Walk

Eleven zero zero on the phone screen... no, even earlier. This time I seemed to get enough sleep, although I didn’t sleep in my own bed. The practical absence of furniture, Japanese paintings from the Shogunate era, the remains of incense in a drawer... if it were not for my precise awareness of where I was, this room could have been mistaken for an apartment in one of those East Asian countries in which the dictatorship, serving as a support for the market, made everyone happy with a woolen hand and, under the pressure of time and people, abandoned its power. But I was not thinking about the packs, the Kaishi and the liberal democratic parties, but about the one with whom I was visiting and taking a place...

Having missed her quite early, I went to Dodo Pizza, the best company that has emerged in the last five to seven years. Good pizza, assortment and help for the opposition. Having ordered one of the combos and sat down at the table, my eye noticed two bald men, one middle-aged, the other slightly older, who ordered the same thing. Their unfashionable, careless, gray-black-slightly olive hue briefly aroused suspicions in the soul about surveillance... paranoia. Heartless... although no, her heart is fine. Too hearty bitch. But who am I to follow? Nobody. Member of an unregistered, but lively, active party. In fact, no one, but when they come to you, identifying you from the cameras, and after the bureaucratic-Kafkaesque events they watch at the door in order to catch you if something happens and take you back to the police department, then you begin to look around a little. But I hope that the excessive attention to me was associated only with the opportunity that usually arises in the system of papers, regulations and laws when the tentacles of the state spread into the body of civil society, separating it, subjugating it and extracting knowledge about every human being. In general, most likely these were just local residents, perhaps workers, a crushed, fragmented class in Russia without trade unions, mutual aid societies and cash registers. These workers will not stage a bright demonstration with slogans that are unpleasant to me (but not every slogan should be pleasant to me), but pleasant to some of the citizens, who, like me, should have the right to self-expression.

After eating (was it breakfast or lunch? Definitely not an afternoon snack), I went home, changing direction to Phalansterre on the way. At the station where I was going down, the police were checking the passport of a girl of European appearance. They usually only check the passports of people whose faces have been affected by the sun and sandstorms. Both tests are disgusting. NWA playing through the headphones reflected my emotions.

The headphones were Chinese, wireless. Wearing them, I felt like I was in a cyber future where Neo-China, with increased technological power, has taken the place of the United States. Only I live in cyberrealism.

In the center there were many passing police cars, cars of the Russian Guard, Investigative Committee and ambulances. As I found out in the evening, such a concentration of law enforcement agencies was due to the speech of our sun-faced leader regarding the annexation of ancient Greek territories that had managed to be Scythian, Sarmatian, Germanic and Turkic. The organizers of the performance at the stadium, where many were not wearing masks, are not threatened with searches. They will not spend the night wondering whether the carriage of the Antipodean Santa Claus will come to them, that they do not give, but take.

Today I bought a collection of essays by Walter Benjamin. Neo-Marxist, Jew, cultural theorist. Influenced by Arendt. He left Germany, like many intellectuals after the arrival of the NSDAP. It is interesting how the fate of the intelligentsia, Jewish in many respects only by origin, is similar to the fate of many Russian intellectuals. Flight from a country in which power was established by a totalitarian party with socialist slogans.

A friend wrote to me. He agreed to take a walk with me through the center of the long-suffering, rebuilt several times and great city, which claims to be the birthplace of Cicero, Tacitus and Cato. We walked from the monument of a man looking with love, tenderness and pain at his country, to the square where under the empire there was Rosgosstrakh, and under the Soviets there is still Rosgosstrakh. It’s a gift that a monument to this horror stands not far from the building.

Throughout the walk, I constantly noticed police cars, Investigative Committee and Russian Guard. I noticed the National Guard and police. Without so many of them and without the court clerk calling me today, the day would have been much better.

Walking around the center is often a pleasure for me. Over the past three years I have almost learned it. I know where to sit, where to drink, where to pray. I haven't been to church for a long time. I prefer Lutherans. Moderately rich, moderately ascetic, singing, loving life and freedom. Come see them for Christmas, they have a reindeer!

So many memories associated with the center! Here I celebrated my coming of age, here I walked with various acquaintances and friends, here I was at a rally, here at a picket. There is a good bookstore here, in which (it is in it!) I want to buy Dostoevsky’s Demons. I love him for his psychologism, his subtle description of human experiences and souls.

The Belarusian embassy is here. A beautiful building was given to a less than aesthetic state. But it will become more tactful, more beautiful, and they will have an increased sense of taste. It has already increased.

Ancient buildings restore even the most stubborn Eurasian to a European feeling. Where else if not in Europe can there be such facades, height differences, freedom of self-expression that still remains!

Again I return the story to the Lubyanka and to that monument to horror that I spoke about. It's just a stone. Camp stone. Tattered signs with horrifying information. A million were shot, 4 million were in the camps (or passed through the camps, unfortunately, I didn’t remember), 6.5 million were dispossessed.

We went to the Kuznetsky Bridge, talking about architecture, history and the destinies of Russia. We said goodbye.

It was a good walk.