skij's 13 :: poetry shorts etc.

Yes I Will

2010-04-17T15:17:00.002+01:00

The first is a series of 15-Year-Old Poetry:

Yes I will allow you to look into my eyes
Even he with white-washed walls will not soon arise
Many scores of caverns deep, and lush forests' cries
Have I transversed, beaten, drowned, and let myself despised

Down within the pupil, that murky marred stone
The light of a thousand burnt-out candles has forever shown
The pain inside it, strong and lean, is leagues from having flown
It remains there, drawing, feeding; stalwart in its tomb

Jammed in golden laurel leaves the king stands so tall
Mice to men, and babes to beasts he watches as it falls
In the stillness of that hour, he with rising power to call
Is the chaos of the night, is the demon out of sight

Along the hill of fallen men the glory takes its toll
But in this way they did not drop for you to mete and dole
You would yourself have beaten down, to shake to stir to stone
All in the spite that you just can't see what makes a poet's soul

Two new series: Insomnia Poetry, and 15-Year-Old Poetry

2010-04-17T15:13:00.003+01:00

It's been a while since I've added new content (apart from links to publications) so I thought I'd start two new series.

The first is Insomnia Poetry, or things I write in my dayplanner when I can't fall asleep.

The second series will be 15-Year-Old Poetry which is pretty much what it sounds like: stuff I wrote as a young lad o' 15. Some early 16 may be mixed in, but even then I had the tendency to not date my work and thus forever imperiling the research of future generations of literary scholars.

First 15YO poem is coming up soon.

Newest Story up online: Open-Minded Gentleman

2010-04-08T22:14:00.002+01:00

My newest story is up online here.

Feel free to join the comments and complain about my usage of colons, "Cock-Sucker Lips," and a narrator who (possibly) dies at the end of the story.

Or is it too much a parody of Russian Literature. I don't know anything about Russian literature, but I have a very strong opinion on the matter.

If you've been redirected from the Everyday Fiction page, welcome! My complete list of short story pubs is here.

New story coming out next week

2010-04-01T16:41:00.004+01:00

Dear: My five readers.

I have a new story coming out, that will be published April 7, at Everyday Fiction.

It is a story I have tried to place for three years, and I'm happy to find it a home.

Will update then.

Newest Story up online: Tanya's Bare Legs

2010-01-16T07:32:00.004Z

My second publication over at Thieves Jargon. You can find the link to the story here and a very unhelpful message board - hijacked by some DB named "Mather" - here.

The tagline they put up with the story is "--Vodka, cotton panties, and how to be a Muscovite." Which really sums it up.

I should also add that this was one of the better editorial experiences I've had with the online publishing ezine smallpress world - they really care about the details over at TJ. I think we went through about 5 drafts of the ending before we felt we had it right, so any comments about that section would be welcome.

That's all, kids.

new story up online - crossroads

2009-12-14T21:12:00.007Z

My newest story, Crossroads, is up online at Sein und Werden here. The December issue is based around the theme of the Bauhaus, which was not not only the inspiration for a lot of the cooler things at ikea but also a major architectural/furniture movements that fuses form and function.

According to wikipedia it's:

a school in Germany that combined crafts and the fine arts, and was famous for the approach to design that it publicized and taught. It operated from 1919 to 1933.

Thanks, wikipedia.

So check out how various short story writers have applied this theme to fiction ....

Keep checking this space - I have another short coming up within the month.

inappropriate suicide limerick #1

2009-12-11T22:34:00.001Z

there once was a writer named Wallace

in grammar he always took solace

and like former betters

defending their letters

did find that a knot will still fall us

Still the time for a Russian bride

2009-12-10T21:27:00.003Z

I wanted to link to this old post, because I think it is funny.

I recently went back to the website, and amazingly it is exactly the same as it was before. In fact, even though it is two years hence, Jerry H. still has the same message and same claims that he has been using the site for "four years."

If you have some extra time, check out the video at the bottom left of the homepage.

the most annoying thing is that, since I do Russian literature, the "Anastasia" ad is present at least 95% of the time somewhere in my google reader or my gmail.

[addition: I just had to add the "Anastasia" protocal for dating one of their Ladies:

1. Log In to Anastasia.
2. Go to the Lady’s profile with whom you want to meet with.
3. Select * Date Me on the Lady's profile.
4. To invite your Lady to meet with you, simply complete the Date a Lady Request Form. Your credit card is charged once you request a meeting. Please note you may request a meeting no less than 72 hours before you wish to meet with the Lady.
5. Your invitation will be sent to the Lady for confirmation. If your suggested day and time is convenient for the Lady, you will receive a confirmation.
6. If the proposed time is not convenient for the Lady, you will receive a letter suggesting a more convenient appointment.
7. You may either accept the newly suggested time or offer another.
8. As soon as you and the Lady agree on a suitable appointment, you will receive a confirmation. From that point you proceed to the meeting place at the appointed time.

]

[final addition: why are they always only wearing bras?]

2009-12-07T22:47:00.003Z

Double glaze the windows
And drink tea by the fire
Bake oatmeal cookies at
Night, to reinforce the smell

Fold crisp newspapers on
Steel Gleaming tops,
Laugh as you keep the cold out
To close your eyes til dawn

2009-12-07T22:22:00.002Z

Separation – kills – the bones
Of – what the bond – must make
In light of – breathing – even
Just not – when heat – removed

2009-12-06T15:45:00.002Z

Pity - the broken
pigeon
He'll never heal -
again

Bones can - bend
and brains
Can stick -

Wash you out
to - sleep

2009-12-02T20:44:00.002Z

On the reject side
of the tape
you hear the scratches
the malaise, rushing -
and the genuine
promise that there always
will be time

How to Meet the Irish in Moscow

2009-11-06T15:02:00.006Z

In case you were ever wondering:

If you would like to add your voice to the chorus of outrage, please contact the Irish Embassy in Moscow.

Stories up Online - as of 1/14/2010**

2009-11-05T03:15:00.009Z

:: here are the 12-and-counting stories I've placed online so far - I have a few other slipping around slush piles::

[11] - > Open-Minded Gentleman
:: The West really must teach Russia more about multi-cultural inclusion. The narrator of this story will start today, in this very subway car...

... [ published at everyday fiction ] ...

[10] - > Tanya's Bare Legs
:: Vodka, cotton panties, and how to be a Muscovite...

... [ published at thieves jargon ] ...

[10] - > Crossroads

:: a surreal take on yard maintenance and bar etiquette, published in the Bauhaus-themed issue ...

... [ published at sein und werden ] ...

[9] - > If Distance Had its Charm.

:: Because if you want the long distance relationship to work, you have to just believe in the future...

... [ published at 42 Opus ] ...

[8] - > Atomic Age.

:: Traveling through the Moscow outskirts by train for the first time? Careful who you talk to...
[available in pdf download]

... [ published at starfish poetry ] ...

[7] - > In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

:: the best place to get coffee: clearly in your local suburban department store, one possibly dissolving through time ...

... [ published at sein und werden ] ...

[6] - > Sveta the Flower Dealer

:: Russia's most secret weapon lives in a pedestrian underpass ...

... [ published at underground voices ] ...

[5] - > Three Damsels in the Neon Bath

:: because what happens when you follows the girls from the cafe? ...

... [ published at southern cross review ] ...

[4] - > Wendy's, Honey

:: how a trip to the drive thru can lead you face to face with the Great Abyss ...

... [ published at thieves jargon ] ...

[3] - > Travel Photography

:: maybe they should be suspicious that he's always in the right place at the right time ...

... [ published at contrary ] ...

[2] - > Perfect Crime

:: because is revenge really a dish best served cold ? ...

... [ published at the aggregated press ] ...

* Update! This ezine no longer exists! Sorry!

[1] - > Atomic Age: A Play in One Act

:: two loving parents go on a campus visit to their son's apartment, who is obviously making great strides in graduate school ...

... [ published at ygdrasil ] ...

[0] - > Naughty Blonde on Blonde Bits

:: a borderline porno, only click on this story if you are not offended by rather sexually explicit material: click on JS Walker in the Fiction Menu ...

... [published at the hiss quarterly ] ...

* Update! This story has been "permanently archived" and there is "no public access" whatever all that means. My "publications" appear to be dropping like flies.

**14.1.2010 for my Irish readers. Anna.

Illusion of Control

2009-10-26T15:59:00.000Z

I’ll tell you when to breathe –

And fill the space between –

I’ll tell you when you fail me most –

Under weight of apology –

Guts in the Basement

2009-10-24T20:39:00.002+01:00

Guts in the basement

That’s alright

They’ll do you for today

What fists can’t carry

Revenge Ignites

Pass it – as a stone

"If Distance Had its Charm" - now online

2009-04-09T14:03:00.002+01:00

My most recent short fiction publication, If Distance Had its Charm has just gone live up at 42 Opus.

... Because if you want the long distance relationship to work, you have to just believe in the future...

you are a dirty little french girl

2009-02-09T01:33:00.002Z

the tired symbols won't wear out
because we call them something else
any day now
you'll cut your skin and just
expect to bleed

new color new year new direction new breath!

2009-01-29T13:17:00.004Z

the reflection of all this

skin on skin the

sheen of soft angles

I see before me

is probably

a hallucination:

the giddy drive to always

find yourself in others

no posting for the weary

2008-11-25T19:14:00.002Z

dublin at night at night at night at night

Fet's "O Miraculous Painting" [1842]

2008-10-16T15:35:00.006+01:00

A poem by Afanasy Fet, 19th century Russian conservative and "poet's poet." From his first volume of published poems.

O miraculous painting,
How familiar and dear you are to me:
With your white plains,
And full moon,

Light streams down from the high heavens,
And the snow sparkles,
And there's a lonely trail
Leading from the distant sleighs.

Чудная картина,
Как ты мне родна:
Белая равнина,
Полная луна,

Свет небес высоких,
И блестящий снег,
И саней далеких
Одинокий бег.

trans. Joshua Walker 2008

comments and concerns welcome!

