30.7.12 Let me draw you a picture. The sun is not far above the horizon, although it's nearly noon. There is snow on the ground, hard packed. I'm walking towards the railroad tracks, which I'll then follow one station past Dolgoprudny, where I'll veer away to get to a cluster of buildings where Prime Print is located - that's my company work site. We haven't had snow for awhile, so that whatever snow is present has long since turned to pack ice, and this makes for trecherous walking sometimes. I pride myself on my ability to keep my footing on the hazardous ground, although even I have moments where I unexpectedly find myself head over heels in the air, about to hit a very hard, cold ground. On this day, I don't reach the tracks without having one of these moments. The best thing to do when you have been betrayed by a lack of friction, and gravity is quickly pulling you towards a rather uncomfortable impact with elementaly hardened ice, is to relax, say to yourself that bad things are bound to happen, and at least try to enjoy to view of a possibly crystal blue sky as your short flight comes to its bruising end. Luckily for me, the sky was clear and blue on that day, and I enjoyed the view. I let a terrific grunt with the impact, then I picked myself up, brushed myself off, checked for broken limbs, and having found everything in order, I got on my way. I realised only half an hour later, as I was approaching my turn away from the tracks, that my digital camera had fallen out of my pocket. And then I remembered the guy who had been walking towards me when I slipped that morning. He gave me a strange look after I had gotten up, although I hadn't said anything to him. What, had he never seen anyone slip on an icy street before? Maybe I slip with an American accent too, I thought, and so he had recognised a foreigner by the way I fall. But then it occured to me that he might have seen my camera fly out of my coat packet and was waiting for me to, perhaps hoping that I wouldn't, feel in my pockets and notice the camera's absence. Of course, I didn't do this after I fell, I must have been in a hurry to get to work. Thus I lost my camera, it would seem, to some Russian bum. For the sake of political correctness, I should note that there are no more nor fewer bums in this country than any other. I would remind anyone who has been conditioned to hate a fear anything associated with the Soviet Union or communism, that an American might have also taken a camera up for grabs. Anyway, I didn't mention this incident to get into any comparisons, but to explain what has happened with my camera. I promised someone that I would post some photos at the end of the blog, but without many good ones of Dolgoprudny, I'll have to restrict myself to photos in words. Turns out, describing a photo in writing is an interesting and challenging exercise. The idea came to me as a homework assignment that I gave to my students. I had long since been doing an activity in class where a student describes a picture to a partner who draws what is being described and asks questions for any details. If the students are motivated, the activity can be very communicative. But for the first time this past month, after doing this activity in class, I asked my students to write about their own favorite photo at home, then to bring it in and explain what they had written (without reading their text), sort of a show-and-tell assignment. I took their texts at the end of class, and as usual corrected them and responded. But with such an assignment, how could I respond but with a description of a photo of my own. It occured to me then that I didn't have to provide a hard photo, but that I could pick any memory and describe it. I rather enjoyed doing this, especially since my students had chosen some beautiful pictures, which allowed me to do the same. I am sitting on the bank of a shallow creek. The water isn't more than a few inches deep as it flows in a wide swath across a bed of large rocks and small boulders. It's night, and the moon is full. The otherwise visible stars are hiding behind the light of the moon, which in return lights up the trees on the other bank, and the sides of the mountains looming in the distance on each edge of the valley. I can see the reflection of the trees and the mountains in the water, centered by a long white streak of moonlight. The rocks interrupt the reflection here and there, but not so much that I can't see Half Dome standing sentry across from me. I look up and see the actual mountain jutting out of the valley floor. The plan was to climb it the next day. (This memory is one of the most beautiful pictures I have in my collection.) 2.8.12 In my next picture, I'm in Russia again. It's last winter, and rather cold, but no weather could stop me from enjoying my Saturday walks. I am in a new place again. I was in the area last week, but I didn't come this way. I must have walked a long way already, possibly all the way from home, because I'm still well north of the station where the train from Dolgoprudny stops. It's a typical street, leading from one street to, as I will soon find out, a broader avenue that I have walked along before. There's snow on the ground, but the sidewalks have been cleaned well enough that whatever slippery sheets of ice may be lying on their surfaces are easily visible, and can be carefully crossed, if not avoided all together. There's a vent releasing room-temperature air from a thick pipe which is sticking out of the ground next to some sleeping trees in between the sidewalk and the street. There's a bush next to the vent, also sleeping. Its branches come close enough to the vent that it is getting a constant blast of air. The air comes out relatively warm and wet. The water evidently condenses on the branches, and then freezes. Icicles form and grow as more and more water comes out, condenses on the already frozen sheath of water, and freezes in turn. Furthermore, the blast of air is so strong, and the branches are so close to the vent that the icicles grow slightly sideways, because every additional drop of water is still blown a little away from the vent. As I walk by, the branches already have been adorned with icicles almost a foot long, extending