9.50 A.M. I await the others. They are surprisingly all up. It is a surprise because they were all out at clubs last night. Smelled horribly of smoke reinforcing one of the reasons that love this country though I do, there are always things that make me nuts.
We had the most remarkable experience today with an old military guy covered in medals. Apart from the drawing, which is one of the best I have done, we did a long interview during which we learned that he was 77 and served in the tank corps defending Budapest. His tank was hit. He was saved by his commander. His two comrades were burned to death. We taped the interview with me requesting translation and leading the questions. I would be pathetic if I tried to do that professionally since I kept breaking out weeping and strangling on my questions. I am such a sentimental old idiot. It was intense and deeply touching made even better by the friend and social worker who accompanied him and who turned out to be the mother of the first cadet of this trip named. She works for an institution taking care of crippled people and the many kids on the streets who are runaways and drug addicted. Cannot help but wish people who have resources would be better focused on working in institutions like this. Such random things happen and there is so much uncertainty and a seeming endless chain of people who are cutting into the efforts one may make to take a fraction here or there of what a person might to donate. We then went to lunch. I loved listening to Vova and Sasha talking and laughing together as we walked. It was good to set the pace. After our lunch we went to the Dostoyevsky Museum, which is the last of many apartments he occupied here. It was astounding and for once made more so because I was not cheap and rented a headset. Excellent commentary and again I was brought to tears. Big baby. The lady watching the last room seemed both amused and perhaps impressed by the fact that I was so touched.
I wrote a long letter to dear Jill in England and lost it before I could zap it. I wrote about the elusiveness of the Russian people for outsiders. I seem to have experiences that vary from black to white with little in between. I feel Russian in a way, so profoundly compelled by the history and agony and yet can only touch the surface because they reveal so little of the grey. Perhaps it is part of the need to be secretive? I think of a moment such as when Sasha, (the man who will immigrate to Germany with is wife soon) who speaks so little English, came into my room to ask me something. I was lying down reading, he knelt at the bed side and with those huge dark eyes with their amazing lashes peered into my eyes, asked me something as he patted my chest, almost familial. A minute later he was on his feet and off. He has been around a lot, a favorite of J and excellent at finding models, but since his English is minimal and he was off with his wife (whom he informs me is now home with her parents in the Urals two days away by train) I have seen him as a third player to V and Alex.
But I lose my way… I have this sense of connection and then it is gone. I delight in the laughter and chatter between Sasha and V after our excellent afternoon’s work as we walk to lunch, and then flinch at the spittle and litter on the sidewalks. I love the sense of being part of a gathering of friends feeling so happy and full of life, and then walking alone am horrified at three black sedans with tinted windows racing down Marata at least 50 miles and hour as I try to cross the street. Mafia, I am pretty sure. Guess there is really an element of the wild, Wild West I mention above. Where is the grey wherein I believe most of us live? It is like mist here among people I know. Maybe it is the same for them. I know I have written over and over about this but I cannot let it go because it is central to the way I live…. Grey is the fluidity that allows the discovery and evolution of one’s soul. The clarity of the black and white parts is easy, often knowingly and a façade but clear. Must read Dostoyevsky, especially after the museum today.
We had the most remarkable experience today with an old military guy covered in medals. Apart from the drawing, which is one of the best I have done, we did a long interview during which we learned that he was 77 and served in the tank corps defending Budapest. His tank was hit. He was saved by his commander. His two comrades were burned to death. We taped the interview with me requesting translation and leading the questions. I would be pathetic if I tried to do that professionally since I kept breaking out weeping and strangling on my questions. I am such a sentimental old idiot. It was intense and deeply touching made even better by the friend and social worker who accompanied him and who turned out to be the mother of the first cadet of this trip named. She works for an institution taking care of crippled people and the many kids on the streets who are runaways and drug addicted. Cannot help but wish people who have resources would be better focused on working in institutions like this. Such random things happen and there is so much uncertainty and a seeming endless chain of people who are cutting into the efforts one may make to take a fraction here or there of what a person might to donate. We then went to lunch. I loved listening to Vova and Sasha talking and laughing together as we walked. It was good to set the pace. After our lunch we went to the Dostoyevsky Museum, which is the last of many apartments he occupied here. It was astounding and for once made more so because I was not cheap and rented a headset. Excellent commentary and again I was brought to tears. Big baby. The lady watching the last room seemed both amused and perhaps impressed by the fact that I was so touched.
I wrote a long letter to dear Jill in England and lost it before I could zap it. I wrote about the elusiveness of the Russian people for outsiders. I seem to have experiences that vary from black to white with little in between. I feel Russian in a way, so profoundly compelled by the history and agony and yet can only touch the surface because they reveal so little of the grey. Perhaps it is part of the need to be secretive? I think of a moment such as when Sasha, (the man who will immigrate to Germany with is wife soon) who speaks so little English, came into my room to ask me something. I was lying down reading, he knelt at the bed side and with those huge dark eyes with their amazing lashes peered into my eyes, asked me something as he patted my chest, almost familial. A minute later he was on his feet and off. He has been around a lot, a favorite of J and excellent at finding models, but since his English is minimal and he was off with his wife (whom he informs me is now home with her parents in the Urals two days away by train) I have seen him as a third player to V and Alex.
But I lose my way… I have this sense of connection and then it is gone. I delight in the laughter and chatter between Sasha and V after our excellent afternoon’s work as we walk to lunch, and then flinch at the spittle and litter on the sidewalks. I love the sense of being part of a gathering of friends feeling so happy and full of life, and then walking alone am horrified at three black sedans with tinted windows racing down Marata at least 50 miles and hour as I try to cross the street. Mafia, I am pretty sure. Guess there is really an element of the wild, Wild West I mention above. Where is the grey wherein I believe most of us live? It is like mist here among people I know. Maybe it is the same for them. I know I have written over and over about this but I cannot let it go because it is central to the way I live…. Grey is the fluidity that allows the discovery and evolution of one’s soul. The clarity of the black and white parts is easy, often knowingly and a façade but clear. Must read Dostoyevsky, especially after the museum today.
posted by Trevor Southey at 2:44 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home