2008-09-22T12:00:00.003+01:00

these days

reaching sky

hurts my eyes

so I stay in

sheltering

dim glade

Leaving you

with a shadow

And two handles

of gin

Anna Marie - Available to Buy Online

2008-08-01T10:46:00.002+01:00

At long last, my former honor's thesis / collection of short stories Anna Marie and Other Tales of the Germans in Russia is available through the online AHSGR store -

Here's the publisher's online blurb:

An Honors Thesis from Wesleyan University. This newly published book, containing twelve short stories represents the creative work of an imaginative and young German-Russian American writer including Author’s Notes, and Additional Notes and Source Material. It is a very unusual manuscript, written from a number of different perspectives and in a variety of styles. While the work is historical fiction, it contains some fascinating history and interesting character sketches. AHSGR readers and others might appreciate this kind of literary work. 173 pages.

Why the “West” will never respect Russia Today

2008-05-26T21:57:00.011+01:00

The New York Times has recently published an article that calls Russia Today’s journalistic integrity into question, specifically mocking the site's glowing coverage of Medvedev's inauguration. This charge will come as no surprise to anyone who has spent even a little time on their website.

One example of coverage that stretches Russia Today’s credibility as a neutral source is its coverage of Georgian politics, which are presented from the point of view of the opposition party. Protesters are portrayed as lending credence to allegations of voting irregularities - as opposed to evidence that the government allows its opposition the rights to assemble and protest.

Another example is coverage of the Russian political “power-split” following Putin’s installation as Prime Minister. One could argue that Medvedev so far has assumed the responsibilities of a head of state in Russia, and that it doesn't look like a whole lot will change any time soon. Russia Today, however, argues that it's just a quick fix: “Analysts agree that it’s likely the arrangement won’t be permanent.” The only source for any of these analysts or their overwhelming consensus of opinion comes from one political analyst, Boris Makarenko, who toes the party line by arguing that power sharing for now is good for Russia, but that things have to change at some point.

No reason for why they must change - just that they have to. But until that time, everything is "good enough."

How exactly any of this demonstrates that “analysts agree” is left to the imagination of Russia Today’s readership. It is not even clear what Makarenko’s affiliation is, besides that he is “from the Moscow-based Centre for Political Technologies.” Though, considering how much he seems to despise Berezovsky, we can hazard a guess that, if he has no Kremlin connection, he at the very least has little in the way of Kremlin aversion.

You don’t have to go much further than the front page of Russia Today to see why no one from the “West” will ever believe in the news site’s objectivity and political neutrality.

After Dim Bilan’s success in the pop-song contest Eurovision this last Saturday, Russia Today provided the following poll for its reader:

Question:

Euroleague basketball, UEFA Cup, Ice hockey World Champs …now Eurovision. What is Russia’s secret?

Possible Answers:

1. A lucky coincidence
2. Russia’s clearly the best in each field
3. But then Russians can’t play ping pong

The first thing that strikes one about this poll is its inconsistency – that is, the poll conflates a number of unequal terms while claiming that they are all the same. Certainly the World Ice Hockey Championships was a victory for Russia, in that the players were all citizens and represented their country, and the same could basically be said for the Eurovision contest. But that's where the similarities end: the first is a victory is an internationally-recognized sport on the highest level whereas the Eurovision victory represents… what again?

There is also confusion over why “Russia” and “Russians” are unambiguously the victors of all these disparate events. While the hockey and song-contest teams are composed entirely of Russian citizens, the basketball and soccer teams are not; more than half of Zenit-Petersburg is composed of foreigners, and CSKA-Moscow starts an all-foreigner squad with only one Russian player in reserve (the starting players are composed of two Americans, one Lithuanian, one Australian, and one Slovenian).

(USA forever! the Americans could respond)

These two teams (soccer and basketball) also achieved victories on an uneven scale – the UEFA Cup, while a major tournament, is not the pinnacle of soccer success, nor is the Euroleague the height of basketball. Most players in Europe are desperately hoping to get noticed by NBA scouts and maybe get a chance to ride the pine for a year or two in Miami.

So even if we can say that each of these victories represents a triumph for "Russia" in some way, is it a triumph for “Russians”? If I had to guess, I would say that the average Englishman does not consider Manchester United’s victory in the Champions’ League a victory for his own nation. Especially if he supports Liverpool.

Herein lies one of the main problems with this Russia Today poll – there is no room for any kind of subtlety of opinion, or room for you to not be impressed with "Russia" and "Russians". That is because no matter which answer you choose, you are acknowledging a vague kind of "Russian" superiority, and invited to agree that they must have some kind of magical "secret" for all their success.

How do the poll answers achieve this affect? To begin with, option 2 is the most obviously nationalistic, inviting voters to proclaim that "Russia" "clearly” dominates these “fields” – though determining which fields these are (Eastern European pop songs? Second-tier basketball leagues?) and why it is "Russia" who is doing all the dominating (and not individual teams with international players) is more than a little problematic.

But it’s really answers 1 and 3 that give up any pretensions of neutrality. Answer 1 allows the respondent to be less enthusiastic than with response 2, while still demonstrating proper reverence for the monumental nature of “Russia’s” accomplishments. Saying that it was all “a lucky coincidence” seem to deny that there is a definite, tangible link with all of this "Russian" superiority, but it still asks the respondent to admit that each of the victories mentioned in the Question are extremely important. Further, answer 1 concedes that these victories should be attributed, even if just on the “coincidental” level, to “Russia” and to no one else.

Response 3 allows a respondent more of the same – admitting (slightly ironically) that “Russia” is great at everything that matters. Response 3 even goes one step further by making anyone who chooses it seem a little desperate, a little angry - you become a whining sore loser without a valid opinion. Saying that “Russians can’t play ping pong,” makes anyone who chooses this option seem like he or she is clutching at straws. “Russia” still wins out in the end with this answer, then: even if one chooses to try to deflate "Russia’s" glory, they can only do say by seeming ridiculous themselves. The only thing that "Russia" cannot do well is something exceedingly trivial, like ping-pong. But things like Eurovision: that’s what really matters for national glory.

The point I’m trying to make here is not just that the Russia Today poll does not give its readers the options to voice differences of opinion. I am going further by arguing that the all of the answers to the question are essentially the same thing, wrapped up in slightly different tones to as to give the appearance of a real question. Each response (1) acknowledges the monumental nature of all the competitions (2) claims that “Russia” was the agent who won them all and that (3) this really means something great and meaningful about this “Russia," a country that has some natural "secret" for success.

Try to disagree with any one of the above points and you will not have a single option available for you to vote on.

And here’s where the stakes for Russia Today as a reliable news provider come in: the only areas of their site that allow for reader reaction are tightly controlled and only give the appearance of forum for what the readers actually think. Even though the poll may have the tone of a joke, especially represented in option 3, it’s really anything but funny. That’s because polls like this show who Russia Today is really intended for: pleasing the government officials who created a news channel to make positive spin for this idea of Russianness.

And, rather than create a poll that could possibly backfire on them (say, by including an option 4 like “I don’t actually think any of those are that impressive”), they contrive ones that will inevitably read back the same results, no matter which “answer” you choose.

It's for this reason that Russia Today will never become Russia's answer to CNN - not that the world is russophobic, nor that the world doesn't care what Russian journalists have to say. It's that Russia Today hacks together its news and features like a caricature of the BBC, while putting a painfully obvious pro-Russian spin on every and any event. In some ways, I think I feel sorry for its editors - they can either choose to please their masters and remain a mockery of the news, or they actually present a new and informative angle of news and bite the hand that feeds them.

For the record, my personal vote to the questions would be this:

4. The hockey victory was very impressive, and the Russian team boasts some excellent players; the Euroleague victory sounds pretty impressive, well done… CSKA Moscow; I wasn’t even aware there was an UEFA Cup before I encountered this poll; and any country that boasts a Eurovision victory as a mark of superiority deserves more pity than glory.

Any chance you could see to adding my option to the poll, Russia Today?

new story up online: "Atomic Age"

2008-05-25T20:29:00.001+01:00

Traveling through the Moscow outskirts by train for the first time? Careful who you talk to ...

Find it here. Published at Starfish Poetry

Moscow Abstract: leto na simonovke

2008-05-20T04:44:00.001+01:00

two moscow images, 2007

2008-04-15T16:11:00.004+01:00

this

is

my blood

and

it

flows

like any blood

I

suppose

In addition to Grauduate School and Poetry writin' ...

2008-03-29T18:07:00.006Z

I have become obsessed with creation science, as well as the NBA dance team dance off. I've been reading the posts at the new I Love Creation Science wordpress blog: pretty good reading, I must say. Not only do these scientists hate Darwin and his "religion" they also seem to despise the Smithsonian ...

As for the NBA dance team dance off, my Nuggets have already fallen to the Rockets. But it looks like smart money is on the Heat for the win. their site has some pretty hit jams going on, too, in addition to the creepy bronze Warrior Princess Suzie who greets you on their page.

new story up online

2008-03-21T18:59:00.006Z

A new short story, "In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes" is up online.

the best place to get coffee: clearly in your local suburban department store, one possibly dissolving through time

published by sein und werden

unhealthily obsessed with creationism

2008-03-20T18:51:00.001Z

I never knew they had so many stellar points in their favor. Did you know, for example, that they found a real dinosaur in Africa? As to why this definitively proves the Bible's veracity, I'm still studying.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

empty space in the moscow metro

2007-12-11T07:06:00.000Z

the infinite distances / unbroachable in the slicing walls

recedes beneath the weighted light

and the extending ground / smooth in the shine

as if wet

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

boulder sky

2007-12-03T23:49:00.000Z

today, boulder, co

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

downtown moscow

2007-12-02T08:28:00.000Z

tverskaya

moscow: january, 2007

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

new story up online

2007-12-02T08:16:00.000Z

hey y'all

sorry for the long break - had to fly home to colorado from ireland and this altitude is killing me

new story up online:

::Sveta the flower dealer has an ass that will stop someday but not today my friends ::

You can find it here at Underground Voices, a slick, edgy ezine.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

new story up online: three damsels in the neon bath

2007-11-11T23:20:00.001Z

check out the new issue of the southern cross review up online - they just published a new story of mine three damsels in the neon bath. Check it out, son.

