Psyop, Geese, etc.

If there is anything that the psyop situation with Geese has proven to me, it is that the narrative culture has gone too far. I love a good story as much as anyone, but these latest accusations are the direct result of people having too much free time on their hands. It feels like this free time has to be filled with conspiracy theories and a bunch of far-fetched narratives that go nowhere at all. 

Or maybe I have just gone soft and started to take this dangerously utilitarian approach when it comes to art. If there is a critic who murders my favourite films but then gives me one recommendation that will knock me off my feet, then the said critic is worth reading. Equally, if Grian Chatten wraps himself in a Palestinian flag at every Fontaines DC concert, that will not make me stop listening to the excellent Chaos For The Fly. Really, I'm happy that Hitler's art was terrible, or I could be in very dangerous waters here.

Now coming to Geese... I find the story of someone using a deliberate psychological operation to affect my appreciation of a band mildly intriguing but also somewhat irrelevant. Because the music is actually good. Because the narrative should never override the art, and Getting Killed is one of the most exciting albums in recent years. 

"December Will Be Magic Again"

Incredibly, Kate Bush recorded this Christmas single in 1980. It was bookended by the anti-war "Army Dreamers" and the existential "Sat In Your Lap", and yet here it is, a true wonder of a song that has all that dream-like romanticism, that childish yearning which defines December. Five minutes of pure magic, and the "like the snow" line never fails to sweep me right out of the window and into the Christmas lights. Like... the SNOW. Merry Christmas, Wesołych Świąt, etc.!

Child's Christmas in Wales

One part of me wants to post the unfading "Fairytale of New York", especially the year that Shane MacGowan has passed away. Another part of me wants to post "This Is End Times" by Jim Bob for reasons that are just as obvious. But - no, we need to stray away from the obvious once in a while. This year, it will be "Child's Christmas in Wales" by John Cale, a song whose sound has always encapsulated the atmosphere of Christmas for me. Pastoral, delightful, warm. Even if the lyrics are not really festive at all... Merry Christmas!

Polish notes (November '23)

Graveyards of Poland... While I may never again experience anything quite like the spiritual dread I felt at Krakow's Rakowicki cemetery earlier this year, Stare Powązki in Warsaw is the place to go to at the start of November. The old cemetery was established in 1790 and is home to over a million graves (Krzysztof Kieślowski, Anna Bilińska and Chopin's parents are all buried here). It is a cold autumn evening with countless lanterns giving off warmth and red light. Everyone around is looking for a grave or talking about the dead, and even small kids are carrying flowers. A young violinist is playing Polonez Ogińskiego and there is a great sense of solemn beauty and calm about the place. The lanterns smell of wax and warm lemon, and I see people walking slowly through The Avenue of the Distinguished as well as the dimmest and the narrowest of alleys. It is essential to be here on the first of November to start to understand these people... Truly there is nothing like All Saints' Day in Poland. 

In the second half of November, there was a two-day art exhibition at Hali EXPO XXI. Warszawskie Targi Sztuki. Not simply an art exhibition but also a sale. Over a hundred art galleries from all over the country brought their best paintings in order to sell them at an attractive price (not too attractive, as we soon find out). There is a lot of diversity ranging from grotesque modern art to Polish classics to a huge area taken up by wooden statues that all resemble Alberto Giacometti. It was a great experience - mostly, though, I'm left with an image of an elderly man in a vintage green coat whispering to his wife as we walk past them: "Nie wiem, nie wiem...".

No one goes through life unscathed, and I guess this is my turn. The central Warsaw Urząd in Marszałkowska is not a welcoming place and yet you have to be here to have any chance at all, to prove something, to make a stand. The place is full of people in long gray coats, and they invariably resemble a famous Japanese anime character in an impenetrable white mask. Only there are lots of them here, and they all sit on chairs or stand along the walls - with lowered eyes, sucked in by the bureaucratic vortex, waiting for their number. At some point, there is a sound, unpleasant but oddly inspiring in the given circumstances, a number appears on the screen and another figure pulls their head out of the invisible hood, awkwardly pushes the chair they were sitting on, takes off the white mask and runs to their window. At the window, it could mean a failure or a happy end. Mostly, though, it means nothing. 

It was something of an odd experience - to be seeing the 50th movie by Woody Allen in French (the original language of the film) with Polish subtitles. But there is a true sense of event, not least because this is likely to be his final work. It is a fine little film, a cross between Scoop and Match Point, and its existence might have been predicted by the final scene of Hollywood Ending. There are not too many people in the cinema, so thankfully no one will find out that my French is even worse than my Polish. 

