visit to my sister's

Make a Smilebox slideshow

a logical impossibility

"You know, this happens a lot to Russians. The Soviet Union is gone, and the borders are as free and passable as they've ever been. And yet, when a Russian moves between the two universes, this feeling of finality persists, the logical impossibility of a place like Russia existing alongside the civilized world, of Ann Arbor, Michigan, sharing the same atmosphere with, say, Vladivostok. It was like those mathematical concepts I could never understand in high school: if, then. If Russia exists, then the West is a mirage; conversely, if Russia does not exist, then and only then is the West real and tangible. No wonder young people talk about "going beyond the cordon" when they talk of emigrating, as if Russia were ringed by a vast cordon sanitaire. Either you stay in the leper colony or you get out into the wider world and maybe try to spread your disease to others."

Absurdistan Gary Schneider , 2006

poem from high school

how dissappointing is
the end of my day
with what
tether of imagination
do i recall your
image
this is my illness,
charmer,
my time feels,
unimportant,
trivial
how easily do I
become distempered
by the good fortune
of my satellites
the elements
cutting down and nearing
that blood organ
the domain
of affections
tenderly snipped
you are a test.

Sun June 1st

Gotta write Denis a letter - apologize. I'm so out of it right now, trying to steer my head clear of depression. Keeping busy definitely is the key for me. I should explain how I've been unable to be productive without a computer. I should explain all the film from the Grand Canyon and Portland, just sitting around. About how Sobaka magazine requested a picture from me and I couldn't even send it because I couldn't hook up my hard drive to my mother's computer, and then when I finally got to a computer in Philadelphia, I brought the wrong harddrive. Many tasks don't get done like this.

I should explain the empty hours wandering around the city with Anastasia, with Wilkes, and with Tim. I was telling Wilkes - I guess life makes a lot more sense when you know that you'll go home and every night eventually that other person will be there - it makes life make a lot more sense. What is that that the kid in Into the Wild wrote? Something like "true emotion is shared emotion" I'll have to look it up.

Everyday I consider the possibilities - the next step. Someday it will be great to have a home, to have someone to come home to. Today I felt so unexperienced at life. I helped Tim move into a new apartment - a row home on a block where he's the only white guy, him and his brother and his brother's girlfriend. I helped these folks move, packed up the Uhaul, drove over the new place and unpacked it. And Tim's brother is 22 i think and he feels so adult. He's lived in Bolivia and his girlfriend is fearless - the way she drives the U-haul and seems to have already lived a whole life - you know, its like she's done all this before and this is her 2nd life. I don't know where all that confidence and i-know-what-I'm-doing feeling comes from, but I sure don't have it.
America is strange though. What I expected. I don't really know where to insert myself into it - I don't know if I"ll ever feel at home here - and I'm not saying that I'll feel at home in some other country - doubt it, I suppose it's just a general feeling of not belonging anywhere.

But what about this girl - this girl that was locked up in a basement for 8 years in Austria ( not the one who was locked up for 20 ). She comes out and she starts her own talk show. A 20 year old - she was down there from the ages of 10 to 18. She never even finished high school. I mean she was right about the being gutsy thing - about how you'll never grow if you don't present yourself with challenges. So I have much respect and I hope I can learn to live with dignity.

I should get back to the San Fran kids just in case - tell them I'll be available in July. I should do the job search on Craigs list and the other journalism search engines rigorously.

I should explain the feeling of being a renegade of sorts - running from one person's house to the next - from one city to another. I'll use writing and reading to heal I guess. and NPR. Folks behind me on the train speaking Russian - comforting - I will apply for the interpreter's job - I would enjoy that.