... because what happens when you follows the girls from the cafe? ...

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

bring it

2007-10-30T02:53:00.001Z

feel like mouthing off about my story?

check out the forum and have yer say.

punk.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

actually that photo didn't suit the post at all

2007-10-29T19:17:00.000Z

god edwards likes his wendy's

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

"Wendy's, Honey" is up online!

2007-10-29T18:55:00.000Z

Hey y'all.

My latest story, Wendy's, Honey, just went up online today.

It's about how a trip to the drive thru can lead you face to face with the Great Abyss.

It's up online at thieves jargon, an edgy litmag that's published some cool stuff over the years.

Check out this page for the other stories I have published on the web.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

new story up online - perfect crime

2007-10-25T17:38:00.000+01:00

just a quick announcement that a new story of mine, perfect crime, has gone up at The Aggregated Press.

... because is revenge really a dish best served cold ? ...

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

2007-10-21T20:59:00.000+01:00

past the / layers to make meaning

is the meaning of the eye

breaking down sensations

and track out the patterns

not inherently of man or men

of what, we always / dismiss

from the haze of expectation

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

leningrad covers zemfira

2007-09-30T05:08:00.000+01:00

a little inside, I know

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

Sarah can't have any more abortions

2007-09-23T14:50:00.000+01:00

Like, ever. but first, she'll need a Greenday-backed montage.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

cartman's Makin it Right song

2007-09-22T14:42:00.000+01:00

Cartman attempts to make up for convincing a woman to get an abortion, trying to exterminate the Jews, rigging the Special Olympics, and feeding Scott his own parents in a bowl of chili through the magic of song and a little help from his plucky friend, Butters.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

too funny not to post

2007-09-22T14:36:00.000+01:00

Stephen Colbert's Threat Down: Exposing how the mythical Chupacabra head recently discovered in Texas might only be a body part from a mutated dog with a thirst for blood. Sleep tight, America!

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . . . .

2007-09-20T01:22:00.000+01:00

Pressure mounts over

the space of confession

Drawing the day - to peace

a wracking conscience

Is secondary to release

needling the words - to speak.

. . . . . . . :: - - - :: . . . . . . .

more online publishing news

2007-09-12T04:38:00.001+01:00

another bit o news on the online oublishing front

heard back yesterday from underground voices and they will be publishing a story of mine in their decemenber issue. It's a cool journal - raw, edgy, an they produce a print anthology from time to time.

cool.

new play up online

2007-09-08T00:45:00.001+01:00

good news on the virtual publishing front - looks like the literary magazine ygdrasil has decided to publish a play of mine, "atomic age."

It's up online here . You have to scroll down a touch.

Oh, and don't ask me how to pronounce the name of the magazine. I surfed around their site for a while to no avail.

Here's my basic synapses, and the play itself isn't much longer:

... two loving parents go on a campus visit to their son's apartment, who is obviously making great strides in graduate school ...

2007-09-05T05:00:00.000+01:00

the pieces of history - fit

when the stories

come together in - two

trails of your possibilities

are safe as a - map

and all you have to do

is - blow

moscow underpass v

2007-08-30T18:25:00.000+01:00

2007-08-30T00:44:00.000+01:00

I swore the moon did notice

That I left my little bed

But the more I squint

And throw the stars

I think – myself – instead

moscow abstract photo of the day

2007-08-19T20:07:00.001+01:00

cool blues - or perhaps even a letter.

from tverskaya street, 3 am.

russian brides are such a good idea

2007-08-13T14:19:00.002+01:00

found a fantastic russian bride website today:

uk.anastasia-international.com which you can tell is legitimate from the get-go because it has "uk" in its title and then claims its head office is in Bangor, Maine.

Even better: each and every "real girl" has an enormous gallery of slutty photos, like this bad boy

That you can only see full-screen versions of when registered. By credit card.

You're quite saucy, Sveta M. For every article of clothing you take off, I'll give you another MasterCard digit.

Or would you rather go for Anna G.?

God, hard to say. I think I might have to go with Anna, though, because she has no children.

But by far the most hilarious thing about the site are the comments from "real users" riddled with very russky grammar mistakes. Try this one:

For the men looking on Anastasia to find a lady. This website is one of the safest you will find. I have been using this site, off and on around 4 years plus several other dating sites. Anastasia is safest.

I used the services of Anastasia to meet the ladies by email, then Anastasia phone. To keep a business going like they do, requires money or no business to offer this kind of protection and service. So don't worry about the credits required as I once did, just be wise.

These ladies are real. Going to visit a lady is the only way. I encourage you to use Anastasia when you start your search.
Also keep in mind Gentelman — these ladies are people, like you, they worry about whom they might meet, they don't want to play games. You may contact me if you want 100% proof, that this is a great website, it's always improving and it is fair and friendly people to work with.

Blessings
Jerry H.

Jerry H? Are we sure that isn't Grisha or Gosha? And when you've taught English to Russian for as many years as I have, the "Russianness" of the English just comes flying out at you - just check the following, where I'll indicate mistakes with []

(1) The lack of articles and agreeing verbs (mistakes in []) ["anastasia is [] safest", "[it is] fair and friendly people to work with"...]

(2) The randomly added commas ["I have been using this site[,] off and on...", "if you want 100% proof[,] that this is a great website..."]

(3) And the missing prepositions ["I have been using this site [] 4 years plus"]

Sure, Anastasia, I'll be wise and hand credit card over! I would must to be great fat idiot not to!

Try this other great quote from very satisfied happy customer:

I have recently visited Russia, and the small city, Belgorod, where Anna lives. We have decided to get married, as soon as she can come to Australia.Thank you for your help.

David D. Australia

Where you see the same extra-russky comma in the "we have decided to get married, as soon as she..."

God, can you imagine how sketchy of a site this must be if these are the quotes it features? It essentially implies that it's never had an actualy letter from an actual client, meaning they've probably never had an actual client.

Take that, Anatasia.com! No matter how hot Ira K. is, I'm not sending her any more flowers.

Ok, ok, I'll send some flowers - but no more sports cars.

Jesus, and then confused Aussie sheep farmers wonder how in the world they've ended naked up in the back of a hut with a gun to their head. As in this story reported by the beeb today.
Poor sheep farmers. All they wanted was a much younger bride from an ostensibly poor country to share their sheep farmsmanship.
Take it from David H. of CA if ou have any lingering doubts:

From the staff to the women I corresponded with, I was always treated with a form of excellence only found in the very best businesses in the world.

abstinence only rix or rax or whatever the kids say these days!

2007-08-06T14:52:00.000+01:00

here's a pic from a high school website in south carolina:

and I honestly have no idea how it's supposed to have any affect on horny kids because

(a) is the person in the background supposed to be a dude? or are we looking at respectful lesbians?

(b) whoever it is back there, looks like she/he is already elbow-deep in boob

and

(c) what exactly are they waiting for? nightfall? I don't see a ring on that finger...

not surprising, though, if you look at the tools in charge of the program on the original site. you can be sure that if "trav spears" were to ever tell me anything I would immediately do the exact opposite.

guy's like the missing link in evolution.

The site continues:

The Abstinence Education Course is a two-week program taught to 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th graders through out Edgefield County. The classes deal not only with the importance of abstaining from sexual activity until marriage but also with respect for self and others and decision making skills.

((scroll down their site for a very creepy appearance by the "reptile man" ... ))

Binge Drinking = Bad

2007-08-06T14:44:00.000+01:00

quoted from our friends at kid's health

Chet has known Dave since they were in elementary school together, but lately their friendship has been strained. Dave's drinking on weekends has turned him into a completely different person. Dave used to get good grades and play sports, but since he started drinking he hasn't been finishing assignments and he has quit the soccer team.

When Chet saw Dave pound five beers in 30 minutes at two different parties, he realized how serious Dave's problem was. He knows what Dave is doing: binge drinking.

Why Do People Binge Drink?

Liquor stores, bars, and alcoholic beverage companies make drinking seem attractive and fun. It's easy for a high school student to get caught up in a social scene with lots of peer pressure. Inevitably, one of the biggest areas of peer pressure is drinking.

Other reasons why people drink include:

* They're curious — they want to know what it's like to drink alcohol.

* They believe that it will make them feel good, not realizing it could just as easily make them sick and hung-over.

* They may look at alcohol as a way to reduce stress, even though it can end up creating more stress.

* They want to feel older.

What Are the Risks of Binge Drinking?

Many people don't think about the negative side of drinking. Although they think about the possibility of getting drunk, they may not give much consideration to being hung-over or throwing up.

You may know from experience that excessive drinking can lead to difficulty concentrating, memory lapses, mood changes, and other problems that affect your day-to-day life. But binge drinking carries more serious and longer-lasting risks as well.

People who are drunk also take other risks they might not normally take when they're sober. For example, people who have impaired judgment may have unprotected sex, putting them at greater risk of a sexually transmitted disease (STD) or unplanned pregnancy.

People who binge-drink may find that their friends drift away — which is what happened with Chet and Dave. Drinking can affect personality; people might become angry or moody while drinking, for example.

Save Money By Turning off your Lights!

2007-08-04T16:14:00.001+01:00

The Moscow city council started a campaign to reduce energy consumption among its citizens. Among other tactics was this hilarious billboard:

Which tells you to "save money by turning off your lights." Comically enough, the sign is lit-up by a number of high-powered, energy-consuming bulbs that run all night long and doesn't even face the flow of traffic on Leningradka. Anyone want to do the math on how much energy they're wasting getting the message out?

I think the irony was so strong that it almost broke my camera-fon - contrary to the assumption you must have made, that foto above has not been shopped at all....

