I’m not too terribly good at reading Russian, but this blog entry seems to be saying that I am making broad generalizations about Russians in an entry of mine.
Well… I was. And yet not. No, I was fundamentally not talking about Russians. Not even about Russians who find it funny that the people around them look like beasts waiting to beat people or to be beaten when they stand in public places. No… I was talking about myself. And the part of myself that draws me back to those places. Back to places – internally, externally – where that is the expectation. An expectation of encountering nothing but evil. And of laughing at evil.
That aside… I wonder how they found this blog. здравствуйте, anyhow. I’d actually like to speak to you, and understand what made you laugh about that. Do you not see it? You probably do not see it in yourself, and don’t want to see it in others. That’s ok… I am the same way.
I like Russia – and I almost wonder why I do. I want to go back to Russia. And I want to live in Russia and understand it. Understanding it is probably impossible. It’s impossible to understand America, after all. Impossible to understand any aggregation of millions of people and their histories. Since Russia does not exist. Since America does not exist. Only people.
I’ve not sufficiently processed enough to understand fundamentally “Why Russia?”
Why… Russia? I’m beginning to think that it is not that vast country outside, but the vast country inside, which calls. “Russia” may be right here.
“Mea navis aericumbens anguillis abundat.”
My hovercraft is full of eels.
In Latin.
Is this really all I can offer to the world? Explaining obscure shit from Hamlet, and junk Latin phrases coming from mediocre Monty Python skits?