I love Polish trams, and when I build my route around Warsaw, I often neglect subway and buses. Somehow, trams seem to be the way to go around the city. There are many interesting characters here who demand to be written about, and you can often see them in one of the four incarnations of Warsaw trams. The modern ones, smooth and slick, that you want to be on when you are late. The older ones, divided into two parts, that have a slight whiff of Soviet past. The very old ones, with uncomfortable plastic seats, that you hop on when you do not care too much about your destination. And, finally, the ancient ones, the ones that only appear on holidays and with a steering mechanism that, miraculously, does not transport you to the start of the 20th century.

Polish notes (September-October '23)

There is a place in Warsaw that genuinely scares me. It is located behind Ujazdowski park, between the Embassy of France and the Embassy of Germany. It is not even a place, really, just a spot. An object. An installation. A telephone booth. It is white in colour and in order to reach it you need to walk on the wooden footpath platform that leads you over the green lawn. The actual door to the booth is quite rigid and it takes an effort to get it open. Once inside, there is a heavy thud and an odd feeling of anxiety that intensifies as you pick up the receiver and hear the whooshing sound of wind. Then you notice a memorial book, and some strange dots of instinct and imagination start to connect. I have once dreamed this place up, I have seen it in several of my nightmares. The idea comes from Japan, from a man who had built a phone booth just like that in order to talk to his dead cousin. It is with a heavy heart that I put down the receiver and leave the telephone booth. Not because there is no one. But, rather, because there are too many, and the wind is not loud enough.

In Mochnackiego St., in the centre of Old Ochota, lies the best cafe in Warsaw. It is called La Buvette and it was opened a few years ago by a French immigrant from Alsace. The man looks like a less glamorous Johnny Depp and you can often see him in the cafe cutting bread or talking to someone about Strasbourg. The menu is brief but to the point: French wine, warm tartines (for which we are willing to come every day), cheese, baguettes and ham. The place offers authentic snails and even desserts, but that is not why you are here in late September. You come because the evenings are already cool, but you still want to sit on the small terrace surrounded by historical architecture of Kolonia Lubeckiego. Because all you want to do in autumn is to defy autumn. La Buvette is one of the best kept secrets of Warsaw, and the ideal place to do it.  

Saska Kępa is special. While I will never prefer it to Kolonia Lubeckiego, it is an absolute thrill to come here on a warm Sunday in early October. Interestingly, there is little to no striking architecture here. As you walk away from the National Stadium and Rondo Washyngtona and enter Francuska St. with its small cafes, hanging umbrellas and broad terraces, you notice square-shaped houses that strongly resemble one another. They should look dull but they don't. Infused with the bohemian past of the area, they appear substantial rather than bland. Besides, there is a man nearby carrying a huge painting. A plaque with the name of a local artist. Two young men shooting black and white photos. There are streets stretching in different directions away from Francuska St., and they reveal local wonders. Saska Kępa looks like a world unto itself - but a generous world, ready to host you on any given Sunday in the middle of Indian Summer.

While I missed the Warsaw Film Festival due to a sudden vacation, there was still time for the ultimate cinema experience of watching the three and a half hours of Scorsese's latest film. Four, in fact, as apparently there is nothing that can make Polish cinemas cut back on trailers and advertisements. Still, the film could go on for a couple of more hours for all I care as the quiet acting of Lily Gladstone gripped me like nothing else in recent memory.  

On Halloween, there is a knock on the door, and it catches me off-guard. Because I am not thinking about the kids. I am not thinking about anything as I open the door and see the six of them - in elaborate make-up, dressed as witches. "Cukierek albo psikus!" And oh my God, I'm not prepared. I have nothing, and they are waiting with a sinister kind of patience. I tell them to hang on for a minute, return to the apartment and grope for cupboards seeking desperately - seeking anything that remotely resembles sweets. Nothing! Will apples do? Black tea? Avocado? In the end, there is a cautious sigh of relief as my fingers detect a cardboard box at the back of a top shelf. Belarusian sweets, two years old, abandoned and probably stale. But they are my only hope - and soon I reemerge from behind the door and hand them over to the little witches. There is an uncomfortable pause. Apparently, they had been expecting something else. Still, they take the box, mutter their collective gratitude and vanish on the dark landing. Halloween is big in Poland. I have to remember it next year.

The Central Station in Warsaw is a lonesome place. Or it can be when the evening settles down, crowds disappear and you wait for someone. My old professor of English Literature emerges from behind a faceless railway bakery and we embrace and try to cram a million words into a brief meeting. There is so much to say, in English, in Belarusian, in Russian and even in Polish, before his train to Poznań and before the station is switched off (because it has to be switched off, at some point), that we often say nothing. "Do not come back to Belarus", he insists before we say our goodbyes. "Do not even think about coming back". The Central Station, meanwhile, is empty but never entirely dark.