first to the side, then curling downward as gravity overcomes the flow of air from the vent as the icicles grow more and more. With the added weight and form, the otherwise bare branches sway much more in the artificial wind than they would otherwise. The icicles bump into one another and make not the sound of chimes, as you might expect by their appearance, but more like marbles bumping into one another. It's cold. I move on to find a bookstore and happily go inside to warm myself up. I'm in a train. I'm going to work in the central school Moscow. I ran to catch this train, because the later one is more packed and takes longer to arrive. In this train, I can always find a seat, as I have today. I am writing in my notebook, brainstorming ideas for an 'agree or disagree' handout that I'll write up after arriving at school, and then use in that evening's lesson. We don't know what the topic is, maybe sports, or education, or vegetarianism. The sun is shining through the windows of the train carriage from the east, which is strange, since it's already late afternoon. I'm wearing an old polo shirt, my blue jeans, and my nicest shoes. My backpack is on my lap. I'm using its back side as a table to write on. The table is a little sweaty from the run to the train station, but that's O.K., it's still a good table. There are textbooks inside, and speakers, plenty of hard things on which to write. The textbooks are not for that evening's class, I only have to make some copies from them for the company's classes the next day. I may use the speakers that evening. I might have a song lined up, maybe "We don't need no Education," if the topic is education, or "Another One Bites the Dust," if it's sports. I might also just have a random song prepared in case nobody has anything to say about whatever topic I have planned for the evening. (That happens sometimes. I've done these topics so many times, that occasionally I forget to start from the beginning and my starting point is too complicated for anybody to have an opinion on it.) In the train, I don't pay much attention to the other people in the carriage with me. We're all going to Moscow, but each for his or her own reason. So late in the afternoon, I might be one of few who are going to work. Other people might still be on the job if it requires them to travel from place to place; others might be visiting a friend; some of the young people might be going to a class of one sort or another. This picture is very recent, taken within the past month. Not only as I sit in this train, but elsewhere and elsewhen, every day, constantly, I am trying not to think about how many classes I have left. The Moscow Marathon is coming to an end, but I mustn't think about the finish line, because sometimes you're finished as soon as you think about it, whether or not you've actually come to the end. It's best not to distract yourself with thoughts of free time, good weather, long walks, sitting in parks with some nuts, dark chocolate, a bottle of water, and a good book - it's best not to think about those things until the job is done. Because such thoughts don't motivate you anymore, they kill you. They bring your tired run to a dead halt and you collapse along the way. You won't be able to get up after thinking about such things, but will have to crawl along until the merciful end. Your legs, having gone on strike, will already be on vacation, but your soul will be forced to drag itself to and from work whatever way it can. "Finish line?" you must force yourself to think, "What line? What vacation? I don't know what you're talking about; now leave me be please, I have a delightful lesson that I want to prepare for, oh boy!" Today, I am on vacation. Yesterday was my first day. It was a good day. Today is too. I've wanted to write this last entry before the exhaustion of work leaves me entirely. It's almost already left, though not completely. I only have to imagine that I have a lesson in a few hours, and a muscle in my brain tightens. It's still rather sore, just like a runner's quads and hams and joints after a three-hour run. A few weeks' rest will do it some good. Of course, I've already begun to enjoy my free time in ways that weren't possible before. In the absense of work, there's a big void that needs to be filled. I'd like to fill it with a lot of reading and writing, but also some other things that I want, or nevertheless have to do, like some homework before my CELTA course starts next month. I'll put that off, a few days at least, to the last minute at most. 4.8.12 Here are two more pictures. I may have described them already, but I'll do them again, because after thinking for a few minutes, I decided that these were ones which might stay in my memory for a long time. It's late Februaury. The Presidential elections are in a few weeks. I'm standing on Pushkin Square, along with a crowd of a few hundred other people who have gathered either to support one of the opposition candidates or, like me, to see the spectacle. The candidate is Vladimir Dj., I call him the Joker, a fitting name, because not many people take him seriously. I can see the Joker up on the stage that has been set up on the edge of the square, which isn't very big, no bigger than a soccer field. It's enclosed by streets on all sides, one of them being the busy Tver avenue, which leads to the Red Square in one direction, and to the Belarus train station in the other. People have flags and banners of all sorts. On one side of the square there's a huge banner in black and red which says, "[Vote for] Djirinovski, or else it will get worse!" And on the other side there's a banner of the same large size, spanning almost the entire length of the square, which says, "Djirinovski, and it will get better!" There are traffic jams all around, with cars honking, either in support of the Joker, or to disrupt whatever he's trying to say. He's up on the stage. I can't see him as clearly as I've seen him on T.V., with his shortly-cropped frizzy grey hair, beady eyes and smoke-stained teeth, but despite the distance, I can recognise him from where I stand. He's wearing a light grey winter coat, maybe you call it a frock, and he puts on glasses whenever he wants to read something from