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Dreams do come true, friends. My first self-written play is coming out in the Village, New York on Oct 31 and Nov 1. The play "In Thunder, Lightning, In Rain" is a contemporary fairy tale about a group of escapists meeting each other during hurricane Sandy in Brooklyn, 2012 in an umbrella factory, where they lived unaware of one another.

If anyone would like to contribute to my indiegogo campaign, go to: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/in-thunder-lightning-in-rain

If you are around in New York and just wish to purchase a ticket, go to: https://web.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/937494

sour cream crescendos

The unevenly cut out mirror drawing philistine lines upside down across
The voraciously skipping the beat black cat’s jaws
Grinding, threatening
red, green, yellow chicken-tuna geometry
Resembling shamrock, ripe lilies, intestine worms and stoichiometrically
Hidden taste buds sending revolutionary impulses to
The swollen blocks of all the left behind roads, valleys, villages and rotes
Stamped tightly in the forgetfully blinking knowledge of
Vision, recognition and most hideous superstitions.

What’s coating the air is called balance and flying above somewhere green and sunny
Minus metal boxes stuffed with chemical leftovers used for smearing or hiking.

Then microscopic drops of fuzzy sweat lick surreal cancers spreading waves of multiple clamps in my long throat.
Length is subjective, right?
Right or wrong are subjective too.
What actually matters is what the subject is and how to define it.

Low blood pressure pressing on the temples is squeezing my insane happiness.
Thorough cleaning yesterday, ola marshmallow goo eating up my peaceful existence.
Ola panic attacks given away to the purple flower on my coffee table.
How long is it frozen for? Can one freeze a water fountain through just some patient blinking?

Whenever my dad would refuse point blank or my mom seal my mouth with sour cream
I wanted to live in a windowless drawer with some scruffy walls, wear long moth-bitten robes,
Rhyme my thoughts like I am right now on the R train from Queens to Brooklyn.
Instead of glooming around inhaling my mom's cooking and dill dill dill till I don't have any teeth to chew
I eschew my Eastern nest as a fugitive nesting doll that instead of nesting needs neurotic crescendos
And ambiguity of covers and daily steps opening up into crude oil shaping the very beauty of tomorrow.

Flight 1

Floating through a see-through Byzantine conduit we bump into a flock
of unflocked birds not knowing by nature how to coexist and mate
correctly.

An idea like a slow congregation in a chapel set in fractions by the
split light of stained glass and the firm and simple built of puritan
pews the birds outside know their way – we would make to follow if we
knew how, but stutter step, fall forward head over belly over high
heel and low toe. Breaking our fast but for a moment and slowly
pecking at the air that lay a heavy electricity in between.

They have their wordily meals at regular hours, but sometimes they
forget. One of them is claustrophobic and lays green eggs with purple
speckles. Step – and you find an open door leading to a dungeon
replete with book shelves. They say: “100 objects representing our
reality”, “Hearty Soups”, “Indian tribes”, “Orthodox gardening” etc.
You pick one of the thickest books hoping to find the answer to the
hardest question you have ever come up with. As you keep reading, you
start connecting words, prefixes, endings and their etymological
roots. Finally, when you understand that you don’t understand, you
stop asking yourself anything. You are not willing to ask others
either.

Guilty, criminal the intent of the mind that hides in too many
questions. You understand when you fall from the nest.
Furtive in first flight, but startle up a great might and it just
might and maybe if there was…and quitting here quitting the one and
one and so many paper things, words and ink. Glue trabecula stiffening
spine and breaking only when opened all the way. And here the stomach
sings when the question sinks, like bird and swarm of butterflies,
And words as wasps,
And skin that stings.

Skin infested with sores and multiple personalities. Skin that loves
bravado, emotional toing & froing and factoring artistic invasions.
First flight – your understanding turns yellow and starts eating
itself; second flight – it prefers living inside paper, choking on all
the intense squiggles right behind it. Flight 3 – the walls inside its
realm become patchily rhythmical, they are clenching their teeth.

