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small change (exceptions)

There are two buildings that rise up in the distance, when I go towards the hardware store. I imagine a modern-day Rapunzel might live in one of them. The sky is packed with clouds, but a strange one hovers above one of the towers, a lonely mushroom, a cloud fedora, a sore thumb.

There is a store here, Pyaterochka. The name brings to mind a little bird, maybe a sparrow. I used to go to a Pyaterochka that had little birds that flew around inside it, but it actually means "5", taken from the Russian word "pyat". In "little five" people wander the aisles, counting out rubles, with bags of potatoes, maybe a box of wine. I find myself scouring the neighborhood from time to time, looking for a special type of milk for V. It comes in tiny purple boxes, and appears as randomly and sparingly as butterflies. Today, I am in Pyaterochka and there are a few boxes. I check the expiration dates on them. Stores here will sell expired milk and meat without batting an eye…

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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