I would have talked to you now. on the train. but you are asleep. it will often be like that. calls will happen at the wrong time. i could not talk then with the noise of the hipsters on mushrooms in their utopian freak show, with the muffled mobile phone connection, with Wilkes sitting next to me, and the sun beating down on me. I'm sorry. I do miss you now, quiet on the train, in need of a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. But out there in the middle of all that mess, I am outside of myself.

a new life

I want a new life. I want a new life where I get up every morning before 9am and I accomplish things. I want a new life where I don't go online every 8 hours to fullfill the void that is my life. I want to be outside everyday, on a bike or running. Things are out of control at the moment. Every day I seem to be able to do less and less. I use to have an agenda and things got done, but now everyday my ability to set a task for myself and accomplish decreases and decreases. It's been raining for days. Last night I couldn't sleep at all. Up all night, turning over and over on the couch, going online to chat with friends and family, listening to music, I even took a bath after the sun came up but even that didn't feel good. Something is wrong. Just a couple weeks now, and I'll be in a new place with a new agenda. A blank slate.

you keep secret, i keep dream

“Y’know, I grew up in a different generation. I grew up after World War II, and boys did different things in those days. You went camping. You went hunting. You boxed. And the image of a writer, to someone starting off in those days was not some schmuck who went to graduate school. It was Jack London, Nelson Algren, Ernest Hemingway. Especially coming from Chicago–a writer was a knock-around guy. Someone who got a job as a reporter or drove a cab. I think the reason there are a lot of novels about How Mean My Mother Was to Me and all that shit is because the writers may have learned something called ‘technique,’ but they’ve neglected to have a life. What the fuck are they gonna write about?”

–David Mamet

old friends

One fine night back in March 2008, a bunch of old friends managed to get together at a bar. Some hadn't seen each other in years. Some had been in some silent war or grudge which prevented them from speaking. Others had recently fallen in love, others out. Some had plans to move back to America. Some had plans to move away. Some were horribly lonely and in need of a good time. But for a good hour or so, all of them were devilishly happy. Those who were down and out remembered that we're all in the gutter together. They laughed, knocked back a few drinks, and went home smiling. For the most part.

Cathartic

You probably think I'm miserable all the time. What a sensitive creature. So fragile and pathetic. But I'm not. I would rather not talk to you if you are just calling to say that you aren't coming home. Music blaring in the background. The voices of your bandmates. I would rather not talk to you because I've been in a good mood all day since we parted ways after lunch. And then you call and boom. Now I'm angry. I wish you didn't have that power over me. I hope in your next life you get to be with someone who's totally preoccupied with her bands. Who leaves you every weekend. Who's only in town half the time.

Your bandmates. I hope you like them a lot, because they're going to be the only thing you've got.

I'm sorry, though. Sorry I'm so full of anger. I guess you never really intended for me to hurt, and never really understood why I turn off the moment you say something that upsets me. Quizzical. Why I cannot look you in the eye. Why I answer all of your questions with either silence or a dead-tone one word answer.

So I guess I don't know how it's done - being my boyfriend. I couldn't tell you. It probably seems like everything falls under scrutiny. So you ignore it. You don't respond to my messages and I don't say them to your face. So we cast this silent war. SMS's, emails, silent lunches. Weekends with you in other cities.

Last weekend I got so drunk off the tall drinks and the graduated cylinders of Jagermeister that looked like blood, carried around by those girls in the skimpy little red cheerleader things, that I almost left this world the following day. I had to come back into the city in the morning to stroll around [read: teach English] with some important guy from Coca-Cola, he got me a slice of the salmon/broccoli kish and i touched it once with my fork and I had to excuse myself to go the bathroom. Sweating, heart racing, I washed my hands and swore to myself that I would not puke on this nice man in that cafe. Two hours later when he let me go, I got on the metro - rode until I got to Electrosila and had to get off. Again, heart started pumping and I stood up suddenly, as if something bad had happened. Breathing hard and standing near the doors. Wishing the people leaning on either sides of the doors would move away, in case the vomit starting flying. I tried to focus my thoughts, deep breath. Just a couple more seconds. Take it easy, now. Get off - walk around the platform until I think I'm ready for the escalator. OK, here we go. 2 minutes later I'm out. AIR. snow. sleet. cold. Don't care. I walk. I walk the 5 kilometers home along the highway.

...