Flight 4 – they become smoke on the walls and disappear in the idea
held as Morse code within the beat. Each flight becomes more natural
but more dissociative with the ground. The smoke becomes the air
flight five is for the good measure of goodnight. In awkwardly laid
patch of land floating between treetop and cloud bottom. Will our feet
touch and then be carried away? We create a fire that burns away the
earth, turns floor to cinder to vague silhouette and we stroke the air
with ruffled feather and are finally lost in that moment of flight. I
will fall through the air here until down becomes up and “plummet” is
a moonward thrust-essence of gravity sonorous, the trust.

Cellular flights are capable of affecting our CNS in a way that
changes our entire vision of ourselves. Cellular motions are so exact
and constant you can’t even know if the flight you are preparing
yourself for is going to be your first or last. Absorbing beams of
light or someone’s extravagant shining. We photosensitize the global
energy hanging very close to our heads. The energy perhaps sitting on
your shoulders a tad tighter than mine, still made of the same
substance we share. When we feel our words are understood we let the
invisible vibration penetrate into our hearts smoother and curvier
believing it’s the right moment and location.

There’s a genesis in the words that we share. Breaking the thin film
of silence that has wrapped us in our night’s nest.
The prophet is a deaf ear, an opened elephant floating in fear.
Your shoulder are the shivering platforms on top of ideal sits movement to get her is a slow
move away.
We are chameleon – the light has no effect on our skins but our skin shapes light.

Written with David Kinniburgh
The modern Russian life conceals many deep and unexpected idiosyncrasies. Here is a brief introduction to some different perspectives on what it's like to actually participate in the modern Russian experience.


Why does Russia attract so many people from all over the world? It's commonly accepted that human nature finds fascination in the obscure and the exotic, and Russophilia is no exception to this rule. Yes, Russia's allure stems from its inaccessibility, its long tradition of erecting inscrutable walls against the outside world. If we peer into Russia’s past, we see that her shroud of secrecy began to lift only very recently, revealing the endless black void of forests and hordes of stern-faced factory workers native to this forbidden kingdom, and indeed revealing for the Russian people the mysteries that, for them, laid outside the Iron Curtain. Great news, though – The Iron Curtain is no more…well, even if it still lingers a bit in the air, everything else certainly looks and feels a lot different. It even seems that the natural ecosystem of the Russian land has given up on its priceless *accruals*; it’s actually sad that there are no bears reading Dostoevsky in the streets any more.

Speaking for my own perspective towards my environment: I don't know about all of Russia, but at least where I live (Moscow), I feel like I am surrounded by very strong social contrasts and myriad diversities. If you asked me what the city I live in looks like, I'd give you the following:

Within a one-block radius, I have access to: groceries, drugs, liquor, Muslims, black folk, Asian peoples, Tajiks, Georgians, Chukchis, billionaires, homeless professors, hicks, freaks, lawyers, drunks, yoga classes, feral cats and dogs, huge rats, African parrots (seriously, people...we've got parrots!), squirrels, strange juxtapositions of traditional Russian architecture and newer Soviet tastelessness, all the cool old subway stations, underwear, outerwear, shoes, glass, hardware, drywall, lumber, plumbers, car service, a community garden, bars, and my favorite Soviet babushkas with their delightful purple hairdos. There are whole neighborhoods without Starbucks or McDonald’s, where the biggest businesses are ice-cream stalls and beauty salons.

The bottom line is modern Russia still keeps us guessing.

*the city has over 120 ethnic groups and nationalities
You’re checking out the room you are in to make sure nothing has started to sneak out of your consciousness. Nothing seems wrong except for this beautiful noise coming out of your mouth; so fresh, chilly and wispy, leaving your slightly pulsating lungs and spreading all over your big hair. Sough-sough-sough. It gets a bit scary after your toes have left you and all you can feel is this continuous tickle between your shoulder blades. The colors in the room are getting brighter and your ability of judging the distance has completely gone. Now you can look at the true you.

Aug. 11th, 2011

In my latest dream I got to the future where I happened to be some really huge activist battling against Hitler's descendants and got stuck on some weird ass island so as to hide myself from the enemy there. I had only 2 hours to decide what I was going to do. Eventually, after giving my matter a little thought, I ended up roaming in the woods where I met a bunch of talking squirrels making me go through some rhyming contests to make sure I deserved their trust in me. I guess I passed and later on was asked to go find Mr.Hemisphere on the other side of the island we were on. Mr.Hemisphere turned out to be a fluorescent dragon with this seraphic smile and humongous belly. We liked each other a whole lot and so got carried away talking about our favorite books and music, some etymological stuff and other shit. A while later I checked out my watch and realized there were about 10 minutes left before I needed to get out of there. I asked Mr.Hemisphere to help me out, but my request kind of freaked him out, his point was that fighting neo-Nazis was the easiest thing in the world and I could totally do it myself. "For once in your life,"- he added irritatingly.