Polish notes (August '23)

As we drive into Łódź late in the evening, on a glum Sunday, Tricky starts playing one of his recent songs. "Take It There" is the perfect soundtrack for the city whose unnerving charm has long become legendary. And it is all true. All of it. The abandoned buildings with punctured eyes, the sinister looks of drunk teenagers, the trams that move in disgusting slow-motion, the dim Sunday shops that look permanently closed. "How far are we from the centre?" I ask a friend. The friend grins: "This is the centre". Indeed. Behind it all, however, there is a rich history of Polish film-making (Wajda, Munk, Kieslowski and Polanski all studied here) that barely even teases your senses. Increasingly, though, as we trudge through the twilight fog, I start to notice the small details: a girl in pink, a red glimmer in an abandoned window, a bizarre similarity between the main square and Piazza San Marco in Venice. The square in Łódź, however, is broken, dismantled, permanently taken apart. David Lynch's favourite city, no less.

Before Łódź, however, there is the OFF Festival in Katowice and a threat of rain. A resourceful young man at the entrance is shouting something about the quality of his ponchos and the impending showers. The ponchos, the young man insists through his roaring mouthpiece, could save our lives. Indeed: the forecast is implacable. Still, it does not prevent desperate festival-goers, Silesians and tourists alike, from getting in. The OFF Festival is one of the biggest festivals in Poland, and this year's line-up is a sizzling proposition. While I have not yet caught on to the brilliance of Jockstrap and King Krule, I am here for Spiritualized and Slowdive. And it is all worth it. The crowd is manageable, and the toilets do not make you lose hope in humanity. Most importantly, though, there is a lot of great music. Via electrifying American gospel, via Brazilian folk from Belarus, via The Strokes' Is This It performed in its entirety by a very capable Polish band, we will all get to see the pixie-like figure of Slowdive's Rachel Goswell who will be as amazed as everyone else: because it will be long after midnight, and the rain will not have started.

The sad thing about Belarusian Kupalauski Theatre is that they do not have a venue of their own. This time, in mid-August, they are performing in an experimental music theatre in the north of Warsaw. Worse, the said theatre is located inside a shopping mall, by a local multiplex cinema. Do we really care, though, as we walk through a very long hall and enter a rather small room filled to the brim with people who look intelligent, hungry and somewhat ill at ease (among them: artists, journalists, book publishers, politicians). We are all here to see the new stage production by this great theatre-in-exile: "Geese-People-Swans" by Alhierd Baharevich. It is, in fact, an adaptation of the second part of Baharevich's celebrated novel Dogs of Europe, and they do it faithfully, with slight changes that seem warranted and to the point (the bizarre sci-fi ending, for instance, is all but gone; the tinkering with dates also works). As the actors walk on to the stage for the final bow, everyone in the room is in tears. Still hungry, still intelligent - but no longer ill at ease. 

The National Museum in Warsaw is currently holding an exhibition of art  which it has acquired over the last couple of years. The room that I am most interested in is, of course, the room with a dozen or so Marc Chagall's painting. This is actually my second time at the exhibition: I am starting to fall in love with Chagall as I get older. All of a sudden, I see great warmth in the colours and elaborate child-like lines. The highlight, to me, is My Life Between Vitebsk and Paris from 1954. In the center of the picture, in the hands of those unfading lovers of Chagall (one of whom has the eyes of the artist, inevitably), there is a bouquet of flowers dividing the canvas into two halves. Above, there is Paris with its breathtaking rooftops and the obligatory steel tower. Below, there is Vitebsk, which I have never been to, but which I recognise at a glance.

Bielany, while not exactly the most mind-blowing district in Warsaw, is still worth a visit. Old Bielany in particular has two streets that are among my favourite places in the city: Płatnicza and Kleczewska. Quaint old architecture, cobblestoned road, gas lanterns, rose gardens and a bakery called Dej (one of the best in Warsaw). 

Polish notes (July '23)

On the way from Krakow to Auschwitz (which will always sound as 'Oswiencim' to my ears), the guide, a big and emotional Polish girl named Katarzyna, keeps asking trivia questions and talking about the economics and the eugenics of it. For the time being, we agree and we play along. After all, no amount of books, articles and films (no, not even my trip to Dachau a few years ago) can prepare me for what I am about to see. Because the scale is... well, there is no word in the English dictionary that could adequately explain the scale. 'Staggering' is nothing, and 'overwhelming' is weak. There is a point, after the stories of blood and guts and vomit scratched away from the floor of the gas chambers before a new group of prisoners is brought to the slaughter, when senses leave you and you look at the familiar trees and the mountains around the camp and you feel this is not just about the Jewish riches and the ethnic cleansing. This goes well beyond that, into the abyss that no one could ever explain, or even begin to make sense of... And the word? Well, perhaps 'unbearable' could do.   