Denis makes a mean soup.

home, i, me, my

I'm discovering myself again in the music I used to listen to and the things i used to read and write. its funny to rediscover yourself like this, having being buried in someone elses world, in their domestic life, their records, their food. this is not a bad thing - let me emphasize. i use spices i never used before - i use dill as often as possible. i fucking love tea. especially the funky mixed tea with black and green tea together and rose petals. but to hear again the songs that used to guide me, and read the poets who used to form my world, it is so refreshing. to dream again of home.

letter to j

i did it! i know its not a big deal for anyone else - but it is for me, these days small things mean the world to me. I stayed up till 4 last night drowning myself in TV and internet and youtube and meditating on how i'm letting my life slip away and how i should be able to go to bed as soon as i'm tired and wake up in the morning and live everyday. and i shocked myself. I was able to pull myself out of bed at 8am and catch the marshutka/train all the way up to chkalovsky to hop on the circus bus back down to pavlosk. i photographed the event and although they are not the amazing shots i took before I'm just proud that i got my ass down there and shot and talked to the volunteer who's in charge right now about my plans to go back to the states and work out some kind of grant with SOROS to help raise money for these guys. thats one of my ideas. It's true - i'll come back here from time to time but i know now that its time to explore other parts of the world. there is so much more to see than this sappy gray city. Larisa the art director of the circus said in the busride back "why are you so dependent on russia?" and she's brought it up before and she's absolutely right, and thats why, i told her , i'm on my way out, because i need to see some other places.

but most of all, im learning that i want to work with people that are interested in helping people/ improving the state of the world. before it was a pipe dream and now it is just a fact of life. i remember discussions with you where you were all torn up about having to help people - make the world more equal and I agree, there just has to be a way to do what you love and help the world at the same time. you feel me? i think you do cause i think you're doing it.

fleur

Letter to Mom about buying ticket back to the US

It's very hard to press the button. It's very hard to move. Despite how much I want it I'm sure you can understand - my life here as become easy - clients call me to teach them English for 20-30 bucks and hour (mostly just means talking to them), and I record advertisings for phone companies, translate website, do photoshoots, and DJ - free drinks and 40 bucks a night. I have a free friend haircutter, connections at the St. Petersburg Times, the homeless agency, the child circus, Russian and American friends, discount cards at restaurants, and free entrance to night clubs. You see? I will have this all if I ever want to come back, but it truly is daunting to leave it and start again from scratch.

Ha.

Sara

Phonecalls from Shnur's Satellite Telephone

Russia is such a strange place for the first week or so of January. People are universally unreachable, don't pick up their phones and are generally out of contact. It is undefined when they will return to work, when they will even be able to remember what day it is. I have been getting to bed late, around 4am and rising around 2 or 3pm. That leaves one hour of light. Not so hot for someone who is sitting at home all day by themselves.

I don't really know how to be happy for Denis when he calls from Switzerland. He always asks how I am and is very kind and notes that yes, I have a cold and offers help and asks about my day. But when its always the same thing, and he notes the tone in my voice, the "fuck you tone". He tells me about how they snowboarded all day and now they're up in the mountains and about to play a concert at this beautiful venue there where John Lennon once went to hang out with his wife (he just read that in the biography of Lennon I bought him for New Year's). I cannot be excited or happy for him though. "You're in a really bad mood, what's that all about?" It's always the same questions and my lack of answers. "I'm fine, just sick of sitting at home by myself." So I am a bitch. I hang up the phone and I'm generally frustrated because I thought I'd gotten over this being mad thing, but I cannot seem to have a conversation with him where I don't hang up the phone and he is upset with me for being so mean and I'm upset with myself for being like this. I don't know. I guess I've realized about a year ago that the situation doesn't work for me as a person, that I need to be away from this life where one of us is off doing things and seeing things and the other is always stuck and always depressed.

But the point is I'm not depressed I guess it's just that when he calls and I'm sitting in this dark room as I always am, tapping away on this computer, I wonder sometimes, what could I possibly say "Hope your concert goes well! How was the mountain? Did you snowboard well? Sounds rad!" I just cant be that person. I guess its mostly about me sending him a signal that this is not OK. Or that I'm not happy with the situation or whatever. If you can imagine - it's been going on for one and half years, so it's not going to change.

But it doesn't matter, I always hang up the phone feeling bad. "Do you miss me?" he asks and I don't know how to answer that question either.

I write back an SMS: "I'm okay you know and I don't try to be mean and you aren't doing anything wrong by calling... I just can't bring myself to be happy for you when it's always the same situation. You are always very kind and considerate and I always come across as a bitch and I feel bad afterwards. But I don't know what to say sometimes. It feels so unfair sometimes to hear about how great it is where you are. I hope you understand."

