121, Prospekt Mira, Moscow
Letter from Moscow
Tuesday September 22, 2015
I woke up at 5am and watched the sun come up in the city. Saw twenty year old German cars unleash across the street. I can’t think in a decent direction. I think one of my teeth is loose or my skull is loose and my teeth are fine. My head feels inside out. The lining of my brain is dehydrated. My feet look blue. The line was too long to get into the Lenin Mausoleum yesterday afternoon. There’s a hole in the front of my face where my mouth should be. How do you test a hole? I need to sleep but it is impossible when you feel this bad. So what do you do to test a hole?
You go to a bar. Focus on a crossword — the easiest ones here are designed for semi-literate guest workers like me and can be bought from the traditional octagonal news stands that dot the city center. I want to put something in my drink to take the edge of it. But there is nothing but Red Bull or the Russian equivalent of Mountain Dew. I belong to no one. My teeth are loose. I wish I could remember where I am supposed to meet the girl from the café. I bet Rem Koolhaas never has these problems.
It feels like no-one owns this city. It has systemic edges. But in the center it is mute. Moscow keeps churning along. I am desperate to find some peace here. A systemic peace. One that can be tested and mapped and fully realized. I motioned for another drink. Six down. An accumulation of numbers. Four letters. Ten across. A landlocked body of water. Four letters.
Today is a write off.
Take care of yourself… Береги себя