Sometimes when I write on my site, I write to me, or I write to an
imaginary other, or I write while deliberately not thinking about it
so that I am just focused on the sound of my words, because the
concept of a blog/website where I'm sort of absently ignoring this
openness (but at the same time somewhat intimate with my thoughts) is
a little bit of a contradiction, an opposition asking for a solution.
Tonight, tonight I will write as if I'm writing you an email, and I'll
type as if that is so, and here you go, whoever you are; either you're
reading my email to you or you're reading my email that I'm sending to
him/her, looking me look at you straight in the eye or looking at me
look at you from an angle, three-quarters also. (Like the family of
analyses of cubism that declares cubism to be about a simultaneous
multiplicity of perspectival viewpoints.)
I would like to say something here about St. Petersburg, about being
here. Nothing comes to the ends of my fingertips except the taste of
infrastructure in my mouth. That is:
In Dusseldorf, the curvature of the monorail linking the metro to the
airport. The boxiness of the buildings around the Dusseldorf
hauptbahnhof. The quality of sunlight on a Sunday morning, very quiet,
very still, very poised.
In St. Petersburg, the metro, with lights, with paint, with
infrastructure bolted together, neither old nor new, semi-outdated, of
a bygone era, etc. this is what people call and abbreviate as
'soviet', I understand, which takes on a meaning just more than the
word itself. The metro coming out of the deep, deep, ground. Feeling
an unfamiliar alphabet come to familiarity, unlocking the phonetics of
Interestingly enough there's no puncture here. I feel like I have
always been here. Perhaps this is because I have not been wandering
alone; perhaps this is because I've made acquaintances and talked and
aimed in a country that is a) not mine and b) not familiarized by me
and so I have already put up this barrier, I realize, already
preventing myself from displacement.
Tomorrow I will wander, alone, for a bit, buy train tickets, go see
some young independent art, buy some blinis, and so on. Eat another
bowl of borsht. Liquify, Spongeify. Become permeable.
I lose all powers of description tonight, tonight there is nothing but
the joy at being here, and the joy of moving. With valence.