I had wanted to write a 2nd: "Of course I miss you. You are always away from me. Now I want to get away." But I caved in and just wrote "Whatever, I'm over it, I'm making good art and of course I miss you."

After all this I get a response a couple minutes later: "OK Malipus (the equivalent of babydoll i suppose) sleep tide :)" Yes, with the stupid smiley face attached and the incorrect spelling of 'tight'. It's nine oclock. If he were listening to me when I was talking to him on the phone he would have known that lately I'm going to bed somewhere around 4am. So this message kind of just struck me as - "ok, my little stupid girlfriend, go to sleep now, I'm going to go snort another line of coke and drink another shot and go on stage and play my rock and roll now. Nighty night." I donno about you but its moments like this when I know this isn't the person for me. Conversation, serious conversation, is something that me and Denis don't have. I know it's just an SMS message, but this is Fleur here - you know, I am an emotional sensitive person that needs to be able to talk things through with people and in our case, it's just not there at all.

PHew. Got that out. Now I can move onto something else. [Happy face here.]

Letter to Denis

I made a little artistic breakthrough today and I'm feeling much better. Artistic breakthroughs are really all I need in life. And the occasional friend. It's funny though, how these things come about. You can't just sit down and decide you're going to write an awesome song - it usually comes out of some pain/drama in your life. Like your song "Last night" - i feel like that sort of just came to you when you started thinking about all of the rough shit you've had to deal with in your life. Anywho, that's how my emotions are - very much dependent on what im making with my photography. So i apologize for saying or writing things you don't wanna hear. I know that it doesn't really matter where I am in the world - its more about being able to apply myself to my work - to be productive and creative. And its definitely a process - It can take a week, a year, or 10 years to get to the place where you are consistently making good art, but its always something you cant really control - it comes by accident by life experiences and all that.

It's 4am and I'm still awake. Head is on fire. It's like this. You have shitloads of time - a whole two weeks with no work and not a clue of what to do with yourself - hating yourself for not going out and shooting amazing pictures the way you used to. the way you shot when you first came to russia, and everything was fresh and seen from an alien's point of view. I passed a flaming dumpster on my way out the house but i didn't stop to shoot it. Then I start to get down on myself - so much time! You wait and pray that some kind of creative push will come to you. Then it finally comes. Finally, it comes, and now all you need is time, and most of all, to keep the spark going. Sometimes it means staying up all night cause in the morning it will be gone. Sometimes its about having nothing else to do - total isolation, no work, no appointments. If I could be more efficient at seizing this creative thing when it happens, oh man, oh man, i'd be unstoppable - the way i used to attack my scrapbooks as a kid, and make the most raddest collages. If i could bring that creative force back, the spur of the moment all-nighters where my hands are flying and they can do no wrong. I remember discovering it with the National Geographic magazines. Cutting and pasting and everything that i put down, every haphazard scene was electric and so very right.

I'll have to scan it I suppose and get it on flickr. The world, at the moment, is run by flickr, didn't you know?

Fleur

fuck sadness

Duh.

So it turns out I shot two corporative parties using a flash that was meant for a film camera. How I accomplished this rare act, I do not know. I just remember these two parties as being excruciatingly painful, my flash screen was blinking the whole time so I had no control over the flash itself and it was overall a very uncomfortable situation. I also shot the whole thing with a portrait lens (50mm 1.4) so at least half of the pictures are totally out of focus. In addition to this, I shot at 1600 ISO resulting in horribly grainy photos with those weird miscolored dots everywhere. "Professional" - that's me.

I have one more party to shoot tomorrow - thankfully this time I'm using a cheap SIGMA flash I borrowed from a friend. I have little anxiety about this party, even though I am a little feverish. It will be from 3-6 in the afternoon as opposed to 7-12 and it will be much more relaxed and with a good DJ.

Hoping I can recover from whatever sickness I have this time, and be somewhat normal by Monday, so I can at least enjoy a little celebration myself. I seem to always be sick in Russia. All it takes is to be a little underslept, and out walking from task to task in the cold. That's it. My immunity is nill. I blame it on not being breast-fed, which is my own damn fault for having some weird blood incompatibility with my mother when I was born, and throwing her into a coma.

