Analect 2.648x

29 January 2009. Pearl clouds on gray, be sunny or sad...

A Russian sailor and his girl, with watching bird. Story from Gauguin--that he carried with him to Tahiti prints of classical Indian sculpture from the Louvre--Greek as well. As an overlay to inspiration in an unfound world--an imagined wilderness of feeling, with shoulder and breast open to the air--a young woman holding a bowl of crimson-orange fruit, or night-time god waking from eternal sleep. His question--what was it, really, those endlessly sinuous lines, revealing youth--played against the knowledge of age...

A guide...

Analect 2.647x (Эй, моряк)

28 January 2010. Sun, pool returns to blue... sky and gull...

Moryak. The Russian sailor. A type, with all attendent folklore (especially in a continent-sized nation that went to war to find a port.) Black Sea or Leningrad (shown here)--the telnyashka, cut with narrow stripes--and a mariner's neck... Sailor's song...

Becomes an R&B knockoff, a la Bill Haley, sometime in Putin's gilded age. As with all else, a television platform, with wide-eyed blond and her sailor guy--a rather effiminate penguin-in-wetsuit fellow with floppy fins. None of this makes much sense, but then, neither does the song...

Нам бы, нам бы, нам бы, нам бы всем на дно.
Там бы, там бы, там бы, там бы пить вино.
Там под океаном
Мы трезвы или пьяны -
Не видно все равно.

Let's a, let's a, let's a, let's a head for the bottom
Drink some wine down there
Down under the sea
Whether we're sober or drunk--
It's not at all clear, and it's all the same...

(Whereas Rock Around the Clock, of course remains a model of cultural probity...)

A descent, yes, but of another sort... Brecht, whirling in a watery grave...

* * *

(Note: A search under "песня матрос" got us here--which, on second try, has disappeared, or there'd be a link. Okay then, все равно... "It's all the same..." )

Analect 2.646x (Гармошка)

27 January 2010. Garmoshka and guitarra. Staraya Smolenskaya... A curving earthen road in autumn, stand of narrow trees, forest floor. Two white birches, rising at an angle from common root, luminous. Conifers--larch and pine, darker below, then thinning in a scatter of light against gray sky. Subtle reds, burning, more felt than observed, colors falling...

The artist, or wanderer, in Babel's terms. Two white mice tucked beneath his shirt--a replenishing of brushes...key to the painter's trade...

"You have a predilection for familiar faces, my dear Pan Apolek..."

Natalie's face, in parking lot dark. And Chris, yesterday morning, across the bright table--a Pennsylvania childhood, reappearing...

Analect 2.645x

25 January 2010. Morning rain on dark glass, night pools...

Pasternak reborn on a farm in Tennessee...Bonnaroo, the name from Ninth Ward slang, via Dr. John, as in bon and rue--the best on the street. Street. Poka, words of spring--a black torrent's rush, after black ink of winter. Fevral', self-annihilating absorption of cold... Regina Spektor, "Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood..." Inherit, not steal--more destiny than crime...

"Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls..."

Vesná...

* * *

(Note: Regina Spektor's song, Après Moi, includes a verse from the Pasternak poem, Fevral' (February). In 2007 she performed a live version at the Bonnaroo Music Festival, whose name has New Orleans' roots. She herself was born in Moscow in 1980.
Vesná is Russian for spring--but as a name, it comes from the old Slavic ve + sna--"(awoken) from sleep". The ancient Slavic goddess of spring...a messenger...)

Analect 2.644x (Voix Ukrainiennes)

22 January 2010. Cold morning, light rain. Slush of streetside leaves, steamy auto glass, dampness...

A row of Ukrainian girls, on an eastern church dais--les Princesses Tsarivny. From forest to footwear--their modelled voices, black and red shoes... The latter not so much discordant as unexpected... As opposed to lapti--the old kind--woven from the bast of the linden tree--or birch bark. "A kind of basket fit to the shape of the foot...," the wooden blocks employed in their manufacture apparently found in even in neolithic excavations...

