Archive for the ‘Love Story’ Category

“Okay, so our people broke into the ARPANET and, long story short, we now know that Ronald Reagan watched Moscow Does Not Believe In Tears several times so as to ‘better understand the Russian soul’.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Question is, did Reagan cry?”

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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He asked me what kind of dog I would like, if I wanted a dog (which I don’t). I played along.   Okay, well… I’m not one for pedigree pooches, or dogs that require a lot of grooming. No, I’d want a strong little mutt, a mongrel with spunk. A real muttnik. Yes!…

Muttnik!

From scavenging on the mean streets to flying amongst the stars, straight into my heart, like the best kind of TV movies. Ahh…

 

In the future, when we meet.

Let’s make it *not* in a café – a waste of money, and too loud.

Let’s make it a PowerBar and a walk on a mountain trail,

a hike if you like,

or a city park.

A can of Monster between us.

Bliss.

Then we can talk: deeply and meaningfully, changing the world,

yesterday and tomorrow,

one piece of poetry or prose at a time.

 

The Kids Of Degrassi Street? In time, play button permitting, maybe tomorrow.

Today, more likely The Littlest Hobo, or any number of TVOntario (Educational) programs.

The boy walked over to the 12 inch TV and twisted the knob. The world awaited.

 

Papka didn’t mind me staying up and watching the news. 21:00. Time, Forward!

Cue the music, emotion and memories: today, tomorrow and yesterday’s. Yes, it’s still stirring night after night, into perpetuity.

 

Imagine.

A boy in the West, a child of the ’70s/’80s, whatever that means.

Fatherless, his mother worked hard to provide the best for him.

From Catholic school to sundries, it generally meant education, knowledge, information, progress.

One year: a computer, Commodore Vic 20.

Another year: a set of encyclopedias.

Indeed, he loved learning, the world and its people, he loved these books.

In one volume there was a picture of some Pioneers. Children, not much older than him, from a far-off land, stern faces, serious intent. The boy had heard tell of this country and these people, referred to in terms of enemy and “other”. Dangerous and alien, beware. … The encyclopedia article concurred with these vibes.

He sighed.

Misha cried. We all cried. It was beautiful. It was bitter-sweet. We knew it was a kind of end, but in a good way.

Question was: was it the beginning of the end, or merely the end of the beginning?

A new chapter awaited.

It’s not linear, or always easy to comprehend. It’s not necessarily smooth-flowing or logical in its steps. Jilting and jarring, at odds with itself and your senses, it’s not like a movie or TV show, where the outcome is decided before the journey.

It’s love, in a Cold War. Yesterday and today.

Imagination and masturbation goes a long way.

Imagine.

My mother worked on a floating fish-processing behemoth.

Baltic and North Sea, sometimes Atlantic, she was gone for weeks at a time.

I didn’t see much more of her than a photograph.

My father was a quiet drunk, he did the best he could.

It was the Soviet times, I had a good childhood. Misha was my friend. I ran and played, explored and collected, I had a nature table. The bear was in the forest, and beyond; we were on top of the world, a moral and physical pinnacle. In time, I was a Pioneer girl.

…