskoya, where another FSS building is situated. Nice, eh? Blasts happen under the nose of our security service.

And another thing that made me want to crawl back under my rock where there’s comfortable in ignorance is that the taxi drivers raised the prices, like, from usual 10 USD to at least 100. (People remembered quickly that on 9/11 the taxi drivers worked free of charge.) Making money with people’s tragedies? I refuse to live in the world with such people.

My country is a fun country: you never know what you’ll wake up to tomorrow.