The past. To dig into the earth--one possible route. Or a chain of flowers, embroidered in greens and reds, violets, blue, sparkling on white blouse. Worn in the hair as well, on the left side, over the ear. Black skirts with more muted motif--one vertical row, set slightly to the left. Their faces--the impossibly high cheekbones, slavic eyes... And to sing...

A world of young beings, from there...

Analect 2.643x (страстное желание)

21 January 2010. Gray and rain, and rain...

El niño, bendecido... the boy child, blessed. And a Russian woman with a guitar. Tradition of the bard (old Celtic bardos--poet, singer--from a posited Indo-European gwer--to lift up the voice, praise). Here Veronika Dolina, Beznadezhnoe moë delo... It would be sad to translate such a phrase that makes sense only in the telling. The English "without hope" so starkly definitive--whereas the Russian all internally shaped with muted o's and zh's... Mournful sounds, yet filled with possibility--if only in the telling...

Srastnoye dyelaniye... A passionate longing...

Analect 2.642x (Никого не будет в доме)

20 January 2010. Dozhd' idyot--rain is falling, all throught the night, and into a dark morning. Ruthless handful of swimmers in their shared oblivion. Sharp drops on surface of pool. Dozhd' idyot...

Or Pasternak, and the snow. As sung by Sergei Nikitin, with his Russian seven-string guitar, a voice at once gentle and sure. Becomes a film--a tale of two cities, Soviet-style, for the new year--and a nest of contradictions (as every nest needs must be). The inadvertant apartment, a singer, unseen. A beautiful Polish girl playing her Russian counterpart, and the mother--in a telling moment of wry understanding--whose quiet presence informs all. A poem, a song, ongoing, and a story of love that might never have been...

Two birds in the snow...


* * *

(The film is Ironiya Sud'by--The Irony of Fate)

Analect 2.641x

19 January 2010. Sound of rain all through the night, waves wash up against the house, intermittent drips on all the sills...

The old cyrillic--Cyril and Methodious, those wandering Byzantines--two brothers, Apostles to the Slavs. The glagolitic text, Old Church Slavonic, with slashes and angles as appropriate to the the east. (Some say.) Pannonia and Upper Moravia, the names refigured in each generation. Town of Brno, with its dark arches--and a hilltop near Austerlitz. Bronze plate at the top, announcing a great battle--vista of all the surrounding lands. Napoleon, 1812...

Tatiana and Sergey--Kharkov--an inheritance...

Analect 2.640x

18 January 2010. Rain from a bucket, black sky.

A game with gifts, each wrapped for the Russian New Year, hand-written numbers on paper strips attached. I was 12. Cyrillic shapes revealed in the long serif, the small loop on the two. Klara's hand. Sergey on the couch, holding forth--his alert eyebrow eye catches all--on which a subtle but explosive disquisition-- the theory of the evolutionary structure of the human vertabrae (elaborate back scratcher with wooden rollers), or the Japanese-ness of a Japanese tea (small bag with gen-ma chai)--not a circle, but a picture of father, mother, child. "A different structure within the brain." He unfolds the melody of "Vo pole beryoza stoyala" into a round--hands moving to guide--and soon all the room is singing. Sasha, high wide Russian eyes, his lady Masha, small and charming, with dark curls close to her head, like my mother. Vadim, eyes round with questions, and Natasha, alongside her daughter Ira, all inward, eyes upcast. Young Dara, in the corner, with many questions. And Marianna's delighted but shivery response to a small mechanical frog. Zoya, too, perched attentively in her private high-armed chair...smiling, listening.

Jack: "Like the evenings when I was a boy, with my parents and their friends, all of them sitting together, speaking Russian..."

***

(Drawing: Isaac Babel, and then his daughter, seventy years later, in California... The bird is a Russian starling...)

Analect 2.639x

15 January 2010. The birthday of Alice. Looking up from pool--an egret, wings spread wide, heading west...

To see a bird, in flight--we were somewhere near Warszawa on the day of Boże Ciało--Corpus Christi--the body of Christ. 1969. Driving west, on the road to Łowicz, with Robert and Gabryela and Blanka--who catches sight of a bird in the sky above. "A good sign, flying in our direction..."