his notes. His voice is as clear as ever because there are loud speakers which translate his speech to all corners of the square. For some reason he's talking about historical events from the past, and I don't understand how they pertain to what he wants accomplished in the near or distant future. I get the impression that others might not understand this either, or that they're used to him talking like this, and they've stopped listening until the Joker indicates that it's time to cheer again. He does this with a change of intonation and volume in his voice. The topic changes accordingly, and suddenly he's talking about current problems and solutions. There's a small climax within the speech, the crowd cheers, then the Joker goes back into seemingly less relevant material, and the atmosphere goes dormant again, waiting for the next surge in emotion, be it hatred towards the current administration, or hope for the future, or amusement at the prospect of the Joker as President. Later that day, I've walked further into downtown Moscow and have come to what I think is called Theater Square, which extends all the way across the street from the Bolshoi Theater. Here the communists are having a meeting in support of their candidate, Mr Z. The location is fitting because there's a monument on the square, I think of Carl Marx, with an engraved epithet calling for the proletariate from all countries of the world to unite. The street, another big avenue which goes in a circle around the Red Square, has been closed for the meeting, and a small crowd extends from a stage on one side of the street, set up right next to the monument, into the small square in front of the theater. The place has been decorated extensively. Everything and everyone is dressed in red: there are ribbons on the fountains and lampposts, and flags of all sizes with the legendary sickle and hammer. The stage itself is practically covered in red curtains, red in the back and on the sides, and a red banner spanning the top saying, I forget exactly, but something like, "Power to the Folk." The crowd here is not very big, no more than a few hundred people. Most of the supporters seem to be of the more elderly generation, those who can well compare the current times with the old, and who have decided that the latter were, despite their faults, nonetheless better than the former. In this meeting, there are many speakers. I've arrived in time to hear the candidate himself, Mr. Z. He has a heavy build; he's not overweight, but looks rather like an aged weight lifter. The material in his speech seems more to the point than that of the Joker's speech, and his voice is deep and penetrating. In short, the man looks and speaks like a tank. He doesn't speak for long, though, after my arrival, and other speakers come to take his place. I don't know where they come from, whether or not they are waiting in the front rows of the crowd, or in the background of the stage. There are plenty of people on the stage, one of whom I recognise from a photo I saw of Mr. Z speaking somewhere. This man must be his body guard. He's huge, also with a very heavy build, although seemingly sooner as a result of one too many Russian doughnuts than of lifting heavy weights. He's middle-aged, maybe nearing fifty, with short black hair spotted with grey, and a mean looking face. His arms are crossed one way or another, either one hand in the other arcoss his substantial waist - that's when he's relaxed - or, when he's serious, across his chest. He stands there the entire time, never asking anything of anyone, never drinking the hot tea that's going around. He's silent as a mouse, but he doesn't stand far enough away (and it would have to be pretty far) that his presence isn't obvious and imposing. He moves his position according to where Mr.Z goes to sit down as the other speakers take their turn. At one point the meeting takes on sort of a religious tone, as one or two particular speakers come on - I don't know whether I should call them cheer leaders, or communist priests - and lead the congregation in an intermissionary prayer. I can't help but think of my own experiences in my hometown catholic church, as we used to repeat 'Lord, hear our prayer,' after whatever the priest wanted to pray for that week. Here, on the avenue next to Theater Square, one of the speakers says, 'for this or that,' after which the crowd shouts 'Ура! [Hurray!],' whereby the last chant is for those who fell in the war for the motherland at the hands of the Nazi fascists. I think to myself, you don't need to have an elderly audience for this comment to have an emotional effect; the Joker probably invoked this moment of history in his speech too. That ought to do it. This marathon's over. The academic year has come to an end for me, and this blog has temporarily reached its end too. It may seem to have reached its end long ago, judging by how little I wrote this past Spring, but believe it or not, I was still chugging along at work and on the weekends through Moscow. I was already tired then and, try as I might not to, I was counting the months, then the weeks, and finally the days left before now finally arrived. Now it's now, finally! It's here, I've passed on, so to speak, and am in heaven. But I'll resurrect as a teacher, probably at too soon a time. I'll have to make the most of my time off to gather enough willpower to go back to work in a few weeks. How am I going to do this? Well, by running a marathon, or course - only a marathon of a different kind. Maybe I'll write or read like a madman. I've already started my Polish textbook (I'm going to Krakov next month for my CELTA course). If I can learn enough Polish to be able to read Alice in Wonderland, I'd be pretty proud of myself. Like I said before, there are plenty of other things that I want or have to do. I'll have to plan well to not miss out on much. People might say to me, I can hear them now, that I should take it easy, relax, lighten up. I guess I can't help myself. I run one marathon after another, in whatever figurative sense you can think of, and at the end of my day, there's no escape from the fact that for me life is a marathon. I'll be running until the day I die. Would I want it any other way?