2007-08-03T16:11:00.000+01:00

Today I saw the Sun -

After months below the Sea -

She didn’t wince twice –

While breaking the ease of day -

Nor consider me –

space in seven dimensions

2007-07-27T18:18:00.000+01:00

into the space / she considered / hoping to take the deep / but foiled by a / sky so usually blue

Loss and Return

2007-07-20T15:59:00.000+01:00

a short story - private workshopping

Loss and Return

(After a City of Bright Lights)

Hunter left New York City for Sterling on a Monday night planning to drive the night through Pennsylvania and the darkened, hollow forests and then find a cheap motel the next morning in Ohio and sleep the afternoon and early evening. As it happened, though, with the trees reaming out the colors of the dawn in the rear view mirrors and the traffic starting up on the cold, sleek roads after the night’s rain, he didn’t feel tired when he broke into Ohio and the plains and the morning traffic, steadily stretching long on the hard-black highways, wasn’t as heavy as he had expected, and the new angles of sunlight, blending the red taillights on the black sheen, produced a kind of cozy hypnotism on his brain. Hunter’s hands gently grasped the underside of the wheel and his eyes felt just a little blurry and he played with the radio buttons and settled on country.

All through Pennsylvania he had felt good – actually, much better than he had expected to feel. At some point during the winter, he had convinced himself that he wasn’t dreading this return home and talked about it openly with friends just like you were supposed to talk about these trips: “Oh, yeah, sure it’ll be great, haven’t been home in a while” and the like. Then, as the days grew longer and the city nights contracted and he found himself going to bed well after the sunrise, he realized he had managed to play off one important, reasonable justification after another to put the trip off another week or so. And he started having strange dreams, too, of walking in on the family he had left a year ago – idyllic as your family can only be in a dream when you know you’ve somehow betrayed them – and his mom would be wearing an absurdly well-ironed apron and cooking apple pie and biscuits and getting the next day’s roast ready, and his dad would be in his smoking jacket reading the paper and his brothers would be sitting by the fire, cheeks rosy and healthy from chopping wood or repairing the tractors and so much was true of it, for they wore aprons and smoking jackets, and chopped wood. So much of it, though, while familiar, had simply never happened. Like the way his brothers smiled at each other.

And they would all stop whatever they were doing and turn to Hunter after he entered, not just in shock and horrified at all that Hunter had come to see and do in New York but like they had just heard about it. Like it was a play and his demise had been announced just before his convenient though nonetheless ill-timed entrance through the front door.

So Hunter had assumed it would only get worse the closer he got to home, which is why the lightness in his heart and the lack of contractions around his lungs felt while imaging his feet on the welcome mat so surprised him through the spinning shadows and winding highway of Pennsylvania. He had even half expected a kind of panic to come over him at each successive state border, maybe even the desire to turn the car straight around and get back to his tiny room in Brooklyn and call Claire and she if she was working and maybe even his dealer. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called ahead to warn his family that he was coming – the fear that he would never again be able to pass west of Philadelphia and so his family’s disappointment at his absence would be all the more bitter for their expectation and all their oh won’t Hunter just love to see-s.

By western Ohio, the countryside settling and the sun bearing an odd and inappropriate sense of normalcy on these foreign plains, a kind of panic did overtake him. And it was worse for Hunter because it was not at all the panic he had expected or developed contingencies to counter. The panic was – the conviction that everything would be fine at first, the pies and the relatives and the chores and the dinner at Taco John’s, but then he would need to tell his mother everything about New York. He would need to tell her he had done a little coke, but that he was sure he could take it because he wasn’t the addicted type. He would need to tell her he was actually thinking about writing, that he hadn’t gone to church in ten months.

Mother, yes, but don’t look so disappointed, because I haven’t told you about Claire, and, oh Gosh, I need you to be calm. Let me just tell you. Let me just tell you. You see, mother, she’s technically what we call a pre-op, and yes I do want you to refer to her as a she. Because, mother, we’re in love. Yes, mother, a she, and it’s complicated…

He had never felt the urge to confess anything to his mother until the heart of Ohio. The frustrations of high school, the dizzying confusion of junior college he had all managed to turn into smiles at the dinner table and polite anecdotes where no one is harmed and every learns a little more about themselves and the world. This is the panic he was not expecting: the sudden thirst for his mother to know everything, even how much he had cried after the first time he had slept with Claire, and then to look for some sign of forgiveness in her timid, brown eyes, to lean against her shoulder and feel her arms around his back and those soft hands of hers that always smelled like Vaseline and then at the moment he could first see the suburban haze of Indianapolis under the weak dusk light. Hunter caught himself drowsing ever so slightly, the car over a few feet to the right between a few blinks, and told himself aloud that he didn’t need forgiveness, he needed sleep.

The details of the motel itself where he stopped blurred into the general picture of a suburban highway-side motel: exit ramp, unhurried intersection, two fast food restaurants, three gas stations, a truck stop, signs to little towns it was hard to imagine actually existed and from his bed Hunter couldn’t even recall what the man down at reception had looked like or what color the carpet had been. His room smelled like it hadn’t always been non-smoking and he studied the darkness of the ceiling and the stiffness of the sheets beneath him.

He had Sportscenter on quietly in the background and it wasn’t really dark outside. The Nuggets had won and the Avs had lost. He turned the TV off and lay on his side, where he asked himself rhetorically which was worse, dating a transvestite or writing a liberal column for a tiny online publication, imagined phone calls on the subject between aunts with tightly-wound buns of hair and very respectable glasses, laughed a little and vaguely wondered what Claire was up to and then feel asleep for five solid hours of sweating sleep.

He left western Indianapolis a little after midnight. His stomach was churning from an ill-advised Coke he had drunk back at the hotel and he tried to recall whether he had dreamt at all of his family. They were classic rural America: well meaning, proud, confused about most of the world, pegging Denver and Cheyenne as the two great urban centers beyond which nothing could logically make any sense at all. The name Kansas City, even, had held a ring of exoticism on your lips, a weird aftertaste from a spice you’ve tried for the first time. For a while Hunter had thought that this was their greatest strength, their fierce protection of what they found important and their ability to focus on the matters at hand. It had always been his weakness, and he therefore had assumed it must be a great gift. But, more and more, he was finding himself concluding that they preferred their ignorance out of laziness and fear to be proven wrong, not out of some kind of rugged, well-meaning pragmatism, and even felt a certain haughty pleasure in his new righteous attitude about the people he had grown up around. And that’s what, if he was honest with himself, he was most afraid about – they would sense his disdain.

Missouri slid past him in a blur of morning darkness and cornfields and the heaviness in the head after five hours of hot sleep. The cities that had once aroused such a feeling of wonder passed by in quick, incoherent flashes. It wasn’t until Kansas that he felt any kind of alacrity, with the sun behind him and the pavement lit with a mellow sheen and the sky a dizzying blue. This was the country he was used to, the light off the fields and the little trails that went down by the fences and irrigation ditches next to irrigation equipment. He could feel the tools in his hand and thought about how he could never feel as comfortable walking into a bar in Williamsburg as he could stepping out among the rows corn, but then that was what he enjoyed about the city most of all. Not apologizing for his discomfort.

And just when he was most curious about how he would feel, when Missouri and Kansas had become one long road from darkness into the waking hours, he found that he felt nothing. It felt false to even try to force a feeling to outer the emptiness, to rouse some handle on the fear or the homesickness he had experienced over the past year. The last stretch to Sterling has snuck up on him, and he found himself clutching in the suddenly swirling clutter of his brain for what he would say, how he should act, what he should tell them about his life. After all, that had been the entire point of driving – that he could get these kinds of things into order. That planes go too quickly and land even faster and what can you really say on the side of the airport. But the more he would try to order his thoughts to hint at a reasonable kind of behavior, true to himself yet true to his roots, the further any real idea seemed from him and the more abstract and disjointed the whole project seemed.

Hunter’s confusion made the road speed by quickly and he was surprised when he saw it was already getting on into the afternoon. And it was strange to pull into his driveway when you saw that it wasn’t the entire world and the beginning and ending of all living, with Denver comfortably off somewhere in the distance down the highway, but just another drive where some people must be living. He was struck by the entire arbitrariness of the positioning of the road, the mailbox, and the American flag hanging from the front brick of his porch and a wave of nausea gripped him below the stomach, rolled its fingers all up to his throat, and left him a little weaker still gripping the wheel and his foot on the gas pedal.

Hunter wished he was waking up in Brooklyn as he closed the car door behind him, his weight bending over legs and a back much more cramped than he could have imagined possible, and had never felt that New York was actually his home until this moment.

He walked quietly up to the front door because he didn’t want to make a dramatic scene out of his return, shouting, carrying on. He saw that the handle to the front door was bronze and a little rusted, very different than how he had pictured it back in Brooklyn, and parts of the wood frame were chipping off on the sides.

My God, he suddenly thought, they will see right through me, Claire’s cum on my back. All that I am and all that I’ve done is stained on my face, my eyes, my mouth, and it’s not just the earring that marks me as an outsider here. There’s something already different in my posture and my eyes and the way I hold my head and they will all see it immediately and know what it means. Knocking did not seem right. And so his hand trembled as it reached for the surprising cool metal and opened the door with a slight push. And so here he was, and he made him take a few steps in.

There was no one in the living room and Hunter suddenly felt much more comfortable in the silence of the empty house. It was, after all, his house, and all of the details slowly reassembled themselves from his memory to the actual woods and carpets that he saw before him though it all seemed bigger to him, the carpet thicker and smell dustier. The family must be off at the fair, he thought to himself, or in Cheyenne. There were a few books scattered across the low oak table by the smoking chair: his dad’s National Review, a copy of Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo, some Coulter, and a print-out of Pushkin’s Stationmaster that Hunter wondered at and almost reached for. But then he remembered himself and decided not to disturb anything until the family returned. Relieved at the peace in the now-familiar room, the way the light played across the picture frames with relatives and Christmas cards and church events, he made his way down one of the hallways to the kitchen.

