This was 11 years, 5 months, 13 days ago

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infrastructure bolted together, neither old nor new, semi-outdated, of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
a place.

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.