display | more...

Moscow metro: the old solid carriage, which looks just like a bus, or a trolleybus, but has the feeling of being made out of solid steel, is not-so-gently lulling itself down the tunnel. The heavy doors with the hard rubber cushions are unforgiving of latecomers and demand respect from both young and old, the force and the speed of the closing doors could put the fear of god into an otherwise respectable communist. Many a Moskvich has either been caught, or has seen people being dragged by those jaws made of metal and fear. I personally have forced the door open on numerous occasions, trying to free an unsuspecting lady whose coat or a handbag was being swallowed by the beast with the mark of the M on its forehead.

"Dear passengers, be careful, doors are closing, next station is Kutuzovskaya" *SLAM*, no screams, the beast goes hungry again. The view out the window is bleak: dust, cables and the rhythmic lights, blinking faster and faster as the train speeds up, nearly toppling the weary commuter with its awkward jerky acceleration.

I watch my feet dangle off the seat, but that doesn't keep my attention for long, I look up at mum; she's sitting next to me, staring into nothing, thinking. She does that a lot, she works hard, so a lot of the time when she sits down, she just switches off: I guess she can rest and think at the same time that way. Sometimes she stares at me like that, I know she's not looking at me, but it's unnerving.

"Dear passengers, be careful, doors are closing, next station is Fili" *SLAM*, no victims yet again, the beast groans and moves on in search of more prey. Trying to keep myself entertained, and being my mother's son, I stare ahead and try not to blink. My vision goes fuzzy and people's faces start to morph. They start looking like animals, and as I strain to keep myself from blinking, eyes starting to water, the faces start growing snouts, this is fascinating! "ЧЁ УСТАВИЛСЯ?" I blink and jerk back reflexively, I must have been staring at the lady sitting opposite me. Mum, having quickly figured out what was going on, turns to me and tells me it's not polite to stare, more to defuse the situation than to tell me off.

I was going to explain that the more you look at people, the more they look like pigs, but I didn't talk much back then.

 

Is there then a world where I rule absolutely on fate?

A time I bind with chains of signs?  An existence become endless at my bidding?

-  Wislawa Szymbrokska

 

 

It was a night in Paris,

it was a bottle of wine and a warm baguette 

 

It was an afternoon in Baltimore,

it was a plate of crabcakes and cheap beer

 

It was a morning in New Orleans

eggs benedict and coal black coffee

 

Full plates,  languid afternoons

beds that were soft and exhausted 

 

They are all moments I recall;  true people wrapped around fiction

It is my life,  it is the life I dreamed of 

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.