And in the entranceway he froze and almost gasped. Later, he would realize that the sounds coming from the kitchen had been absorbed by the birds outside, and he also remembered how little sleep he had been getting before. His memory of the incident magnified the time he stood in the entranceway to a full minute, his brain first blank, then embarrassed, then completely numb – and nothing to do with his hands. He felt like he would throw up if he could feel his stomach, and he staggered back down the hall and out the door and into the strangest blue sky he had even seen before or since. No one, of course, from the kitchen could catch him before he made it to his car, and there was no one at the door when he pulled out of the drive automatically heading towards Main Street.

Hunter wondered where his mother had been as he turned his car West for only few minutes, and he wondered how the light off the picture frames would look to him now, and then he drove long into the night and the cool, shielding mountains, and the towering slabs of rockface that blocked out your view of the stars.

more on moscw night walks home, streelights and trees, eerie vaults of spiraling blue

2007-07-15T00:26:00.000+01:00

outdoor cafe table in the summer

2007-07-13T15:35:00.000+01:00

moscow enigma

2007-07-11T12:55:00.000+01:00

Is Moscow really the word's most expensive city?

2007-07-09T18:09:00.000+01:00

I think so

moscow metro memory v

2007-07-09T00:16:00.001+01:00

still makes me dizzy

how to: become a babushka

2007-07-05T11:02:00.000+01:00

have you ever wondered why russian girls can sometimes make such a dramatic shift from gorgeous devushka to boxy babushka in only a few short years? I certainly have. And so I decided to do some research

goodbye moscow

2007-07-04T23:54:00.001+01:00

... just arrived in dublin ....

... with the vague, completely unfounded conviction that I'll be back in Moscow soon ...

... though I suppose, you never really leave?

moscow cafe scene

2007-06-29T14:48:00.000+01:00

just try not to make eye contact with the enormous transvestite sitting right opposite you

moscow haze

2007-06-27T22:12:00.001+01:00

... it will be summer / we will go to the dacha ...

moscow underpasses: turgenevskaya

2007-06-23T01:40:00.000+01:00

This is what you asked for

All of it all of it

All of it

the sky's coming down on you, young man

2007-06-18T22:20:00.000+01:00

so why not / drink that beer / today

Somehow the heat of pillow gives me the impression

2007-06-17T21:57:00.000+01:00

If I could just keep concentrating

on all the little pieces

at once

They would finally fit:

No seams or edges or headaches

and the wind would turn cool

Heavy with sleep

colorado / to unload my head

2007-06-17T02:26:00.000+01:00

so what / if I am / lost

see more cooberton

heart away / head to stay

2007-06-15T21:07:00.001+01:00

And how all of this really / Means nothing to me

2007-06-15T01:55:00.000+01:00

can't stand the chill

The moments just add more moments

No matter the spaces between

Concentration has its affect

To roll on the shadings

Give shape to the demands of skin

... and wished her mind could flow into that easy, babbling current ...

2007-06-13T21:57:00.000+01:00

Mutant scales wreck dirty Music

On the side of my paint-chip brain

White with texture, hollow tension

In keeping out the noontime heat

The drills bear in, to pull at the spaces

Syncopate from temple to tongue

Its strings draw out, sharp for friction

And cast me back into the sun

variation on irish sunset

2007-06-13T21:14:00.000+01:00

How to: Get Drunk Fast

2007-06-12T21:50:00.000+01:00

There are times to turn it down and times to turn it up

The above is a link to my element moscow article - you can find it on page 5.

Wht is he looking forward to indeed

2007-06-12T01:58:00.000+01:00

Statue where the Russian kids and middle-aged drunks drink on weekends and public holidays...

communist hero...

next to a western-style mall...

ah but my nerves are too lipsy to take this all any further...

Palo Alto

2007-06-11T14:15:00.000+01:00

Oh You imitation of life

All the trappings of order distilled

While lifting the flag of nerves and destruction

To chase away the dark

Of perfectly lined streets

How to: Get into Premieres

2007-06-10T14:21:00.000+01:00

Ever want to know how to make it into the glamorous world of Moscow movie premieres?

She slides up and

2007-06-05T13:13:00.000+01:00

She slides up and kisses me

Skinny, in those limegreen panties

She whispers she loves me

Heavy, like a bag of bricks

abstract: moscow bar

2007-06-04T01:26:00.000+01:00

pirates premiere

2007-06-03T01:48:00.001+01:00

yaaaar

Ghosts in the Moscow Metro

2007-05-30T23:21:00.000+01:00

Moscow Heat Wave

2007-05-29T13:22:00.000+01:00

The way the light plays off the cup,
White and heavy, against the grit
Of 33 in a Moscow outdoor cafe,

The trees look green, against
My beter judgement
And the sky: an
Aching indistinct haze

The sun rolls heat
Over sponsored awnings, dust,
Sweat glands and peroxide
And the mashed-up cranberries
Taste of ice

Moscow Metro; Mayakovskaya

2007-05-29T00:58:00.000+01:00

From the train window, January

2007-05-28T02:45:00.000+01:00

Can't stand the 33 degrees in Moscow.

Oh the fidget! Oh, the hem!

2007-05-26T21:51:00.000+01:00

There will be plenty of time

To get healty

Two Pictures of Zurich Forest

2007-05-25T21:09:00.000+01:00

Motorola camera washes out the sky and put us on the edge of oblivion - what's beyond those trees I wonder.

Abstract Bottle on my Moscow Balcony

2007-05-25T01:04:00.000+01:00

Irish Sunset

2007-05-24T23:54:00.001+01:00

aCrlioghag

2007-05-24T20:27:00.000+01:00

Beyond their reach

even if you yield

No matter

As the days will come

as they have before

It was all misery now

Hayden White's Metahistory

2007-05-24T13:24:00.000+01:00

Hayden White initiates his study in Metahistory with an argument that all historical explanations are rhetorical and poetic by nature. He then formulates methods for classification and analysis and applies these to the “great” 19th Century historians (Michelet, Tocqueville, Ranke, and Burckhardt) and the “great” 19th Century philosophers of history (Nietzsche, Marx, Hegel, and Croce). For White, history as we know it is inherently poetic because each historical account is a story with a beginning that lead to and end (as opposed to a chronicle which begins and ends rather haphazardly), satisfying not just the question ‘what happened?’ but also ‘what is the point?’ To tell his story, then, each historian chooses a mode of emplotment (as indicated by Frye), a mode of argument (a particular apprehension of the historical field, as indicated by Popper), and a mode of ideological implication (as indicated by Mannheim). White then suggests “an elective affinity between the act of prefiguration of the historical field and the explanatory strategies used by historians in a given work.”(427) These relationships are related in the following chart, which show particular forms conducive to various ideologies of historical writing in the 19th century:

[note: the infamous chart will reappear once I can figure out how to change a pdf to a jpg]

Some thinkers consistently use more than one trope. Marx, for example, quite often uses Synecdoche in his analyses. Also, Conservatives and Liberals can both take advantage of the Irony trope as there exist a number of mixed emplotments (Comic Satire, Tragic Satire, Satirical Comedy, etc.), although, “the very notion of a Romantic Satire represents a contradiction in terms”(9). So the historian can, to a certain small degree, use different emplotments and apprehension for his ideological purposes, but these are the relationships best lent to one another. There do exist other possible emplotments, beyond the four already mentioned, such as Apocalyptic, Fascist, and Reactionary. These, however, fundamentally differ from the four mentioned as “they do not regard it as necessary to establish the authority of their cognitive position on either rationalist or scientific ground.”(23) It may be noted that Irony is considered to ‘transcend’ because it is aware of its own function of negation, and therefore seems more sophisticated and with greater perspective than the other tropes (37): “Like philosophy itself, Satire ‘paints its gray on gray’ in the awareness of its own inadequacy as an image of reality.”(10)
White comes to eight primary conclusions in his study(xi):

1. “There can be no ‘proper history’ which is also not philosophy of history.” They can only differ in emphasis.

2. The possible modes of historiography are the possible modes of speculative philosophy of history.

3. These modes are by nature 'poetic’, used to give historical events an ‘explanation’ and a ‘point’. Strict chronicles are neither aesthetically nor ‘historically’ satisfying.

4. There are no grounds on which one is more ‘realistic’. This means that one being held as more ‘truthful’ than the others can only be seen as biases of the related establishment or author.

5. We choose modes among existing contenders in a given historical account.

6. The best grounds for choosing are moralistic (‘we must help the poor’, or ‘history is doomed to repeat itself’) or aesthetic (telling a better story), not epistemological.

7. The scientifization of history can only mean a statement of preference for a particular mode as the epistemological justification has not been proven. This book itself is cast in the mode of Irony.

8. We may say that the dominant apprehensions have a historical progression; at certain times one (or two) mode(s) seems to really ‘tell it like it was,’ as opposed to the flawed and biased histories of the ‘past’. Irony tends to be followed by Romanticism, to return to the conviction of belief and vigor that Irony seems to deny. The Tragedy is logically followed by the Comedy, “for it represents an affirmation of the needs of life and its rights against the Tragic insight that all things existing in time are doomed to destruction.”(117) Comedy is in turn usually followed by Irony, such as late-Enlightenment historians as well as the historians at the end of the 19th Century, during the so-called ‘crisis in historiography.’ These periods of Irony coincide with renewed interest study in the study of the philosophy of history. We at our present time are “locked in the ironic mode.”(431) Contextualist and Formist are now the main candidates for historiographical orthodoxy.

These claims show why a given historian is dependent on the public’s precritical preference for acceptance of his chosen mode. For example, Marx “has no authority in a public which is precritically committed to the prefiguration of the historical field in the mode of Irony, Synecdoche, or Metaphor.”(430) He also provides insight into the reasons why philosophy of history (coinciding with the general prefiguartion in the mode of Irony) is stressed at certain periods rather than others. A further insight is related to the disputes among historians from the French Revolution to the First World War, which White sees as a struggle for supremacy among the contending modes as ‘the most truthful,’ or apprehending history, ‘as it really was.’