Hučna Fest is now an annual event - a development which is both wonderful and rather tragic. Held between the Vistula and the ever magnificent garden on the roof of the Warsaw Library, it is an event for immigrants. Mostly, it attracted me due to the conversation with Alhierd Bacharevič. Not always eloquent (good writers do not have to be good speakers; as Nabokov once put it, "I think like a genius, write like a master, and speak like a child"), he was nonetheless quite animated this afternoon and read out expressively from his recent autobiography. Still, I come away with a book of poems by Ángela Espinoza Ruiz who signed my copy of her Belarusian poetry with a child's hand and a memorable line. A true poet, then. 

While I can take shopping malls in small doses, Stary Tarasy is the place in Warsaw I absolutely cannot stand. Literally everything about it deprives me of the will to live - the design of its roof, the wandering teens, the smell of Zara home, the inevitable fast food. Everything. And yet this was the place where I ended up watching Oppenheimer. The film is, of course, Chistopher Nolan at his overwhelming best, and a welcome return to form after the boring and impenetrable Tenet. For a short while (well, not too short, as the film lasts a whopping 3 hours), it seemed like I forgot all about the place where I was. And I am not too sure that Barbie would have done that. 

I have long realised that going to Żoliborz is almost like going to a different town. As you get off the tram soon after Warszawa Gdańska, on Adama Mickiewicza street, you find yourself walking through a narrow park towards the Warsaw Citadel. It is a picturesque walk that culminates in an area that lives entirely in its own world. Old Żoliborz is one of the richest places in Warsaw and the part of it which is located between the circular square of Thomas Wilson and the snake-shaped alley of Andrzej Wojciechowski, houses a luxurious private sector with grape-covered balconies and stone sculptures in carved patios. In the summer, the sector looks especially attractive and blinds you with its lush greenery. Local residents can often be found in a Spanish wine bar nearby (WineTu), where they blissfully chill on the midday terrace to the sounds of American jazz and the clinking of Sunday glasses. It is a different Universe, and inevitably, you want some of it. 

Finally, Krasiński Garden has to rank as one of the best parks in Warsaw. With its calm pond and the tasteful facade of the palace, it manages to be both striking a reserved, and steadies my nerves quite effortlessly as I hurry to Bonifraterska street for the wicked and cruel canal treatment. 

Polish notes (June '23)

"SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT!!!"

These are the words shouted by someone in the Warsaw club Niebo during the Built To Spill gig at the end of June. Polish humour can be a force for good, and even the emotionless Doug Martsch bursts into a genuine smile... The concert is, of course, excellent, with just the right amount of melodies and guitar solos to keep things going. Yes, his voice is getting weaker now, and the setlist does not feature "Broken Chairs" (a crime, obviously), but when another member in the audience screams "You are my favourite Doug!", I find it difficult to disagree. Not with this version of the immortal "I Would Hurt A Fly".

Beer Station is the place in Warsaw to have a late-night political conversation about the current state of affairs across the Eastern border. Two former students took me to this Belarusian pub in Lwowska Street, and despite the godawful cocktail that almost made me lose faith in humanity (as well as in the future of this particular establishment), I found the experience strangely rewarding. It is, in the end, all about the conversations as well as a Belarusian musician named Takindang playing a charming little folk set late after dark. 

Jassmine is closing for the summer and Wojtek Mazolewski's electrifying gig was just about as fine a parting gift as we could get. It was a diverse set that veered from blues to rock to jazz to soul, and while not everything worked, the musicianship was astonishing. When the audience screamed (and they screamed a lot), you felt they were screaming your guts out. Which is to say, I see why he is so beloved here, in a country that has always valued taste and a sense of wild restraint.  

There are actually two Ochota theatres in Warsaw. One is called Och-Teatr and features a wonderful stage adaptation of "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" in its extensive programme while the other one is actually called Ochota Teatr and is more of an intimate, left-field venue. Established shortly before the Second World War, it has been active for nearly 100 years now. Since it is only a couple of minutes from the place where I live, it was only a matter of time before I got to see their take on "A Streetcar Named Desire". And it was all I ever wanted from theatre: visceral, emotional, experimental and utterly gripping (my full review is here). After all, there was always a reason why Stella's husband was of Polish descent.  

Two girls are playing this irresistible literary game while sitting on the floor of an English bookstore in Puławska Street. The bookstore is called The Books (no points for originality), and the game is them picking up a random book and reading out the first and the last sentences. It is a great game, and I love hearing their laughter as I trudge through the wonderfully cramped space of my favourite bookstore in the city. There is a recent Rushdie, a forgotten Updike, a surprising Banville, and there is also your last chance ever to get into Neil Gaiman. 

Afterwards, step into the underrated Arkadia Park which manages to be both opulent and somewhat reticent. Find a bench by the water, and you might just see something that nobody else can see.  