Layers of belief, embedded in each perception. Attached by fine silver wire--almost invisible--the maker unknown. Like the story from Shelley Winters, about Brecht, in Hollywood, in the years during the war. "I'd brought him home to dinner, with my mother, who sometime later asked me about that 'jeweler' who'd paid us a visit. 'Jeweler? I don't remember any jeweler...' 'Well, when you were out of the room, I asked the fellow what he did, and he told me that he made jewels for poor people..."

***

(A note on the drawing. The two men on the left, Russians, from a city somewhere in the south. The one on the right a seminarian(the coat, the leggings, the shape of his shoes). Heavy lock of hair flopped over his forehead, giving him an even more intense visage. Standing alongside, a companion--maybe from the university--the small mouth, pale face, bow tie. Group to the right--a family from the Caucasus--the mother with folded hands, eyes downturned (strength and severity of inwardness). Her daughter close alongside, leaning in--hands held very much like her mother's. Feet turned inward slightly as well--in some way a repetition of that gesture. The father, with high black Caucasian wool hat, dark face, and a full black beard hiding his mouth. Patient but not resigned. The pockets of his closely buttoned shirt at a precise angle--as with a line of shells. On his waist, a dagger at the ready, just under his left arm. Above--a Budionnovka--the felt hat worn by Budyonny's cavalry. Something right out of Babel...

"You must know everything...")

Analect 2.638x

14 January 2010. Vapors rising from pool, ships in the night...

Soviet era songs, their bright instrumentation, touch of the Hebraic, American jazz (muted trumpets, wiggly clarinets) and a subtle marshall undertone thoughout--an obligato to difficult times. Gray upon gray--as in Deborah's description of Kabul--the dust in the summer, winter mud...three or four paved streets, rocks and potholes everywhere--narry a tree in sight--cut down for firewood, or blasted... Port-au-Prince...

Utesov. Song in honor of an armored train--from memory as well. A strange name--strannoe nazvanie--and strange the cities on its route: Irkutsk, Lvov, Krakow, Warszawa... Destinations of the mind, vapors rising from a pool...

Analect 2.637x (да ребята прощайте)‏

13 January 2010. Bright sun on backlit gray, gleaming gold, all surfaces...

A Russian gathering, by Lev Shestov. His arched nose and sliding brow--the summer cap, and a table, outside, amidst the dacha's trees. Women in careful blouses, short to the waist, with long Russian skirts. A tiny broach worn just at the neck, in black stone. Vera Petrovna, reading to us from Chekhov. Anton Pavlovich--her favored son--words from this world...

Words from all worlds--a pigeon's walk, or a toast--proschai--

Analect 2.636x (Песня о Kаxовке)

12 January 2010. Gray billows...rain...

Music of Utesov. Pes'nya o Kachovk'e... Then, images of these generals from the past. A question of which side... Regimental cross... "The 300th Jubilee of the House of Romanov," a basket of medals...sword and epaulette. The verse from the Glinka song--"either by the sword or upon the shield..."

Kooperativnaya Kolybel'naya... A Cooperative Lullaby...

And Deborah's face this morning--I kiss her on each cheek. Ezekiel's Wheel...

Analect 2.635x

11 January 2010. Winter sun, both grackle and crow--their imposing hop. Gathering tidbits off tabletop, in children's lot--a child's dream--or ghost, both present and not...

As with Sebald--his photographs, Austerlitz and Vertigo--also gathered, years before. Stories follow--okra, beet and kale--a European host...

Farther to the east, on Odessa's shore. The ages of man, Soviet-style--that big-chested walk, all above the waist. And a towhead boy, alone on the sand...

Chernomorskaya dal'... Black-Sea distance...

Analect 2.534x (да и скоро будем знать)‏

8 January 2010. Gray and cold, sprinkle of rain, warm within, the seamless rungs of a song...

Leonid Utesov, played by tiny earphone on the docks of San Francisco--the former docks, I should say. Now one vast (yet somehow not intolerable) playland. Maybe the weather--a beautiful overcast day, silver skies disappearing into mist, boats lapping on waters of Vologda wax, faces with verifiable smiles. A man photographs a strutting gull, his ladyfriend just to the side, offering tidbits (off camera). Russian voices everywhere--their high-chested walk--all above the waist--Artur Eisen's progeny, moved now to the west. We turn the last corner to the sound of seals. Sea lions--big ones, wet and brown, huddling in one gemütlich communal pile...