Examining such historians (and then historical philosophers) of the 18th Century, each one claiming his own mode to be the most ‘realistic,’ takes up the largest sections of the book, where White applies his formulation of the affinities among modes. Michelet is indicative of the Romantic historians, as he “repudiated all formal systems of explanation and tried to gain an explanatory effect by utilizing the Metaphorical mode to describe the historical filed and the mythos of Romance to represent its process.”(143) Ranke is the Conservative historian, as he uses the trope of Synecdoche to integrate parts into a larger historical whole. “Struggle, strife, and conflict are dissolved in the realization of perfect harmony,”(190) providing a sense of satisfying resolution, reconciliation, and organic completion in the present. Tocqueville’s purpose in history was therapeutic, much like that of the tragic poet, showing human failure as a historical given, for “a chaste historical consciousness would help to exorcise the residual fear of old gods and prepare men to assume responsibility for their own destinies.”(204) Burckhardt viewed historical reality through Satire, as this seemed to him the most sophisticated and the least ideological mode. He “always denied that he had a ‘philosophy of history,’ and he spoke with open contempt of Hegel.”(236) White follows these accounts with analyses of historical philosophers to show how claims of historical realism are arbitrary and how comments such as Burckhardt’s about lacking or repudiating ‘philosopher of history’ are ultimately misguided. It is no mistake, White notes, that most of the great philosophers of history in the 19th Century were also great philosophers of language.

The relevance of White’s work is to be able to examine and classify historians and historical accounts and to better understand and mitigate clashes over historical technique. It is also to add perspective to the debate on ‘historical objectivity’ by showing that there really is no such thing as ‘complete objectivity.’ What is important for White, it seems, is not to be ‘completely realistic,’ but to rather disclose the purpose and aim behind the chosen apprehension of the historical field; that is, to be clear regarding why one chose a modes over the other contenders. Again, the best way for this to be done is moralistic or aesthetic explanation; to lay one’s cards on the table, so to speak. Using White’s formulation and method, one is also able to recognize and analyze the type of story in a given historical account (Comedy, Tragedy, Satire, Romance, or Epic), and this emplotment accounts for the inclusion or exclusion of certain details, as well as why the historian finds some details more ‘important’ than others.

In my presentation, I attempted to show the relevance of these strategies by demonstrating how different accounts of current American politics differ depending on the ideological premises, which determine the way the story of political events will be told, which determines the casting of the dominant rhetorical trope, which determines which details are likely to be included, how they will be viewed, and how they will all be put together.

White, therefore, gives some insight into why given ‘events’ (such as Why America was Attacked on 9/11/2001) can be much more easily discussed among ideologically similar thinkers, for they may have extremely ‘meaningful’ debates on the inclusion or interpretation of details, as they share the same assumptions (they emplot the story along similar lines and then, so the discussion is mainly with this taken as a pre-critical given). Extreme conservatives and extreme liberals will most often becomes frustrated and find difficulty having ‘meaningful’ debates because they attempt to debate the inclusion or interpretation of details, but both based on wholly different assumptions which they take as ‘obvious’ or ‘common-sensical,’ coming from different ideologies and thus emploting the story differently. They will not really be talking about the same thing; they perhaps should be talking about their assumptions rather than the details their assumptions inevitably lead them to focus on. Ultimately, this book is the demystification of histories, historians, journalism, and journalists who claim to present things ‘as they are,’ while providing some brilliant methods for determining in what ways a given account lacks ‘complete objectivity’ and how it can be seen as ultimately ideological.

[disclaimer: this is by no means meant to be an exhaustive survey of professor white's book, it is simply a study tool designed for those who have little or no knowledge of the book and would like a starting point. here's the background on this essay]

announcement: the overhaul of skij's 13

2007-05-23T20:05:00.000+01:00

Dear loyal readers of skij's 13 and passers-by:

I'm going to be completely overhauling my little blog here and make it into a much more comprehensive literary site with a lot more of my work. That means: I'll be dropping the pseudonym, uploading an actual picture (comments very welcome), and, most importantly, putting up full versions of a lot of my prose. For now some of the new links to the right just send you back to the main page - my understanding of code is such that I have to do this piece by piece - but soon they'll send you to much more organized and detailed pages. So: you'll be able to get lists of stories, poems, etc.. Come back soon - I'll be making the changes in the next few days.

Poetry Collection V

2007-05-22T23:53:00.000+01:00

your hand is shaking,

but nerves are okay,

because this day,

will still break, and there’s

always time, again

But none like this.

oh jesus I have nothing more to say

when you’re already asleep

that I could take, you up in my arms?

and you could wake up,

if my voice were a little sharper,

if I, could make you, pain.

you are,

just an ugly turn,

of shoulder skin during the dawn:

I could turn it away,

two times dark,

I could keep

myself Together.

Pack yourself back up
Matchstick man
The wind is colder than
you thought

Ugly hands can feel
in the storm
Troubled pulses can’t hide
their shape

tumbling for words -

gets stuck

fumbling in morning -

is sick

The sky can't be

all this blue

And all these

people, moving

Poetry Collection IV

2007-05-22T23:52:00.000+01:00

after - rain
the streets have not
yet healed
to any
sealing of fricitives
the air - green
wet gasps of
thaT last breath

before sleep:
trying to stay
foot-touched
heart-held
before the rising
heavy
Earth -

The moon was not/ forever tragedy

In flowers she would have been three (he slept
one as the sunflower you’ll find her
nestled in the creaking darkness of seeds
hinges of shadows' cloud dust or more and
two an orchid of violet fervor (his face, framed in the hills and wet grasses)
skin the flavor of honey blood find shade
in the spiraling darkness behold
her beauty is the legend of
Pagans the blood they heaved as
ballet grace and the drunken love
water for
purity she is her
own legend as calm
seaborn typhoon
or cool summer grass
midnight you’ll find
three flowers
and as she falls in love the tide shivers
and her love
shepherd of men but only as he
reminds us of our mortality
she passed above
his flock for years
and finally
jammed him to Paradise begging forever
(her father smiled)
his life her breath
in a box
a life no less
a life of love
and grasshopper legs

imagine
frameless girl of pixie breasts
daisy swarmed in brushes of her own nakedness
Barefoot seltzer she is
always summer
the brush of a cloud
(Here we pray
knees in the wet mud - volley
deprizal of our
volvulus words
Struck her where a rape they say jammed
volcanic
his winter into
against
(break)
Hands that could not hold on fumbled
the slippery heating darkness when the greatest
of heroes the volt of war pinned
girls against the Walls of Troy
(You cannot pray for nature/ alone in the mud
She ate the DArk Fruit
struck babbled her eyes could
not maintain the image
and the fruit burst between her
teeth drawing
her lips and
summer’s
whet
limp

Ice is the second most solid container as of
course you know the stories of
the north young child young
men voyaging writing poems for
ice princesses they dreamt of your
father was such a man my child his
eyes like a fox's they
wore long cloaks and braced
their bodies to the ice's heart its womb their
fires were more for the love of smoke
than the invisibility they ate
they never tasted for
north is quite like a sea a garden of
waves caught fumbling in some crystal moment
of loved hating thought caught at
the moment when everything is packed under
only some men have ever returned the story
is an old one for north during days
of darkness days of sheer sparkle either
stellar or the hope the men planted in the
snow and caves and white like thumbnail corn their
eyes would change color you
see deep shades of red some of
leapordal orange aurorial and the ice
worked like slippery magic

Try not to let the nightmares in my
child

In April
broken heat
stinks rising from
the tool-wise
pavement up-up
by a rounding deluge
to swallow wind
pregnant as wine
blushing
is this air: In April
sounds drop a
ring for lush
garden green hill scenes
pastel picking bare, no -
this is fog
eyes to be piked on
newly found
hollow nasals
and gritty
smelling glands
night lamps share no
fog above the
breeding April earth
My red tongue is earth-wet
and pelvis, vorpal-dead -
even feet are
sloppy in April

Poetry Collection III

2007-05-22T23:51:00.002+01:00

go the way of gonzo

why the’ell not
blast out
your brains

on such
a melanch’ly
day?

granted the
Aspen sky
is crisp

Loathing
Fear, loathing
Fear.

I've gotten you
out of my body

It's only blood
and muscle now

you're
just a
tremor in the bones

a slip between
tongue and lip

just a thought
my skin can't locate

But you should
write back all the same

I'm in control girl -
I choose to wait,

I could have gotten
drunk hours ago.

no I don't notice -
the days as they pass,

But I knew
you'd ask

my sock is lost
somewhere in your bed

the coffee tastes stronger cold

you put on your jeans
casual quick

so that’s how the rub can go

My sock is Gone -

Somewhere in your
sheets -

The coffee tastes stronger cold

You put on your jeans

casual-quick

we'll lose more

where that -

came from!

Oh I speak to you again,
I couldn’t turn it down,
we’ll sit across tables,
candle-dy don’t,
playing on down the smiles,

Oh I could ask you home
after many a drink,
tumbling up whiskey even,
not a kiss,

try it and
we’ll see
what I say.

for Daniel Yuvachev
Of course I’m not sure if I believe
in such a tale but here it goes
there once was a writer who lived by a bridge
She lived by a bridge in England-town
Wrote about cats, wrote about God
A steady six weekends a year

Then one fine England-town day
something strange happened
and only this we know
she did not write she did not write
not about cats, not about God

Five years did pass and again she sat
to write a poem for dear dear Beth
justly returned from holiday she
had been a tourist Anyhow
the writer sat the writer thought
the writer baked strawberry muffins
and the most extraordinary of extraordinary then occurred

Nothing
She had nothing to write nothing to write
Not a single thought upon her head
Not a single thought worthy of God
Worthy of dear Beth

So warn you writers, sufferers all don’t
go like the woman in our tale
write write burn with your God
Write write love your kittens
love your youth

Poetry Collection II

2007-05-22T23:51:00.001+01:00

Wipe that smiling off your face,

I'm more to blame than you,

Yes your body is hungry-svelte,

But I supply the gaze.

