8-Nov-2005
Something about this weather has enveloped me in a wopping episode of
sentimental nostalgia. But not general nostalgia of the
leaf-turning, fire-burning, turkey-baking type. This is more
specific to one memory:
I am twenty, living in Saint Petersburg, and it's summer, the season where there is barely any darkness. Instead, the clouds turn a rosy pink at 2 AM, and it is impossible to sleep (I know, I know, I'm usually the type to be passed out on the couch by the time "Prison Break" rears its ugly head, but this is different). Because we can't sleep, The Only Guy I've Ever Loved and I are out for a stroll along the banks of the Neva, which is the river that runs right through the city. In winter, it is completely frozen, bank to bank, from the prison that housed Lenin to the Hermitage that housed the czars, and drunk Russians like to drive their ancient Novas across the ice in wild zigzags. But tonight, this morning, we don't really know what time it is, and it doesn't matter, the water is lapping at the edge of the shore, and I stop to watch it. The Only Guy I've Ever Loved is also the only guy who knows and respects that there are times I live completely in my head. So he lets me stop without asking why, and I'm just standing there, looking at the pink clouds, at the Baltuka plant across the river that manufactures my favorite beer (it tastes a little like Sprite, dark Sprite), knowing that he is right behind me, making sure no one disturbs me. I don't think I've ever loved anyone like I do him right then.
Tune in tomorrow for a return of the jaded, cynical me. Perhaps I'm better that way...
I am twenty, living in Saint Petersburg, and it's summer, the season where there is barely any darkness. Instead, the clouds turn a rosy pink at 2 AM, and it is impossible to sleep (I know, I know, I'm usually the type to be passed out on the couch by the time "Prison Break" rears its ugly head, but this is different). Because we can't sleep, The Only Guy I've Ever Loved and I are out for a stroll along the banks of the Neva, which is the river that runs right through the city. In winter, it is completely frozen, bank to bank, from the prison that housed Lenin to the Hermitage that housed the czars, and drunk Russians like to drive their ancient Novas across the ice in wild zigzags. But tonight, this morning, we don't really know what time it is, and it doesn't matter, the water is lapping at the edge of the shore, and I stop to watch it. The Only Guy I've Ever Loved is also the only guy who knows and respects that there are times I live completely in my head. So he lets me stop without asking why, and I'm just standing there, looking at the pink clouds, at the Baltuka plant across the river that manufactures my favorite beer (it tastes a little like Sprite, dark Sprite), knowing that he is right behind me, making sure no one disturbs me. I don't think I've ever loved anyone like I do him right then.
Tune in tomorrow for a return of the jaded, cynical me. Perhaps I'm better that way...
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