post 11 november

Justwrite 10 november

Pinkish drinkish dressed in black

gets off the phone

presumably with the lady

of some house

tells his companion, his eye-keeper-on:

“baton, limon, cognac”

It is clear the third is already wrong

The first notice is as she uses

the sidewalk as a spittoon

splendidly globbed wetly

Seconds laterm the second:

perfume behind the ears

wafted clear in the same direction

The only dream on the too-early morning train:

waking up and getting ready

then falling asleep again—too early

shame of mistake

again awake when sleep’s still free

Repeat

squeezing excess shower

from her twisted knot

of justclean hair

justwrite 9 november

While she sleeps, Aileen dreams of the man she met on the train, only this time he is Misha, from the café. They have the same eyes, and this makes even more sense now that they are the same person.

“So, you’re Alice?” he asks her repeatedly. He is gesturing toward a map underneath a display case, but she can’t tell where he’s pointing because there are cakes in the way.

“If this is Wonderland, then yes,” she responds lightly, each time. She hopes she sounds clever. Even if this is only a dream, and Misha really speaks only Russian, she might as well take the opportunity to try to appear clever and alluring.

The waitress from the back table, who is now the conductor on the train, rolls her eyes in a somehow pleasant manner. She indicates the top bunk to a lion who appears in the corridor, and he leaps up to the bunk above Aileen’s head effortlessly, refusing linens or coffee.

Justwrite 8 november

The honey beer appears a moment later, giving Aileen the chance to sip and stare at the rest of the customers. Of course it’s awkward to stare at people at any time, especially when they’re in such close proximity to you, but you have to look up to take a drink, right? Staring is totally reasonable when combined with sipping.

The remaining three tables are filled with a probable pair of tourists, two middle-aged women speaking what might be Polish in low tones and trying to look sophisticated while showing each other souvenirs. The big table holds what appears to be a party of businessmen who appear to have finished their lunch and are now shuffling papers around the table while drinking small cups of coffee. It seems to Aileen that the elbows at the table will inevitably collide with the cups and spill coffee all over these papers. The final table, farthest from the door, seats a young couple. A complete triangle of cheesecake and an equally untouched square of pear tart wait in the wings for the pair to stop holding hands across the table and alternately murmuring and blushing to each other.

Aileen sighs. Imagine ignoring cheesecake. Pear tart, maybe, even though it’s really good here, but cheesecake is something different. Cheesecake is Not Common in Ukraine, and the overpriced slices in McCafés do little to engage Ukrainians in the idea that Cheesecake Is Fundamental. Maybe “fundamental” isn’t the right word, especially in a country without Philadelphia—or any kind of—cream cheese. Domashny cyr—literally “home cheese”, between cottage cheese and farmer’s cheese—just doesn’t do it, and syrok, the small white rectangles of supersweet dairy wrapped in waxy paper, is too sugary to do anything with. Ah, cream cheese. To say nothing of peanut butter.

The red borsch and onion pie arrive just in time.

justwrite 7 november

“Aileen?”

“Uh?” she cleverly replies, disguising the fact that she’s lost track.

“Come on, Aileen…” trails Adrian. It’s one of his favorite jokes, but also, yes, he’s a little serious.

“Yo, Adrian,” she pops back. It’s one of her favorite jokes in response, but also, yes, she’s sorry. Adrian isn’t the problem. He’s a nice British fellow, a fine editor, and husband of the Head of the English-Language Texts Department at LionPrint Publishing. His wife, Oksansa Dimitryvna, or Oksana Burrows, nee Klatkovych, is currently away from her desk, away from her job, really, waiting to have a baby. She spends a great deal of time in bed these days, mostly in the belief that “having a rest” [known to Americans as “taking it easy”] is crucial, but also because she can work from home and send Adrian to share her directives. Plus, her father, Dimitry Mikhailovych, or Dimitry Klatkovych, is the Director of LionPrint Publishing, and basically anything his little girl wants to happen will happen. Never mind that his little girl is 33 years old; as his only child, she has a great deal of pinky-wrapping-‘round power—and double that since she’s been pregnant.

Dimitriy Mikhailovych frowns at our heroine. Yes, he speaks English, but he’s continually befuddled by the odd manners of Americans and British people. How can he be expected to pick up so many pop culture references, and why should he even bother? Should he have watched Rocky and listened to Dexys Midnight Runners in 1982? He scowls at her slightly.

post 6 november

Justwrite 6 november

A crowd of darkly dressed coats, crowded around the entrance to the still-closed Metro—silent, still, focused, as if attending to a mime’s early morning speech. They await for the mouth to open, to swallow them whole into the dark, cool belly of the city, the long lean lines of planning contracting to track the contents through digestion, processing the meat and making it move

A fur-coated lady, maybe once a mynx, now in maybe minks, folded into herself on the edge of the sidewalk behind the bazaar, a plastic cup of nothing waiting in her hand—she is ready to change her calendar to spring, denying winter in hopeful desperation, collecting coins for this operation

An old man with a long coat and a slow step on the sidewalk sees a certain woman, of a certain age, draws back the curtain from the stage—his hand sweeps back his coat to thrusts into his pants pocket, revealing a left-side chest full of ribbons in thin lines, willing her to find something there as she reads between—wills her to walk past, then turn back and call out to him: darling, is it you?