If I can’t rub myself out

against you -

then I'll nick

at the itch -

raise up the skin in nervenumb

swelling -

at least feel something new.

god I could kill you,

if you’d give me a chance,

red lips across your drink,

this is my mask,

just Waverly Worn,

sniffing on out

of the Dark.

Tempt the Fates, If that’s As loud As you can Speak, Even if No one Reads it, Child

The expression – on – your face –
The moisture – on – your lip –
Such a day –
is only a day –
for you.

All will be forgiven –
because all will be forgotten.

Just can't get under the skin
Under the skin:

You've shaved your legs
Two-times tart

I know the whole picture
Been in and in

So why these eyelash battings
Whore

I've seen it before
And seen it before

What makes you think I'm
In such pain?

We walked like strangers

The straight concentration and she found my skin
holding something under breath

was love she said
was love she said

walked heavily
like paste

Poetry Collection I

2007-05-22T23:46:00.000+01:00

Stuffed with Blue

Thumbs the - Sun

Pollen - grits it Raw

Nails on Head -

And jars still Closing

Counting Away -

The Sun

Dead in - summer Hurts the Sun –

all this Streaming - deaf on Grass –

Hedges - of distraught - Attention –

and - these People walking – Home

If distance is a trick – of what you expect it to be

And Proximity has no texture
Other than what – you've felt – Before

And all you have at death – are the stories
You've always told yourself – to fall asleep

And money is worth only – what you give
– to protect it – as it determines – the scales

And I have changed and you have changed

I'll take my little chances – with no great cause

And leave you –
The pressure of such – little words

The potions in my brain are
swollen, as our attention keeps us
humble, the quiet day begins without
promise, and ends with the future
adorned in the bells and sun dresses
of this prison –
we laugh, cautious

you’ll pay tomorrow / my friend

\It was a
nervous jerk –
and so:
unfulfilling,
I’m still all nerves.
finger-tips and
heart valves.
The rocking of
sufficient breathing.
And I flit with the
desk lamp to melt
away those lines of light
across the ceiling.
This is it: convergence
of bloods, dissonance,
should there exist
such a word –

where is all of this
space when I’m
on trains? or
choosing breakfast
cereal?

All of those pens,
clips, jagged gleams
of metal on the desk –
Oh would they fit nicely
right back
behind my eyes!

from just moments after, when you have your breath back, if only to write a little something here or there

and – in these moments
of grinding – affectation
your head and your heart
an – awkward system

later there will – be time
to read this to pieces
what you could have waged –
into those little blue eyes

The moment is – escaping
the present: giving it the slip
and pegging reaction – on
dark foreign momentum

is the trick – against your
bones is the – thick against
where – your heart – should be
no, you’re wrong: there is time –

she said

Old Man and the Bar

2007-05-21T00:24:00.000+01:00

A young man sits in a smoky cafe with a college-ruled notebook open in front of him. The pages are blank, he’s sipping his terrible coffee Americano, and he’s spinning his pen with his free hand.

An old man walks into the bar, but he looks like he’s already been drinking. He is a fisherman. His hands are bleeding.

The air is hard and smells of cedar.

“Don’t despair,” the old man says, moving up steadily to the young man, with a look that penetrates him to the core, beyond even his blood. “You are a man, and a man can be destroyed but never defeated.”

There is a pause until the young man can speak without shivering.
“But sometimes I feel so much pain and doubt,” says the young man, “It’s as if, all of the sleeping and all of the insomnia, that it’s all for absolutely nothing.”

He is having trouble breathing.

“A man can bear any pain, that is his gift.” The old man stares hard at him, and extends one of his bleeding hands. His eyes are so clear that the young man reaches for the hand. “Just do something that you know – do something you know, and something that is true.”

“Like what?” asks the young man, with a new life in his cloudy green eyes. His brain feels smooth and his breath now comes quickly. He is no longer twirling his pen.

And he looks at the old man until he sees it.

The old man opens his mouth to speak. The young man begins to cry. The old man’s eyes are sharp and clear. He pulls out a gun.

“Bear all pain,” he says, because he noticed the tears, and shoots himself in the head.

A Walk Down the Clyde in the Summertime

2007-05-20T21:17:00.000+01:00

They walked through Glasgow, arm in arm, along the lazy Clyde which hadn’t impressed either of them – they had been expecting something more in the way of a mountain stream but this, they supposed, was what impressed the English that drove up North because it was a half more rapid and wild than the lazy English marshes and lakes and they came upon a brightly-lit, nice-looking cafe just as the sun had hit the rolling Scottish horizon and the buildings in the distance became dull like lead pikes and they would have green tea for Siobhan and whiskey for Mike.

“Now in this cafe you have to sound more Irish,” said Mike as he pinched Siobhan’s right shoulder in the only place where her right shoulder had any flesh.

“Ouch!” she said, “that actually hurt!” She stuck her tongue out and looked away as Mike reached for the cafe door.

“Hurt your pale little Irish skin,” he said with a smile into her ear, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, my pale little Irish skin, but I think it would have hurt any skin. And why shouldn’t you have to sound more American?”

She looked a little hurt Mike could tell because she hadn’t looked back at him when she said this and so Mike smiled more to show he was just being playful. And the stones on the pavement were beginning to pick up a sheen of street light out of the indirect haze and it did smell a little bit like mountains.

“No,” he said, “that won’t do. The more American I sound the more trouble I get into. More American would mean Texan, and they don’t like Texans any more than I do. But you should try to sound as Irish as possible, you know, or else they’ll think you’re American. You know how it is. And nothing’s worse than a pair of traveling Americans.”

“Okay,” she said, finally brightening up because she got the joke and Mike felt his muscles relax a little around his neck as he opened the door finally, “I’ll try to fit Dublin into my order.” She said Dublin with a strong accent, the ‘u’ sound nice and deep. “You just don’t be such a fucking cunt,” she said with a cute smile that lit her whole face up and squeezed him back on his shoulder as they walked into the cafe and went past the glass tables to the corner where she would want to sit, and Mike thought great, I’ll feel great, at least tonight.

“And I don’t get what would be so bad about being two Americans,” she said after they brought her the tea. The lights had gone down and some French jazz had picked up and the cafe smelled like black crusty Scottish bread with a touch of whiskey. The jazz and the soft Scottish and the hissing of the espresso machine was a relaxing background and Mike reflected on how much prettier she looked when she smiled. “After all, we’re not fat and you can’t go two minutes without saying something that sounds tremendously intelligent.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” said Mike and he was looking hard at the whiskey on the rocks. He was looking hard at it because he couldn’t very well tell them to bring it back like he had ordered because you couldn’t be that American, not once you left the airport, so he drank it down.

“You’re always going to tell me things later,” she said and took a long drink of tea herself and looking long down the winding Glasgow streets towards the main square in between glances at his empty glass and her eyes were so goddamn lovely it made him really want another drink. “That can get boring, you know, only knowing things in the future.”
Mike was feeling fine and the whiskey was bringing a neat burn to his stomach and he was enjoying looking at Siobhan and the glass felt cool against his fingers.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously.”

“Nothing.”

He sat back while she leaned in over her tea and looked again outside and followed a few couples walking through the streetlight down towards the river and the pavement was now very bright in the wet summer air and you could see the reflections of the streetlights off the stone almost as clearly as the streetlights themselves.

“It’s July and I’m in Glasgow and I’m in love,” she finally said and looked at him.

“With whom?”

“Stop messing,” she said and rolled her eyes.

“My sweet little pale Irishwoman.”

“My big stupid Yank.”

“Would you like another whiskey?” asked the waitress, a chubby, dark girl as Siobhan stuck her tongue out to Mike but this time playfully.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled and Siobhan rolled her eyes again.

Mike toyed with his napkin a little and Siobhan reached for his hand.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” she said.

“You know, it’s all just hard, right now.”

“Excuse me,” came a voice over Siobhan’s shoulder. It was heavily accented, French, with a Scottish edge and Siobhan had noticed the girls sitting there but Mike hadn’t yet so he didn’t realize who was talking to them at first. The first thing he noticed was the concentration of pretty faces, the lack of thick thighs, and only third was that it had been one of these faces that had addressed them.

“You are not from Glasgow, no?”

Siobhan turned a little but not enough to face the French girls, she was still looking at Mike but turned enough to give the girls a corner of her face when Mike would answer because she knew it would be Mike who would answer. The three girls were cute and young and their cheeks were flushed with wine and coffee. Two were dark, almost as dark as the waitress, and had many bracelets and rings and earrings and the third had shocking red hair that was cut short to frame her face that was brushed with light freckles and very full lips.

“Easy enough to tell?” said Mike right as the waitress brought his whiskey which, of course, had ice in it. He laughed a comfortable laugh.

“Yes,” answered the red-head matter-of-factly, as if she was receiving a correct answer in a classroom, and then turned back to one of the darker girls who had said something quietly and she responded with something that sounded quite aggressive and emotional, even for French, and then stood up, her eyes flashing ever so slightly. “You mind?” she asked, pointing to the chair between Mike and Siobhan.

“Not at all,” said Mike and Siobhan was still looking at him with her tea-cup up against her face.

“Thank you, merci,” she said as she walked over to their table, looking back once and narrowing her eyes at the two girls who adjusted their chairs to face the other corner of the cafe. Now Mike could only see the glossy sheen of their dark hair and the occasional hand with bracelets and rings rise and fall emotionally.

“Sorry, I hope we didn’t...” started Mike.

“No, no, is nothing at all.” She looked at Siobhan and pursed her lips. “I am Julie.” The smile she gave Siobhan was broad and cautious and she handled her lips like she knew everyone was looking at them.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Mike,” said Mike and just then the waitress brought Julie a giant blue cocktail with a cherry, a lime, a red straw and an umbrella.

“You know it was the Americans who invent the cocktail?” said Julie and she pursed her lips around the straw and looked up at Mike.

