These are photographs from Russia. I’d like very much to post all fifty six of them with a nice little “You’ll Figure It Out.” But you won’t, and I’m trying not to be such a liar.

1471. People were really nice to me. This is LaFleur making me food; being nice to me, etc. If I learned anything on this little jaunt, I’d say it’s that grace is ubiquitous. And those are some big words there: Grace and Ubiquitous. But here is what I really mean: I mean that you will often find that you will get much more that you will ever deserve. Grace is Ubiquitous. Go read Faint Music again.

1755. Lots of weddings in St. Petersburg. Church On Spilled Blood with BGPs.

1759. Small child.

1772. Fourth of July Kidneys. Meat market, SPB.

1792. Jesse sleeps.

1795. Fucking goddamn motherfuckers but they’re fucking dead and I’m not but seriously FUCK these guys, FUCK These Guys–Dead Fucking Blood Suckers.

1800. Did you see the words you wrote?

1821. We did a photo shoot. I don’t have the photos from the camera we were using, but these are some BEHIND THE SCENES photos I shot with the fiddy.

1891. Dirty Dirty Fingernails.

1920. Tons of aged Russian man-ass.

1946. Obligatory Crow-shot.

1986. You’d be bummed, too, if you weren’t allowed to wheelie.

2015. Lots of weddings in SPB.

2016. See the turtle of enormous girth, on his back he holds the Earth.

2063. Moscow tourarism.

2097. Self portrait at Lenin’s tomb.

2121. Throw money over your shoulder here and you get a wish. If your wish is for three cents, it’s guaranteed to come true.

2183. Wishes are coming true all over this place.

2188. I wished for two eagles.

2190. Then I wished for spot-metering on one of the eagle’s eyes.

2212. Wild pack of family dogs.

2217. Fly Emirates!

Okay. I’m leaving Russia today. I decided to stay in St. Petersburg instead of taking the transsiberian railroad. Sure the train sounds more romantic, but my friends were in SPB and I guess that’s what it’s all about (?). SO. I fly today from Moscow to Dubai, and change planes in Dubai to go to Japan.

I will be home in one week.

I feel about home as a devout religiousman must feel about the afterlife. Sometimes I’m caught up in the battles and triumphs of life and sometimes I’m like: let’s get this over with kid-o. But Dubai? WTF. And Japan is going to be more bonkers I think than I can imagine. I have not heard from the hostel where I am supposed to be staying in Osaka. Hmm.

I shot a million photos but have no posting at the moment. I have been reading and looking up words and will provide you with a few good words in captions to said photographs–if and when they ever get posted. BUT. What can I give you that is not just a (50/50 chance it gets broken) promise. Oh yeah, I hate postmodernism, don’t you? I hate postmodernism like hipsters hate it when their favorite band gets popular (I hate that, too, don’t you?). It’s the allstar break, right? I missed like the whole first half of baseball season?

Yeah, fuck. This is really going nowhere fast.

The title to this is pronounced Noo Lodnuh. This is what people say all the time in Russia. It means, effectively, yeahohkaysurewhateveridontreallycarebutyes. And people say it all the time. There is not much ENTHUSIASM going on. Like apparently there is no way to say “I am excited,” other than to say “I am sexually excited,” which of course you can say in any language. We taught Yulia (hi Yulia) to say “I’m stoked.” (not to mention the ; and the –) She, in all likelihood, is the first Russian to ever be stoked at all.

Ну ладно,
Дасти

Is there a context in which she would get it?

My context, I guess, but that’s the thing. I don’t think she leaves her context–ever. And why would she? Rich, famous, etc, etc.

Who do I write for now, if not for you?

She must have been thinking about me when that helicopter flew off, right? Who else could she have possibly been thinking about?

But that’s the thing: I don’t think I’m ever going to know.

And at what point does a healthy fantasy life birth an unhappy adulthood (But what if I never grow up)?

But gosh I’m clean (cut) right now. Cut hair and shaved face; like a gift to some lucky mother-in-law.

But when will I just put it down? Questions for me I guess, not you. But who can I find to marry me and convince me to just put it down? Someone to whom I can owe my raging success and satisfaction.

I’d love to be indebted like that.

I can’t even put a metaphor on it. She strikes me like that. Strikes me out of metaphors. My best was the river rock. But I’m trapped in America.

Or trapped as American, or trapped with Americans. Are you feeling that? You’d love her.

This year on my drive to school I’m going by motorcycle with mom following in a gold Camry. You’d love her. But this is if all goes as planned. The carbs are in the shed and the gas tank is rusty.

Do you know that people have fiction conferences? Fiction workshops? How will I justify my raging success and satisfaction if I never have to endure a fiction workshop? I’ll deal I guess. But what about a wildly successful poet? Will I be able to aford an E-Class if I’m a wildly successful poet? I doubt it.

I don’t even know if I can write poetry. Shit, I don’t even know if I can read poetry. But goddamn I can buy some poetry books, and that’s just it: commercial sucess comes from the selling of books. So fuck it, I’m set. I’ll market to people who just want to buy poetry books.

Maybe they’ll browse. Oh look at this metaphor. Quotable phrases and maybe a pristine snowfield composition in there but really commercial success is all I need. You’d LOVE her. Etc.