Justwrite 5 november

I’m tired of this at this point and the disjointed aspects of the monologue clog my ears and the fears that I’ll lose focus lose attention leads to other dimensions of distraction. The contractions of noise between joy and vagueness is the way bliss slips away when what others say seems less or other. Maybe there’s some mother listening closely but none of the rest of us are bluffed, buffed like some other glistening surface on a diamond’s back. To keep track of the sense here is to prop up a bent ear and to send clear radar out—the sonar shouts its message of message-searching—lurching through the clear blue, pinging clear blue and… heading back? Still lacking traction

Justwrite 4 november

2012 looks like excitement a frenzy of people rushing around 2012 looks like logos like marketing blue and yellow and black and white blurred together 2012 looks like a stadium on its feet and roaring a wave of arms and a scoreboard 2012 looks like tension on the faces of officials of all kinds black and white and pinstripes

2012 sounds like a creaking door 2012 sounds like energy poured through a sieve and rushing out the other side 2012 sounds like hawkers selling things we don’t need the buzzer the starting whistle the cheers DAVAY DAVAY DAVAY 2012 sounds like relief exhaled taxis screeching to noisy hotel halts

2012 smells like concession French fries and the confusion set loose in Ukrainian hot dog stands with demands for one without carrots please 2012 smells like popcorn soft pretzels sweat 2012 smells like locker rooms energy streaming downface like wet grass in the morning ant the cool of dusk as it settles into empty space

2012 tastes like heartburn the worry of wonder the money swallowed the hollow space in the wallet call it out like you see it too easy to beat it from some bank tanking even as some yachts sail from no-fail safe-deposit harbors 2012 tastes like determination like concentration stored in set mouths the corners south and waiting for the calendar to turn

2012 feels like energy tied up in knots grass on a field ground by cleats deleting pieces and signing released 2012 feels like delight in the sky fireworks and time bombs 2012 feels like tourists pressed into spaces meant for fewer and less skeptical reviewers now these judging without budging 2012 feels like injury like sweaty jerseys and hard seats slumped into when defeat draws out agony

justwrite 2 november

Walking into the café was like stepping into an aquarium. On the moon. The light was somehow completely different from the normal outside light, and the air seemed cooled by a subterranean draft.

She immediately found herself considering that this place could not be very popular among Ukrainians. After a year and a half, the Ukrainian desire to avoid drafts, cross-ventilation, or any other sort of fresh-air introduction to inside environments, had become embedded in her mind.

In fact, looking around, this café was sparsely populated. A roundish lady at the counter, possibly Polish, polishing something. Her name might be Rosy, if this were a book in which people had names that matched their appearances. Luckily, it’s real life, and so there’s no such need. Also, the lady in question was most likely Ukrainian. She still is. In the present tense. Also in the present tense exists a shadowy sort of waitress/ cleaning lady, hovering over a small table in the corner where a book is flapped open, showing its lettery belly to this slight woman, bent over the pages as if to sniff them directly into her brain.

The remainder of the café is empty.

The display case, however, is sparklingly full of sugar and temptation.

Rosy the polisher doesn’t even look up as her only customer approaches. Let the display case do its job, she always thinks to herself. But she thinks it in Ukrainian. She’s like that. Ukrainian.

justwrite 1 november

When you picked up this book and opened to the first page, you were startled to find yourself personally involved from the first sentence—the second word, even. You began to question this inclusion. Doesn’t everyone like to feel included? Wouldn’t your life be easier if someone just told you what to do all the time? Well, someone nice, who told you to do interesting things, or maybe just narrated as you did those things. How can you trust anyone to tell you what to do? Is there such a thing as a benevolent dictator? Isn’t every director directing others to work toward his or her own ends, often disregarding the ways and means?

Suddenly you realized that you had made it to the second paragraph of the text without really having any idea what was going on. This is when you started to think about picking up another book.

Sure, there are other books. Take a look around. Without too much trouble, you could probably get your hands on one or two more without leaving.

Really, though. This book is about you. Are you really going to say that you don’t care about such a personally relevant text? How’s your self-esteem these days, anyway?

You don’t like to be mocked.

You turn the page anyway.

Meanwhile, you’re killing time. That’s what this book is about. Right now, anyway. Since it’s about you, I mean. You could do something more interesting, though, and the book would be more interesting…

Short on ideas? Okay, that’s fine. Just play along. I’m the author, anyway.

So, you shrug. Just like that. [No—really shrug. Play along. Shoulders higher, please. Try to touch your ears with your shoulders. Right, that’s better.]