Ah, how quickly the times do change; how many songs the little songbird knows; for now I love the way the wind doth taste; for now the heater is on, if just a bit. It’ll take far longer for it to get to the point where I’ll want to open my fortuchka because I’m dying of heat, but I won’t get up at 3 in the morning to put on a second sweater and woolen hat tonight.
In honor of the riddle-enigma-mystery roll (I am picturing a Cinnabon™ like the ones on which Jude and I chowed down after Inglorious Basterds on Sunday – about which I’m not going to say a word, as it is, like A Bride at Any Cost beyond societal commentary. I don’t even want to think about what ramifications have transpired in the American mind to spawn that reimagination of war on Hitler. Anyway. Back to the first sentence I hijacked, about Russia-as-a-roll-of-mystery-meat --) here is a picture from the museum-park Tsaritsyno.
I am not sure if I am ever going to write up a formal version of my thoughts from the park. I agree with Grigory Revzin, if any one ever has the opportunity or is in the mood to read what a Russian architectural historian far older and wiser than me [in this kingdom by the sea] has to say about it. For now: the mighty sphinx, gentrifying her river-roost as only Moscow’s youth can make her be…
1 month ago