I feel that this year's celebration will be much better than last years. All in all, this is my 4th new years celebration in Russia. The first new year's was when I came here for school, the second was when I came to visit Jesse, the third was last year, and this is number four. All of them have been poor, so I don't have high expectations, although something tells me this one will be joyous.

Russian balls and corporative party time

I'm feeling totally scatterred to the wind. I've just finished shooting my second corporative party and I feel pretty awful. While I'm relieved that 2 are down and there's just 2 to go, I have to say that this feeling or this taste it's left in my mouth is pretty bad. I suppose I'm coming to terms with why I really need photography in my life. Not to make money or pay the bills, but to preserve memories and feelings that I cannot let get away. And so after five hours of shooting the new Russian rich in a huge palace on the Moika canal, I feel like my soul has been scooped out spoon my spoon with a grapefruit spoon.

I want to write it all out. To write down the details of the last couple of days and get it all out of me so that I can put it away. In between the fighting with Denis there are losing critical items - like the battery charger I needed to shoot today's party, and then running furiously around the city in search of such items, with a violent hangover and little sleep under my eyes. It is 5 hours of shooting picture after picture only to have a person tell you that you have a problem with focus. But really, I wanted to tell him, and I did, shooting with a portrait lens - I just couldn't get anything in perfect focus and when I put on my other lenses (cheap pieces I bought over ebay years ago for 60 bucks) I just couldn't get any lighting that I liked. So I guess I'm learning the hardway that I need to invest not only in a new camera but a couple really great lenses.

Some people at the party - a man and this crazy woman from the Ukraine - they kept trying to talk me into going out with him and it was quite terrifying, I don't know why - I just had a horrible feeling about these two - the man, he was devilish - handsome in a way - but he had this smile that screamed DANGER - and he reminded me of the Devil in Master and Margarita, waltzing all over this palace and full of dangerous vibes.

Because of the last two days I've been a horrible person to Denis, forever nervous, forever in a bad mood, it is my way of dealing with the anxiety of taking on a job I'm not ready for, throwing myself to the wind, I do have a tendency to be a bad partner in this way. But I'm not the only sinner - yesterday when I finished my first gig, let me remind you - it was the longest 4-5 hours of my life. I finished shooting my 849th picture and I grabbed my money and my things and ran out into the night and quickly called Denis - feeling like the most enormous weight had been lifted from my shoulders and now I could go join my own people and finally put the camera down that was rubbing a blister into my hand. But Denis was drinking with a friend and tried to sway me by saying I'd be bored and I asked him straight away am I understanding you right? That you don't want me to be there with you? And I don't know - it was just an important day for me - the equivalent of a musicians first live concert and I was ready to let the edge go with a couple of drinks with him but I quickly understood that this wasn't going to happen.

A childish kind of disappointment, he apologized and begged me not to be offended and did everything a good person does I guess, but it didn't really make me feel too much better. It was alright though because I ended up meeting with my good friend Alexei and we exploded the night with Irish Car Bombs, Suicidal Blondes, and other strange beverages you never tried. We had a great time and great conversation and I was supremely happy and could care less if the bill for our drinks came to over 60 dollars. We did it.

I would like to describe all the details of shooting this Russian ball tonight - but I don't have the energy to get through it. I have to clean up the pile of crap I've dumped in the other room so I look like a respectable member of this household and no fights are started over my messiness.

At large, I have a lot to learn.

letter to my family

Hey guys I'm really truly sorry about Sunday. I had it all planned out so that I wouldn't forget - and then I forgot. It was late and dark here and we ate some pasta and turned on a movie and my brain turned off. I hope you don't think that this means that I'm not thinking about you - cause it's not true. I feel horrible about the Skype incident - and I was really looking forward to talking to everyone at once. Trust me, it would have been just as cathartic for me as it might have been for you, if not moreso - to see everyone at once. You've all been in my dreams a lot lately and I can't wait to get back to be with you again.

Sometimes I get worried about where I'll live in America or what jobs I'll be able to find, or what programs I should be applying to - I have these moments of panic, and then it all comes back to me - my self-confidence and telling myself - its cool. Give er time. I'm making progress in my life at my own pace and I'm proud of myself (not all the times, but in moments of revelation or something). It's really important to love what you are doing I've learned - otherwise you fall into a bottomless pit of self-doubt and anxiety about your life. Yeah - sometimes I do look at my life and wonder - am I making progress here? Or am I just procrastinating? Am i doing what I said i would do? Of course, I'm not always happy with the answers, but i think that as long as I put the energy out there I think things will come together in the end. I just gotta keep making baby steps in the right direction. Work for experience, not money. That's critical - and I haven't gotten there yet.