Polish notes (April-May '23)

The viral video shot by an American tourist in Warsaw underground provided a striking image: rows upon rows of Polish commuters reading books. Poles really do read a lot, and, oddly enough, they mostly favour paper books. At the end of April, in Białystok, there was a book fair that impressed me with the sheer multitudes of kids begging their parents to buy them something to read. There is an old Polish gentleman buying Belarusian books in Białystok, there are scores of Polish teenagers with dramatic haircuts haunting the bookshelves at your nearest Empik. There is, too, a young man walking his dog in Sue Ryder Park with a large paper book firmly in his hand. He is actually walking his big Labrador - but he is not letting go of the fascinating plot.

The international book fair in Warsaw at the end of May is just as impressive - except that in Warsaw you tend to take everything for granted. It is supposed to be gargantuan and it just has to be held in and around the Palace of Culture and Science. I come soon after the opening, and the sheer scope of this thing is frankly bewildering. And just as ever, I become broke in a matter of seconds. Books have truly achieved a cult status in Poland. 

Jassmine is the jazz club of Poland. Coming here is just as essential (and, quite frankly, inevitable) as booking a table at Birdland in New York. Things happen here, and on May 7, Piotr Matusik Trio were playing music from the Independence LP (2020). While that album is excellent in its own right, their brand of ECM jazz thrives in a live setting. The concert was a blast from beginning to end, the solos were engaging, and the audience were transfixed. Much to the annoyance of the waiters who did not nearly get enough orders. My Old-Fashioned was all but forgotten on the little square table, behind my back, the moment that the 12-minute opener "Longing" started playing. A shame, because they make good cocktails at Jassmine.

It is always great to discover Belarusian places in Warsaw, and the best discovery since Culture Cafe (slightly overpraised, but still good) was a place called Soulmates hidden in the midst of the disturbingly enormous Marshal Edward Rydz-Śmigły Park. Located by a skate park and opened by people who used to own a Minsk establishment called Soul Kitchen (for the record, Soul Kitchen is a brilliant Warsaw restaurant), Soulmates specialises in pastry. I have been here five times now, and I have never left disappointed. And with a freewheeling terrace like that, how could they disappoint? Bonus points for offering some of the most adventurous herbal teas in the city. Truly a place to return to, unlike the country we have all escaped from.

Finally, it is wonderful news that they have now allowed dogs into Ujazdowski Park. High-brow and trim, it only had one thing keeping it from being my favourite park in Warsaw. A certain roughness, a certain spontaneity. Well, they certainly have that now. 

A Christmas Carol

One of my favourite Christmas memories is of a group of atheist friends sitting by the piano late at night and singing Christmas carols in a small English town around ten years ago. Christmas Carols was also the last book I bought from a great Minsk book shop called Gogol's Dream before it closed down back in 2020. 

Which brings me to Pete Seeger's Traditional Christmas Carols album from 1967. To me, the essential Christmas album. Timeless-sounding, subtle, and impossible not to sing along to. Merry Christmas!

Why I Hate Stand-Up Comedy

A girl sitting a few stools away from me said to her date: "There are three things in life that make me happy: white wine, jogging and stand-up comedians". This happened in a cocktail bar, five or six years ago. I liked the idea. I liked the shape of it. I liked the way she was holding her Manhattan glass while saying that. What I could not accept was the essence of what she said. By that time, I had gone off white wine completely and in some Californian winery two summers ago I had to spit it out in horror and disgust. Jogging, unlike running, never made sense to me. Not even when I did it. But by far the biggest issue I had with the girl's statement was to do with stand-up comedians. I had no time for them back then, and I do not care for them now.

You see, I like jokes. I just do not like it when someone tells them to me. The idea of someone deliberately trying to make me laugh disgusts me. I wince when someone tells me about a bar and whoever walks into it. 

I guess my major problem is how unnatural it all is. A person is there on the stage thinking of ways to impress me - worse, they do that with pre-written jokes and scripted facial expressions. And the person is trying so hard that you do not want to see them fail. When they do, you feel like it was you who told the bad joke. And I do not mean to say that the joke is always bad. While I have seen cringe-worthy stand-up acts which did not make me smile once, I could on occasion be reduced to wild tears of laughter. It is just that I do not think it is worth the risk. 

There is no question that I could watch Black Books a hundred times and still find the whole thing hilarious beyond reason. Dylan Moran's stand-up performances, however, rarely move me (and Dylan Moran is among the very best out there). They do have good jokes worthy of any great scene with Bernard and Manny, but the situation is so contrived and artificial that even the obligatory glass of red wine cannot save it. Mind you, stand-up comedy is rarely quite as bad as someone telling you a fucking joke at the dinner table. It might actually be good - the problem is, I do not want to hear it.

Do joke, by all means - sense of humour is sometimes all that matters. Just do not make a show of it. Make it subtle, make it in a way that would feel natural. I always liked the story about how Christopher Hitchens would come to a party and not leave the house until he made a pass at everyone in the building. He did that by talking to people, charming them with the tone of his voice, by joking. He never tried to make them laugh, though. He just did.