Proshchal'naya Komsomol'skaya...man or gull... We'll know soon.

We'll know soon...

Analect 2.633x

7 January 2009. Floating mists over blue-green pool. "Popyli tumani nad rekoi..."

Words from a song, remembered only in part, as when a Mikhail Brodsky appears in the copyshop aisle--mistaken for a moment for Robin Williams (how can there be that strange resemblance?), but with a stronger and more foreward-looking jaw, vperyod--aged a bit, as needs must, but Soviet still...

Tanya's grandfather--the writer of the song (Katyusha), in another age... now they live just up the block.

Here, Utesov, 1926, in the checkered pants (checkered career), playing a winning tough-guy from the Odessa streets. He pulls a gun--a shpaler--home-made--which on closer inspection turns out to be a dark-toned pear... The job accomplished, he takes a bite and heads off down the road...

Mu-mu... Bremerhaven, Hotel Schneider...long ago...

Analect 2.632x

6 January 2009. Pool girl, shivering, with arms around middle, scooting inside. Emory engages her for a moment's back and forth--but the morning won't allow it--a smile and a continued dash...

Then, suddenly, behind the scenes in the Moscow Opera--three life-size figures in folk costumes--sarafan and veil. The light--northern and low, raking in from what one imagines to be tall narrow windows on the left. Pale white walls, worn, and a high Russian doorway just behind--the elaborate escutcheon, in brass--and, just above, a cursory cast-iron latch-bolt...

The ancient gusli... many presents...

Analect 2.631x

5 January 2010. Krasnaya zara...the Red Dawn... A dark Natasha poised at top of stairs, surveying the hinterland. Last night--through darkened upstairs window, a small face just outside--long nose with pink nostrils, impossibly dark eyes set on angle, fuzzy ears and a brusque furry coat, elongated tail with tiny scales... Opossum...

Or, the Moscow Art Theater, Odessa style--a partisan skit, on the Volkhovsky Front, performed for the troops--soldier and commander. Songs of Leonid Utesov--"Gop So Smykom"--Hop with a Violin Bow.... that's me...

Spirit through all...or at least almost all...

Gop so smykom eto budu ya
Slushayte vnimatelno, druzya
Ryemyeslom ya vybral krazhu
Iz tyurmy ya nye vlyazhu
I tuyrma skutchaet byez menya
No v kakoy tyurmye by nye sidyel
Nie bylo minuty shtob nye pyel
Zalozhu ya ruki v bryuki
I khozhu, poyu so skuki
Shto zhe budyesh dyelat kol zasyel?"

"But whatever prison I may be in
Not a minute passes without me singing
I stick my hands in my pockets
And walk around singing out of boredom
What else can you do when you've been tossed in the clink?

(Version Zygmunt Frankel)

Analect 2.630x (Ах, Одесса Моя)‏

4 January 2010. Early January sun, even earlier than the usual early January sun--and always associated with January 15th, the birthday of my mother, Alice... A warm and beautiful day.

Princess N, by phone: "A Russian year..." Yes, and the voice of Leonid Utesov, holding forth from the Moldavanka. Well, from Leningrad, to be precise. His memories of Odessa--the "ss" pronounced "ts" in the local way. Here as a sailor of middle years, and fitted out raffishly in telnyashka and Red navy cap... Knowing eyes, hint of a smile--a survivor--1895-1982.

The gathering at Klara's. Zoya, now ancient, resting in her small first floor room. Just outside, near the couch, I cue up the songs--Okudzhava, Artur Eisen, Utesov as well... Some of these from the mid-thirties--"Ax, Odessa Moya"--lyrical bounce, but with a certain Jewish plaintiveness...

Zoya, later, to Klara: "I was thinking to myself, where are these songs coming from...?"