Letter from Moscow No. 10
Wednesday September 30, 2015
I hit the water and immediately struck my knee on the bottom. Suddenly, there, ankle deep. Looking back at the launch. Empty and bobbing gently on the lake. I looked up at the bridge. If only... Ladas, Volgas, Zils, Mokvichs, Gazs, Uazs, Kamazs, Derways, Spetstehs, Dragons. Instead other gentle Japanese hums and German rolls. And I could see my driver. Waving from the span.
Fucking Fortune 300. Ruinart champagne, hors d’oeuvres. And backstage another shithole. I eschewed the bridge and ran for the shore. Time for some woods. A kid with a Honda just handed it over and I was on the move. The weather has cooled but the humidity cancels it out. If I get my skates on it will be dissident style, figurative sculpture, cheese, cold fries and mayonnaise. Bread and wine from Abkhazia. And blow me down - a pint of vodka. Masha and Kristina. Svetlana, Yelena, Olga and Natasha. I wonder if Konstantin Melnikov is at home? Maybe it is time to head for the Narkomfim building. I always loved a good ribbon window.
As I shimmied towards the bridge my PCX-125 hit some hard things. Over and over I clunked. Bits of UT-88 a Vector-06C. My God. A Micro-80. I need to break the ice. There or near the bridge. Plaster flaking off - revealing brick.
Pulling back on the throttle. Both eyes now open and working. Twisting gears as I head towards a green light. A man on the corner - rolling his own cigarettes - while his friend rips off his filter. I love it here. I want to go home - I want to go back to the café on the corner. I know the difference between exile and dissent. I think of Chekrygin. I think of solar forces, charging the earth with forces of attraction and repulsion, bringing the mood of a light summer and laying the way for meteoric flame-trails, immortal sons arising on nearby planets, dispersing the reason-key, the structure that controls the celestial spheres’ courses, engulfing the force of storms provoked by the sun on the planet spheres. In the flowing motions recreated by the magnificent dance, new suns igniting in the celestial scatter, renewing the heavens.
Had I logged onto Rusavtobus.ru I would have known that the 15.45 from Troitskoye was thirteen minutes late. That the driver had also spent a precious few seconds ripping the tip from his Original Gold, straight from the heart of Moldova. That the driver was in the habit of checking his fucking Fly Mobile Levi Strauss branded, 1.76-inch screened, 220 by 176 pixels resolutioned, 2-megapixel camerad, 64MB internal memoried, micro SD’d, USB ported piece of crap.
I wasn’t decapitated by the bus. Rather my body was flung across the street as my head got stuck in the logo. A debodying in a time of beheading. A surgical strike by public transport. My driver has it all on the dash cam. Just white light for a second but a whiff of that suit as he approached me. Data Lake. Special services. Catering for you. Covering me gently up with a spare table cloth pulled from the back of the van just mildly obscured by a gathering crowd.
Take care of yourself...