Контрабас, балкон, Одесса

Я ожидал взлета. Я ожидал его уже слишком долго - минуты, а может быть, месяцы. Однако время давно прошло, а самолет так и не сдвинулся с места. Стюардессы ходили по салону в своей привычно услужливой суете и бесконечно что-то поправляли, уточняли, показывали. Где-то внизу работники аэропорта везли в багажное отделение клетку с собакой, и сердце непривычно сжалось. Было раннее утро, однако спать не хотелось. Не хотелось пить кофе, не хотелось говорить об Одессе. В голове боролись два образа. Образ Николь Кидман из старого фильма, который мы смотрели в детстве на черно-белом экране. "Бангкок-Хилтон". Единственная мелодия, которую я и сегодня могу сыграть на фортепиано. А еще образ французского героя из последней работы Андрея Смирнова. Оба фильма заканчиваются нервным, напряженным взлетом самолета. Со всеми деталями примитивной человеческой физиологии, от капелек пота на лбу до слез облегчения. Пот проступил уже давно (а иначе почему так намокли волосы?), однако слез все не было. Разумеется, я все ужасно утрировал: в конце концов, мы не бежали из тайской тюрьмы или Советского Союза середины пятидесятых. Хотя... Хотя постойте. 

Тем временем, самолет взлетел, и после холодного Киева и ночного поезда к Черному морю, мы оказались в Одессе. Шесть часов утра, и такси везло нас во временную квартиру в самом сердце ветреной и бездушной Аркадии. 

Должно быть, я писал уже однажды о том, что три моих любимых города - это Лукка, Одесса и Дублин. Трудно эмоционально пережить и осмыслить Нью-Йорк, он не подлежит сравнениям и существует над, или под, всем остальным, так что именно Лукку, Одессу и Дублин я бы назвал "своими". Это сильное, собственническое, эгоистическое чувство. Как с любимой книгой: тебе кажется, что никто другой не может вытянуть из текста столько, сколько можешь вытянуть ты. Бред, конечно, однако не стоит сопротивляться этому чувству. Оно прекрасно. В конце концов, если твои ощущения на Лонжероновском спуске представляются тебе уникальными, то за тебя можно только порадоваться. Так, меня никогда не смущало, что кто-нибудь другой мог восхищаться Одессой. Помню, что в 2013 году, в баре на Греческой улице, я встретил одного программиста из Питера, и он сказал, что пару лет назад реализовал мечту жизни и переехал в Одессу. Я только не думал, что однажды это случится со мной. 

Да, кстати, важное отличие Санкт-Петербурга от Одессы (потому что сравнение это непременно захочется провести). Санкт-Петербург - это старое Шабли, которое пьешь время от времени, а потом возвращаешь на верхнюю полку винного шкафа. Одесса - это виноград, который давишь собственными ногами. Он вот здесь, рядом, из него получается вино не менее выдержанное, и не менее благородное. Просто бутылка запылена временем, а пробка слегка раскрошилась, и кусочки смешались с ванильным и немного дубовым вкусом вина. И потом это женское окончание в названии города, на котором так настаивала Екатерина II. Есть в этом городе чувственность. Есть в нем неожиданные приступы нежности, заменяющие ослепительное и бесповоротно мужское высокомерие Петербурга.

Это пошло, но ничего не поделаешь: в Одессе действительно все есть, от эзотерического супермаркета до пожилого мужчины в шутовской шляпе, играющего угарные мелодии на контрабасе замысловатой формы. И все это вблизи испускающего последний дух балкона и самого потрясающего фасада, который ты видел в своей жизни. Я люблю эти знаменитые фасады вдоль Катерининской улицы или, например, Пушкинской. Люблю тротуары, по-прежнему открытые и распахнутые настежь, однако истерзанные временем и бездействием местных властей. Нет, я бы не менял здесь ничего, разве что вернул бы старые ступеньки на Потемкинскую лестницу. И сократил бы расстояние до бара Zelda, приблизил бы его к Большой Арнаутской улице, где мы живем теперь, чтобы прийти туда однажды вечером, встретить случайного человека и сказать ему, что недавно я переехал в Одессу. Не буду говорить о подробностях последних месяцев, о нервных самолетах и советских пятидесятых. Скажу только то, что услышал когда-то от молодого человека из Санкт-Петербурга в легендарном баре под названием Шкаф. 

Я помню этот город. Я помню Одессу. Точнее, с каждым днем я понемногу ее вспоминаю. Кофейню с сырниками на Ришельевской. Фалафель из киоска на Канатной. Дверь гостиницы, в которой я останавливался в августе 2013 года (но только дверь - самого здания я не помню). Марихуану с пирса на Чкаловском пляже. Скамейку на Приморском бульваре. Я воссоздаю Одессу по булыжникам, по вкусам и запахам, но все равно она другая. Always different, always the same. Что до Одессы, то она не помнит меня. И уж тем более она не помнит нас. Да и как ей упомнить, со всеми ее рождественскими витринами и катерининскими сводами? Мы для нее - это просто два человека с собакой. Но вот что интересно... Мне нравится такой расклад. В конце концов, именно это, наверное, я и представил себе, когда самолет наконец взлетел, стюардессы исчезли из виду, и о прошлом напоминали только невидимые слезы и мокрая челка моих волос.

