19 July 2010. Following the Russians, a sunny morning, cool wind, the regulars up and down the avenue... Pogulyat'--to stroll.
Gulyal po Uralu Chapaev-Geroj--he strode out through the Urals, Chapaev the hero... On sokolom rvalsya s polkami na boj...
Whereas here, rather quiet this morning--the normal hubub, a phone call or two, sound of change from the register drawer, "how about a bag," or, "have a good day, Mr. Morris," called out from the back room, "do you have all your originals," that sort of thing... Mechanics of the everyday, a dependable hum of experience, applied in discrete touches, always forward...
Vpered vy tovarishchi...ne smeyte otpustat'... Forward, comrades...
A life lived and relived...
* * *
Meaning of giving--or is it also a taking? Terrible doubts, middle of the night, not so much failure as the impossibility of making a connection--as if the threads from such diverse ribbons (lugares sueltos) might be joined--and to what end? A pleasure in the fulfillment--yes--but more an impossible acknowledgement...of something more grand...
The other side of the river--the other shore of a single stream...
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