Then it went like this:

- So, what are you up to, Kristina?
- I just wanna get outta here or hide somewhere safe.
- Are you sure you don’t wanna fight?
- I've never been more sure of anything in my life.
- Then I’ll swallow you and when the Nazis are gone, I’ll let you out, deal?
- Deal.
- Well then, hop in!

And when I did, I started to regret it right away mostly because I could hear Mr.Hemisphere being hurt. Some time later I got out of his belly and saw him dead. The whole world was coming to an end.

The bottom line is I could have changed stuff, but got cold feet and obviously failed. You know how dreams can change our way of thinking sometimes? It’s pretty much what my dream has done to me. From this day on I'm going to try to get the courage to…fight Nazis? No, wait, they have been gone for more than 65 years, besides our dreams aren't something we can interpret quite literally, so I should probably just learn to overcome my fears and face them. Amen.
Well, looks like it’s been quite a while since I last posted here anything. Not that I’ve got a lot of cool things to say, well, I mean I kind of do, but It just turns out the farther I travel, the less I want to expound on the benefits of my newly adopted perspectves, concepts and stimuli that are really tricky to be navigated or defined. I will admit though, that after having spent a fair amount of time in Europe I keep noticing that the quality of economic and social assessments, public policies etc. within its confines are pretty much as hit or miss as anywhere else. I mean it’s funny to think about how much I used to romanticize Europe in the past, and I guess the punch line of my newly gained experience is that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. And just a tiny side note about Barcelona: they have their own terrorist attacks out there, and if they have to steal and rob you blind, it makes it a bad place to be. I am glad we managed to spend a few amazing days at Primavera Festival and didn’t get kidnapped or shot by a group of communists the city is swarming with. Also, I never really realized Belle & Sebastian look like a bunch of musty farmers, but of course it doesn’t make them sound any less awesome. I’ve always loved them a whole lot.

More recently I've been having this uncanny feeling where I can see like just as I am going to step out of the elevator, I notice I am on the wrong floor and then quickly jump back in before the doors close. Anyways, no matter how scary the world might be, I’ve been trying to keep my serotonin level high and have come to find out that the more I keep moving and make my brain active, the better I feel about what I am doing with my life.

10 months spent in my new environment have taught me a lot more than 5 years of college. I have much fewer insecurities and problems with awakening my stamina now. I am getting somewhere out there. As much as humanly possible.

I think Jacob the Doctor, Winston the Cat and I became kind of like a really loving family.




We live pretty symbiotically and apparently the promise of our “thing” promises to be really great. We do mesh well and whatnot. We’ve been trying to become environmentalists lately. I guess it’s a pretty classic dilemma to think about (I got inspired by Jonathan Safran Foer’s ‘Eating Animals’ which is totally brilliant and has nothing to do with converting to veganism!!): How much do we value creating a socially comfortable situation, and how much do we value acting socially responsible? No matter how important my socially-responsible ideas are, I gotta wrap this novel up. And yes, I still believe in aliens and ghosts.

a crescendo of subconsciousness

Over the next week I had a barrage of dreams. A billion in one night. I'd wake up feeling like I'd slept 8 hours only to see that 20 min. had passed. One of the last dreams had me grasping the sun and scattering its colorful wavelengths around the earth, and so forming a psychotic spectrum. Yes, I understand how horribly presumptuous this was to consider myself changing the world for the better, but I didn't want this divine inspiration to fade away.

Even though I feel much better adjusted than I really am, I don't think it's a good sign, which is, I guess, the human condition.

Jan. 11th, 2011

When we communicate with one another, we feel that we've connected, and we think that we're understood, it's sort of a feeling of almost spiritual communion, since words are inert, so much of our experience is intangible, so much of what we perceive cannot be expressed. It's unspeakable. And that feeling might be transient, but I think it's what we live for.