#thoughtsandprayers

Looks like yet again - Jim Bob said it best on his new album (could be the best thing released in 2020, could be not). Everything I want to spit out these days is expressed here:

Thoughts and prayers.

Пять статей о политике

Важно. 

Я сел писать о цветах, однако рассказ вышел о политике. В последнее время это происходит естественно и словно против моей воли. Политика всегда находила меня в самые неожиданные моменты жизни. Например, когда я садился писать о цветах... Так что в этом месяце я не пишу о книгах и о новом альбоме Иэна Маккея. В этом месяце будет пять статей о политике. А еще о том, что случилось с одной страной, которая всегда думала, что политика не про нее, а про каких-то абстрактных людей сомнительной наружности. Думаю, эти пять статей я писал очень давно, но - как всегда - даже не догадывался об этом. И вот сейчас, в июне 2020, настал момент.

Но сначала - новая песня от Иэна Маккея:

Monthly Observations. Lulu.

Once, five or six years ago, I woke up with a discomforting thought: if they arrest me for life or else I get hit by a bus, I might never watch The Godfather. I remember strolling outside my house that day, walking an imaginary dog and thinking I have to do something about it. Obviously, the easiest thing was to buy a bottle of red wine and watch The Godfather and The Godfather II in one sitting. Which is exactly what I did next. The experience was intoxicating. In fact, I was fully prepared to take on The Godfather III in the early hours of dawn. Something I never did.

Thoughts like that have appeared throughout my life with depressing frequency, and each time I felt a mixture of guilt and excitement that made me drop everything and rush to doing it. La Strada. Hopscotch. Einstein on the Beach. Etc. etc. Sometimes, however, the intoxication was wearing thin, and thrill gave way to boredom. Much of the culture that my life had to contain (or so I believed) was not worth waking up to in the middle of the night.

An obvious thought, of course, but you need to come to it. You do not just overthrow those cultural imperatives - you have to live them down. There is no question that they contain millions of fantastic discoveries, and Infinite Jest might be worth it in the end (who is there to find out, anyway?), but equally, there could be more sense in rereading a childhood favourite you had long forgotten. Just the other day, I thought of Lulu, that hopelessly maligned last album by Lou Reed I had never heard. I logged onto my Spotify account, but something distracted me, and next thing you know - I was crying to "Heavenly Arms". Again. 

In other words, fuck the bus. Yes, sure, once in a while I still wake up with a thought that I might never watch Lawrence of Arabia. But the thing is - that thought is no longer discomforting.

The First Noel

One of the most transcendental moments in my life took place in Cambridge three or four years ago. It was Christmas time, and as I was walking through this fairly dark and gloomy city (having downed two great cocktails and being the right side of tipsy), I heard the sounds of a children's choir singing "The First Noel". I followed the sounds and at some point stepped into the open doors of St. Mary's Church. I had never been cynical about Christmas music, but this was beyond mesmerising. In the end, I stayed until the end... Merry Christmas!

Me & Orson Welles

I have been in quite a few awkward situations in my life because I generally have the effrontery to say that Citizen Kane is not the greatest film ever made. More than that - I believe that Citizen Kane is vastly overrated. So what if it's cinematically gorgeous? It also happens to be as empty as the world it decries. 

My one salvation, however, is that I view the 1962 adaptation of The Trial as Orson Welles's absolute masterpiece. I watched it as a schoolboy, before classes, late at night, and was mesmerised by the endless rows of identical working desks as well as the impassive features of Anthony Perkins. The love scenes with Romy Schneider were something else, and for two hours at least Franz Kafka was well and truly alive. It was extremely gratifying to learn that Orson Welles considered The Trial his greatest triumph. 

Which is to say, I believe that my relationship with Orson Welles has always been personal and, as such, has spawned two memorable encounters. 

First, there was a rainy day in London four or five years back. As I reached the Elephant & Castle tube station (on foot and with a broken umbrella), I was soaked to such an extent that I was concerned they might not let me into Southwark Playhouse. Because that was one of the two reasons why I was here - to see Orson's Shadow, a somewhat absurdist play depicting Welles's attempts to talk Laurence Olivier into playing the main part in the future production of Eugene Ionesco's Rhinoceros. A mouthwatering plot, especially for someone who had by that time spent a good five or six years of his life writing about Samuel Beckett and the Theatre of the Absurd. 

