i remember auschwitz. i remember that long dream of a train ride. that cave in that forest. i will remember the walls in berlin and china. i will remember dani. i will certainly remember the big things.
but, somehow it is the small things. and where would i ever begin?
with the radio. or the time petr was dancing on that speaker in moscow. the rutabaga. laura playing the harmonica; playing, reading in that german voice, the laugh on the metrow when we left the center just to leave the center. the green stone. the purple one. the green scarf. the bonk from the monk. walking and talking about the wondrously lovely and simple things a person from the united states and a person from mongolia really should talk about- but i imagine rarely do. the stream where i think i came closer to falling in than my czech friend. and she came pretty close. ahhhh, that spinning crazy shaped foam sitting locked in another stream. falling down alone on the ice. dear helena’s dear mothers homemade struedel. finding jades bandanna in a trashcan at his house, kipeing it, dropping it in krakow, realizing i had made a wrong turn, turning around, and finding it again. that bay, made of rancid clay, that made me into rancid clay. the walk before. the walk after. and that shower. every shower. every single shower.
that forum. that art exhibition. that art instillation, that other art installation, and that laugh. trying to make that laugh later – being broken and fixed seamlessly. the russian vodka in cologne; the russian vodka in russia; the russian vodka with that buryat (that buryat, whom i am indebted to.) and the vodka i wonder if my friend will ever get. that woman on that train. that salami on that bus; i bumped the arm and the hand slipped and every ear on the full bus heard the sound the meat made when it hit the floor. and then the gasps. and then the silence. and then my own laughter.
new years. i made 50 euros to sell bootleg wine with a best friend.christmas. dumpstered chocolate makes delicious chocolate fondue; and the oranges to dip.
the memory of not remembering valentines day. and almost forgetting how to spell it.
going to dresden and not munich. never paying for public transportation. tran.
tartu. the club. the saunas. oh god the saunas. the bust wreck. flying in my dreams.
flying in my life. the waterfall in the moscow metro. the waterfall in beijings streets. the waterfall i am falling down right now.
the pondering of stevens boredon and his attachment to it and then leaving the internet cafe and finding myself in mongolia. not bored. never bored. the simultaneous awareness of meeting a person and the certainty of seeing them again.
seeing a face once, and never seeing it again. seeing a thousand faces. once. only once.
the pangs of regret and of relief. dersu. capitan. being neither. being both. the truly countless hours of walking and thinking and breathing. knowing i am alive in estonial. in brno; the gifts friends can give. and to them i am also indebted.
in fact, when you read this, consider it an invitation. i invite you to visit me. i have plenty to give. and if i have it, i will give it.
the honey. those nuts. dipping the banana in the honey and then in the nuts, sitting on a caste on a hill, in the sun. the sun. the clouds. the wind that strokes my cheek and pats my back and the wind that eats my nose.
the capitalism that eats my soul.
our mouths that eat the world and our shit we cover it with.
not being able to sleep at night. for whatever reason. and the sleep that only babies have. buddhas smile. those eyes. they squint at me.
being so hungry i could almost puke. being so full i did.
enjoying both.
fresh carrot juice.
all the flats, doorways, places and beds.
still having seven weeks to go.
losing one glove and finding another. watching the reaction everytime someone sees me putting two different gloves on.
gifts. giving and receiving. those bracelets.
santa the hitchhiker.
listening to other peoples stories and imagining what it would be like to experience them. imagining what it would be like ot be them. creating a story about the problems of our times. staring at the problems as i walk through the city and as i look inside myself.
pushkin’s immortalized face and words. kurt cobain’s immortalization.
almost peeing my pants. learning the word pee in mongolian and teaching its english equivalent. falling asleep waking up. closing this book. opening this book a thousand times.