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no answer (the melon seller)

A shiny black van pulls up, wheels skidding on gravel. Five, maybe six men step out all at once. They wear black t-shirts and army fatigues. Their heads are shaved, slick with sweat in the afternoon sun. Their arms are huge, squeezed into those shirts a few sizes too small. All at once they circle a fruit stand by the road. It is made of plywood, held together with a few screws. One good sneeze could level it. Rows of torpedo shaped melons sit on bulging shelves, below them a cage full of watermelons. The men yank smartphones from their pockets, taking pictures, making calls. I assume they are some covert team that extorts vendors, either sending them home and destroying the fruit or worse. I somehow expect the man does not have a permit and the right papers to sell anything. In Russia, you need permission to do just about anything. There are no five year olds with lemonade stands here. 
I cross the street, distancing myself as I glimpse the men between the cars and trolley buses tha…

the ocean


There is an undertow at work, a sense of the inevitable. A shiver when you enter an empty room. There are crows fighting in the trees outside the windows. The snow comes, with barely a warning. The sky, a flat piece of paper with nothing written on it. Boots are tugged from the backs of closets. Heavy coats smell of dust, and old cardboard boxes. My gloves appear, twisted into a tight ball from the last time I wore them.

But the undertow is much more than snow, much more than cold weather. There is a shadow, and I ignore it as often as I can. But this lurking ocean, this golem - they can see the future. At least I think they can, and that scares the hell out of me. We live in a time of paranoia. Maybe we have all been living in the shadow of some fear for generations, ever since the atom bomb. Maybe the cavemen were scared shitless too.

I brush it off as often as I can. I make things. I run around in the woods with actors and cameras and brush this sense away, like a bug on a picnic blanket.







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