And my God it was magical. I was sitting in the second row of this intimate semi-circle, with a small bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and with my feet going numb from all the rainwater they had consumed that day. There was an old lady in front me, dressed like a Woodstock survivor, and she was quite animated throughout the whole performance. Clearly there was a lot to be animated about - after all, at some point I stopped shivering (New Zealand wine might have played a part here) to be blown away by the lordly ways of Orson Welles. It takes guts to inhabit a world that makes no sense, and to do so with such inimitable authority.  

I walked back to my hotel a different man, if only for that one evening spent in the company of Orson Welles.

And then, years later, I saw this title, Me and Orson Welles, on some list of the best obscure films ever made. Something drew me to it (could be the name of Richard Linklater, could be the idea of Zac Efron being in a good film, but most likely it was a rare chance to see Orson Welles inhabit the world of his own), and another evening was spent in the company of white wine and the great man. 

It's a travesty that not too many people have seen Me and Orson Welles because it is such an unlikely triumph. Playful, stylish, unpretentious, with Christian McKay doing this absolutely magical impersonation of the famed director who is trying to adapt Caesar for the theatre stage. Welles is a loveable dictator, by turns charming and ruthless, and you can't resist fading away in his great shadow... Ultimately, it's a bruising experience for everyone involved, not least for an impressionable teenager burned inside by the subtle black and white eroticism of Romy Schneider. 

My Favourite Men

My favourite men are those who in this time of crisis (football) are not staying at home watching sports but those who are sitting in bars where TV sets show ancient movies about American gangsters. These men are alone, drinking Laphroaig and smoking expensive cigarettes and their tilted backs keep oozing stories if you are willing to look at them. 

Look, not even listen; there is nothing more poisonous than to listen to a man who chose to spend the night on his own. He will never attempt a conversation, because whatever has happened to you - it has happened to him a million times over.

My favourite men are very much like my favourite buildings. They are few and far between. Sometimes it may seem that they are about to crumble under pressure - but they don't. And at some point around midnight, they will get to their taxis just fine. I have seen this time and time again: my favourite men never fall. 

Malvasia del Salento

There is no such thing as 'comfort wine', nor should be. Having said that, I have always liked the idea of coming into a wine store, seeing a familiar bottle of white and thinking to myself - oh well, this is my wine and why would I be looking elsewhere?.. 

Your wine is, of course, something you should work on. It comes after countless exhausting rehearsals and mind-crushing experiments, but then suddenly it will hit the one spot in your mouth which has been crying for it for years. A million girls can tell you a million beautiful things, but there is one girl who will do more by just hitting the one spot that matters. Accidentally. Or so it would seem.

This wine arrived more than a year ago now, in the form of Italian Varvaglione Malvasia 12 e Mezzo. The winery is located in Salento, the 'heel' part of Italy that sports such underrated beauties as Bari and Lecce. 12 e Mezzo is intriguingly inexpensive, though you would not be able to tell it from the slightly acidic petals of roses, to say nothing of some exotic pineapple gone beautifully off.

They could of course be telling you this wine is perfect for summer, and while I would not argue with that, I have not yet encountered a season where this wine would not raise a smile on my face and not make me think - oh well, to hell with experiments, this is my wine and I am not going home with anything else. 

Typing 'Signs and Symbols'

In literature, there is nothing worse than rewriting what has already been written. It's embarrassing, and it's a waste of time. Unless, of course, you do it consciously and your choice falls upon the greatest story ever conceived. 

Of which there are two, Nabokov's 'Signs and Symbols' and 'The Dead' by James Joyce. However, the latter is simply too transcendental to read, never mind type, so it seemed like Nabokov's short masterpiece was the perfect choice. After all, it wouldn't require that much effort, and time, and skill, and - let's be honest - ink.

I did it over the course of one evening in early January. I did it on Princess 100, a grey 50s typewriter from Augsburg, Germany. A New Year present, the kind that dreams are made of. At the point when I spread the short story before me, the machine had barely been used and looked as intact as it did in 1958. So it was a tingling sensation in the fingers, one that intensified with each sentence of the world's most perfect English. It's that physical joy of doing something of consequence: you hit the button, and the abstract is abstract no more. I guess this point is what makes Wim Wenders so nostalgic about those 80s Polaroid shots. 

Essentially, this was a ritual but it was also an insight into the mindset of a past writer. One who had no notion of technological bells and whistles that would at some point help him skip, and tinker, and erase. One who thought in sentences rather than words. One whose imagination was a great deal more brave and sincere. One who killed his darlings at a much higher cost. 

And then, when it was all ever, and I typed THE END (I had to, there was no getting around it), I was no closer to the genius of Vladimir Nabokov. I did not smoke my cigarette like some Willian Lee and start working on my first Interzone report. I just sat there, awe-struck by the freshly baked pages and the wonderful sensation that some things can never be repeated. 

But now the typewriter was with me, and I had a new idea, and a couple of days later I was off and running.