“Oh?” said Siobhan.

“Yes. I read your Fitzgerald. In translation, of course.”

“Well, we’re not Americans,” said Mike just as he noticed his whiskey was getting diluted. The water left a weird mark in the liquid, and it would taste too cold.

“Oh?” said Julie, dipping her index finger in her blue cocktail. Her neck was strong, and she sat straight and alert, like she was ready at any moment to spring up. Her tone didn’t sound surprised or engaged so Mike had to act fast to save the moment.

“No. She’s from Dublin. I’m the only American.”

“Oh, I see. Is hard for me sometimes, the accents.”

“But you knew we weren’t from Glasgow.”

“Yes.” And she took another drink, this time looking outside and Mike wondered if she would get up and go back to the two dark French girls who, from their body movement, seemed to be in an argument over Julie because they kept looking over at her. Siobhan was checking her phone with her pursed lips and there was something about that look that brought the tension back into Mike’s shoulders. “Yes, I know you are not Glasgow, but because how you act.”

“Really, and how exactly we do act?” Mike said, realizing the moment was saved and things would be easy now and he reached for his drink to mark the moment.

“You act, like you walk into the cafe for the night. The one night. But here, everybody knows each other.”

“Just for the night,” said Siobhan, not looking up from her phone.

“You are on holiday – or vacation?” asked Julie, looking from him to her.

“You might say we’re both heading home,” said Mike as he motioned to the waitress over Julie’s shoulder. ‘But there’s no way to motion for no ice,’ was one of his thoughts at the moment. And he was sure he knew who was texting Siobhan but he couldn’t mention it, not now and not later.

“And is home Dublin or America? Or les highlands?”

“Mike actually lives in Shanghai,” said Siobhan, looking up from the phone and setting it on the table by the sugar, looking softly at Julie and meeting her eyes for the first time but without committing her expression to any particular attitude, just looking, “I’m going back to Dublin.”

“Oh, then this is sad occasion? I should leave then, because,” said Julie and her body did take the form of preparing for movement. Her perch was shaky and she could be on the other side of town in a minute, her posture said.

“No, please stay,” he said.

“Yes, do,” said Siobhan, looking over at him.

“So where are you on the way home from?”

“We both lived in London for a year, studying – university and tutors and the Thames and things like that,” said Siobhan.
“Siobhan was on a year abroad, I was just doing some graduate work.”

There was a pause at the table while Julie looked outside and Mike almost said what he was doing work in but then remembered what Siobhan had said earlier so he kept quiet and let the silence manifest itself and let himself hear the jazz again. “And what are you up to?” asked Mike, feeling very American.

“What am I up to?” said Julie, smiling and taking another drink. A touch of the blue cocktail mingled with the perfume reached Mike and he took a deep, silent breath of it in and tried to look a little bored.

“Yes,” said Siobhan, looking back at her phone.

And they drank for another hour and even discovered that Siobhan and Julie knew someone in common who was studying at Polytechnique and had lived with someone in Lyons who knew someone from Munich and while they were talking about him or her Mike looked down the Glasgow street and watched the figures coming in and out of bars and boutiques, and then he looked over his shoulder with his whiskey in his right hand to give authority to the gesture.

‘Because what had Siobhan been looking at?’ he wondered to himself and realized he was on his fifth whiskey and also realized that Siobhan was no longer bored but also that Julie might be but he could never tell with French especially the nervous kind because they could be bored out of their skulls but still look like they were going to jump you any second and then he wondered why the fuck he should care if Julie was bored or if Siobhan couldn’t get along with her and he sank back in his seat and looked up through a little wash of haze and the room seemed darker. Fifth or sixth whiskey?

“... just never calls, even when I don’t call him for three days and that is always supposed to work for the men,” Julie was saying.

“No, but you can’t ever generalize with things like that,” said Siobhan after a long, protesting drink of the blue cocktail Julie had talked her into ordering.

“What’s wrong?” Siobhan asked Mike an hour later as the two of them were leaning against the railing of a bridge over the Clyde a mile up from the cafe. It seemed much later to him, and he looked at his watch a second time.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he answered, and stared hard at the gleaming water and it reminded him vaguely of some of the rivers back home, but it still seemed slow and didn’t have any of the rocks rolling out of the surface that he associated with a mountain river and the smell wasn’t the same and the air was still moist.

“Are you drunk?” she asked tipsily, probably to soften the question, thought Mike. And she reached up to rub his shoulder and for a second he could feel her fingers and he could tell how cold they were because they were stiff and because she was always cold.

Mike, to his surprise, found himself shrugging off her hand.

“I just feel... irritated.”

“I wish I could help,” said Siobhan, still kindly. She gently returned her hand to the railing.

Mike didn’t answer for a few minutes and in the meantime Siobhan looked straight on at the river, too, and then back at the flashing lights of downtown Glasgow in the near distance and the sounds of cars or small drinking parties would waft out to them every once in a while and deaden against the sound of flowing water.

“I just wish I could help you. I think I could.” She was still looking forward and didn’t turn when she added, “I love you, Mike.”

And the sounds were washing over Mike, the sounds of this river and the rivers at home and the noise of the streets in London and the throbbing in your ears when you’re walking back home with Siobhan after a club and you’re laughing and walking slowly.

“London was great,” said Siobhan after another few minutes, watching his eyes and then the water. “I guess we’ll never have it again. At least how it was this summer. And I can’t believe it’s...” but she didn’t finish the thought because they had agreed not to talk about it any more.

And he looked over at her and she looked at him during the long silence that followed. What a stupid expression on my face, he thought, what a stupid moment that I try to keep forever and leaned in and kissed Siobhan and her lips reacted like they’d been waiting for it, they were hurried and a little shaking. ‘And you barely noticed that she was trembling.’ And he kissed her harder and put her hands against his bare stomach and they were cold.

Half an hour later they were walking back to the hotel and the stone streets glittered and most of the cafes were closed with their heavy wood chairs up on tables and they would only hear the occasional murmur from a bar. Siobhan had her right hand on Mike’s right hip and Mike’s hand was on Siobhan’s lower back and they both knew they would make love straightaway in the hotel room probably still half clothed with the lights off and he felt so lonely and hated making love feeling so lonely so he tried to focus on his lust because that could carry him through, too, and he probably wouldn’t even remember this moment afterwards. That made his shoulders tighten the tightest they had been that night.

“I got Julie’s email,” said Siobhan.

“Let’s just not talk about Julie, okay?”

“What’s wrong? Babe? Mike?”

And they walked on and Mike let go of her and walked with his hands in his pockets and hated the face he must be making and would have done anything to get rid of it because it embarrassed him and he tried to think of anything but Siobhan, of the Shanghainese girls and their skinny little bodies in their jeans and tank-tops and that brothel his friend had told him about he had promised himself he would force himself to try.

“This hurts like hell,” she finally said, as they turned down the alley that led to their hotel and he suddenly stopped and she looked at him hopefully and gently and knew that she would keep looking at him hopefully and understanding even though he hoped she would yell at him, raise her voice, tell him she was fucking pissed off and how could he leave like this and that she would never forget how he had treated her this last night and did she really mean so little to him but she didn’t. Mike opened his mouth to say something but stopped short. He could hear a street saxophonist somewhere up and off, and, putting his hand into Siobhan’s and squeezing it, he thought about how there would never be another London, but also never another Glasgow, either. And he hoped Siobhan would never guess how small and lonely he felt at that moment, about to kiss each other, his hand curled around hers.

skij's 13 :: poe*try sho*rts etc.

Yes I Will

Two new series: Insomnia Poetry, and 15-Year-Old Poetry

Newest Story up online: Open-Minded Gentleman

New story coming out next week

Newest Story up online: Tanya's Bare Legs

new story up online - crossroads

inappropriate suicide limerick #1

Still the time for a Russian bride

How to Meet the Irish in Moscow

Stories up Online - as of 1/14/2010**

Illusion of Control

Guts in the Basement

"If Distance Had its Charm" - now online

you are a dirty little french girl

new color new year new direction new breath!

no posting for the weary

Fet's "O Miraculous Painting" [1842]

Anna Marie - Available to Buy Online

Why the “West” will never respect Russia Today

new story up online: "Atomic Age"

Moscow Abstract: leto na simonovke

two moscow images, 2007

In addition to Grauduate School and Poetry writin' ...

new story up online

unhealthily obsessed with creationism

empty space in the moscow metro

boulder sky

downtown moscow

new story up online

new story up online: three damsels in the neon bath

bring it

actually that photo didn't suit the post at all

"Wendy's, Honey" is up online!

new story up online - perfect crime

leningrad covers zemfira

Sarah can't have any more abortions

cartman's Makin it Right song

too funny not to post

more online publishing news

new play up online

moscow underpass v

moscow abstract photo of the day

russian brides are such a good idea

abstinence only rix or rax or whatever the kids say these days!

Binge Drinking = Bad

Save Money By Turning off your Lights!

space in seven dimensions

Loss and Return

more on moscw night walks home, streelights and trees, eerie vaults of spiraling blue

outdoor cafe table in the summer

moscow enigma

Is Moscow really the word's most expensive city?

moscow metro memory v

how to: become a babushka

goodbye moscow

moscow cafe scene

moscow haze

moscow underpasses: turgenevskaya

the sky's coming down on you, young man

Somehow the heat of pillow gives me the impression

colorado / to unload my head

heart away / head to stay

And how all of this really / Means nothing to me

... and wished her mind could flow into that easy, babbling current ...

variation on irish sunset

How to: Get Drunk Fast

Wht is he looking forward to indeed

Palo Alto

How to: Get into Premieres

She slides up and

abstract: moscow bar

pirates premiere

Ghosts in the Moscow Metro

Moscow Heat Wave

Moscow Metro; Mayakovskaya

From the train window, January

Oh the fidget! Oh, the hem!

Two Pictures of Zurich Forest

Abstract Bottle on my Moscow Balcony

skij's 13 :: poetry shorts etc.