moscow and i have the kind of relationship that only my mother and i have perfected as tolerance. i love her, but i do not like her.
in that sense i can never have her fully in my life. i can never let her in on the happenings of my world as freely as i let in my friends. we can never share intimate stories, and her presence for longer than a few hours begins to trigger at my sane levels.
i went down to the Russian section of the central library today and walked past all the books. back and forth aimlessly. i pulled one off the shelves and opened it up to smell it. yes, i like smelling books. especially older ones that have /that/ particular past to it. it reminded me of home. my home. this was not the smell of political asylums or western centric soviet studies.
this smell is me at age 5, sitting in the library den of our house pretending to understand the books i’m reading. this smell is Gorky park, and chocolates i ate while gossiping with Babushkas. this smell is my mother arguing in the market, trying to bargain over food. it’s the smell that takes me back to the metro, and the snow, and the beautiful autumn leaves that cover themselves over Pushkin. this smell is me dancing in the streets. this smell completely took over and i know i miss my home for reasons many wouldn't understand.i will never tire of this scent.
in that sense i can never have her fully in my life. i can never let her in on the happenings of my world as freely as i let in my friends. we can never share intimate stories, and her presence for longer than a few hours begins to trigger at my sane levels.
i went down to the Russian section of the central library today and walked past all the books. back and forth aimlessly. i pulled one off the shelves and opened it up to smell it. yes, i like smelling books. especially older ones that have /that/ particular past to it. it reminded me of home. my home. this was not the smell of political asylums or western centric soviet studies.
this smell is me at age 5, sitting in the library den of our house pretending to understand the books i’m reading. this smell is Gorky park, and chocolates i ate while gossiping with Babushkas. this smell is my mother arguing in the market, trying to bargain over food. it’s the smell that takes me back to the metro, and the snow, and the beautiful autumn leaves that cover themselves over Pushkin. this smell is me dancing in the streets. this smell completely took over and i know i miss my home for reasons many wouldn't understand.i will never tire of this scent.