People have been asking me, recently, how I feel about leaving.
It's like...yesterday I walked through setting sunlight into a cafe, and there were only some small grey clouds that could have been posing as smokestack-jizz or smog. By the time I was settled I noticed that the lighting had changed, all the people who'd been reclining out on the patio were standing in the airlock, staring at the gloom and hail. Within five minutes the sun was back out, but it was still storming. For the next three hours, my work was accompanied by a crazy mix of sunset-colored skies and the fiercest of fierce thunderstorms.
Moscow is, of course, no port city; no drizzly rainy maritime daylong very gross gloom, here. Well. Sometimes. But it's not maritime, in any case, and it's not often. Every phenomenon eventually occurs, and everything has its time, but that time limit is akin to how long bad performers are allowed on the entry rounds of American Idol before Simon buzzes them off the stage. All are the rage and the storm and sound and fury, signifying nothing, and their ilk.
Um. What was the question?
In pointed the-hero-and-his-shadow dichotomy is the conversation (in a different cafe, but during a most similar storm) Briullov and I had, where Briullov said, "Sometimes I'm excited that there are just a couple of weeks left."
Briullov says, "I don't think I could handle much longer than that."
Briullov says, "We're kind of crazy people, you and I. We make it so everything - even sitting in this cafe - is stressful."
Briullov says, "But we've gotten a lot done."
1 month ago