I see how your lives are all progressing and sometimes I'm jealous of the stability you seem to have. I know that sounds silly and its not altogether true, I do enjoy these strange situations I put myself in, but I also sometimes wonder - when am I going to have a home? a big awesome kitchen? steady job? a car? a family of my own? and so on. Anywho, I think it takes time. Some people don't get to a place where they are happy with what they are doing until they are in their middle ages. middle ages? i think i meant mid-life. or something.

Why I am I going on a big long rant? I guess I feel like I really let you down and i just want you to know whats going on with me and that I actually think about you all a lot more than you know. I hope you can forgive my lame disappointment. If you ever wanna call me when I'm not on skype there's a thing where you can call regular phones through skype. It works great. You just put like 5 bucks on your skype account and it lasts forever. then you can dial my number (7 812 420 7128) and it doesnt matter where i am or what i'm doing i can get your call. just try and remember that im 8 hours ahead.

Big love, and look forward to talking to you i hope....

Sara

letter to layla

I'm sorry for the shallowness off my interview answers. I felt bad having given the whole interview and not saying damn thing about Russia and the real reason for my love affair with her. And that is evident in the pictures I think. On my first trip to Russia I would walk around with a Baltika (beer) strung to my hip and my camera in hand. the Baltika was enough to take away my hesistancy to shoot photos of total strangers. and even ask - in my most primitive Russian, from looking it up in a book. "mozhno?" i was totally in love with the way things looked. i just wandered around with eyes gaping open at this world. this world that was somehow half built and the way the sun hit the whole thing and the way people carried themselves. i'm sure you can understand this feeling. i was very jealous of jesse when he went away to russia. in a way , he outdid me. he stayed for a whole year. and he left me in new york. that sounds funny, but i was kind of broken over that. certainly i am still very confused about all of it. forever writing letters in my head to him, trying to make sense of the last 2 years. what happened in me and why i did what i did. and while i would gladly take his hand in marriage and have his babies, i feel calm around him lately. when we are all together. as if it is okay - the fact that he has moved on and has no need of relationships. i feel like i can wait.

but i did not say much about russia did i. or my real heart. so i hope you make a sequel. but more importantly, i just want you to know that those answers i gave are quite shallow answers. and im sure you understand they speak little about how complex it all is.

love

fleur

letter to a half-friend: I moved to Russia

sorry I'm such a wanker. It's 8.30 am here in St. Petersburg and I have more than half a dozen emails to respond to that begin with "what the hell are you doing lafloozie?" - I have a lot of time, for some reason I never get to answering all of them. I think its something about writing about being in a place while you are still there - somtimes you have to wait a couple months to digest something before you can actually understand it. In any case, I don't know how it happened but I'm a DJ - thanks to the fact that foreigners here have some kind of elevated status as authorities on music that is not russian (which is what they want to hear in these particular bar/clubs) and so I kind of feel like a wanker but you have to take it as it is, so my lungs burn this morning with first and second hand smoke. my man just pulled out of the lot for finland, from there he will fly to germany to play concerts to nice european people. he is a drummer. he has a mohalk. he is much older. i dont think this is forever, but it is a perfect interlude. i want to be a professional photographer and US WEEKLY in Moscow has purchased some of my pictures (which went into print yesterday) so I feel like I am somewhat on that road. you want to be a writer - I get stressed out just being a DJ - but its free booze and cigarettes and I mean they pay you to play your danciest music, not enough, but enough for it to be worth it. i cannot afford to pay for my beers because i get my paycheck in rubles. and it is miniscule. how do you become a writer? you get up everymorning and write. isn't that what the da vinci code guy said? how do you become a photographer? you get up every morning and shoot. well yeah - i'd say i've been really slacking on the morning front, i need to begin a project on street kids and homeless people and orphans. to get dirty. to leave the music scene and get out onto the social, political scene. you get me? mama didn't pay for no secondary school for nothin.