March 10, 2003
I was in Russia. Or maybe in America (USA). Suddenly, I realized I was drifting like a log. It was all because of some explosion in this stupid war. Somehow — don’t ask me how — the U.S. and Iraq ended up as two countries on the same shoreline… but no one knew about it. I thought I was swimming away from Moscow, barely escaping through the window of a sinking Jeep, when, glancing around, I saw Bush himself swimming alongside me like a professional, with his bodyguard struggling behind him.
Suddenly, George Bush, trying to make a deeper stroke as he swam past, smacked me — either across the ear or the eye — and I blacked out.
I came to on the shore, observing from somewhere above how a handsome lifeguard pulled my Jeep companion out first, then me.
She was wearing a strange pleated red knit dress. I was in a stretch sports outfit — black cycling shorts and a T-shirt. The shoes were even weirder.
We were on a beach in Iraq.
There were more sunbathers than in Anapa in August. Everyone was melting. It was scorching hot.
We approached a small kiosk and found a Russian girl working there. She regularly called Moscow, so I gave her my dad’s number, asking her to call him.
We had no idea how to get home — we had drifted across half the globe while unconscious, crossing countless borders without any documents. Now we needed documents, money, clothes.
We went out into the city. We spotted a woman we planned to steal clothes from.
She lived in a shack — about the size of a toilet stall, just enough space to stand or sit.
Next to her door, of course, was the door to an actual toilet.
She struggled with the key stuck in the toilet lock, yanking it out with such force she nearly lifted the whole building — but too many eyes were already on us, so we walked away.
School.
Everyone spoke English.
Strange — not a single Arab in Iraq.
The country looked more like America.
I entered a classroom; one of the students (a Yank!) pointed at me.
I twisted his arm.
The teacher protested: “What are you doing?!”
“He hit me!” I said successfully, walked up to the blackboard and announced (in English), “I am Russian. Have you ever seen a Russian girl?”
My companion — who turned out to be Italian — grabbed my bag and ran off.
Inside was a water bottle — the most precious thing in this heat.
I chased her.
I never got the chance to teach those little Yankees a lesson (only boys there — a boys-only school?).
I caught up, reclaimed my bag — but the bottle was empty.
I looked for a drinking fountain — like the ones in pioneer camps — but the first was frozen over.
The second too. (How ice could form here, I have no idea!)
I scraped the ice off and filled my bottle with precious water.
We decided to find an embassy.
The Italian girl (Andrea? Francesca? Philippa?) said the embassy was in the capital, and we weren’t in the capital…
We decided to walk along the beach — it turned out we were by a bay.
We reached the water.
The Italian girl transformed into Zhenya — the girl I traveled to Egypt with.
There was shooting by the water.
Medieval or ancient men — in bright orange leather with crossbows — were fighting.
We hid behind rows of chairs on the beach, falling into the first row behind the fighters’ backs.
They noticed us.
We yelled that we were innocent.
They drove us away, promising to “get us later.”
We ran, catching sight of a decent-looking knight (the type played by movie stars) and asked in English if he spoke English.
He answered — in English — “I don’t speak English,” and we ran on.
We decided not to run right — it felt like life ended there with the bay — so we ran left, where there were more houses.
Running, we joked that we should have grabbed condoms — so many macho men going to waste!
“At least a diaphragm!” yelled Zhenya, falling into hysterical laughter on the sand.
It was getting dark.
Ahead was another military base.
We needed to know what lay beyond it.
We snuck into a storage room — it looked like an empty stable with wooden tracks laid out.
There I found two pairs of blue flip-flops — way better than our weird footwear.
Zhenya went into the bushes.
I heard voices.
Someone in the house knew we were there.
We were discovered.
No use pretending we were just looking for the embassy.
I called Zhenya.
We had to run — we were surrounded.
Dream – April 6, 2003
I dreamed of a Neapolitan song. The tempo was building up. I woke up with an irresistible desire to reproduce it. From the attic, there was enough room (or could I reach? 😉 for a small, old Yamaha synthesizer, and the splinter from my backside was removed as I fiddled with a familiar tune. Of course, I didn’t play it perfectly, but at least my fingers got a chance to stretch.
I didn’t stop there. After a few tries, I picked up my favorite “Crazy,” wrote down the harmony on a piece of paper, and firmly decided to record it and post it online someday.
I was quite surprised that such a delight had been sitting in a box in the attic for years. It’s all that childhood sense of guilt I had for not finishing my piano lessons and forgetting everything. I decided that with the first 500 bucks I could get my hands on, I’d buy a decent synthesizer with full-sized keys, buy some sheet music, and start playing again… Even if just a little.
Paul McCartney, for example, even sat with his guitar in the bathroom. Why am I any different? I’ve got great fingers, good ears, and my voice is something else. If I can’t perform for anyone else, I’ll perform for myself.
April 19, 2003
We were sleeping.
Just peacefully asleep…
Then my right hand slipped into his right hand.
And in the dream, our fingers began to move and intertwine — warming, igniting, feeding a fire that awakened us both.
It was erotic, beautiful, full of love.
We loved each other as I had never experienced before.
April 23, 2003
I dreamt of a foreigner who spoke poor Russian.
We lay fully clothed in bed, and I trembled as he kissed the corner of my lips.
Then an Eastern-looking girl (maybe Japanese) entered, undressed, and straddled us.
I touched her skin, her small breasts.
Oddly, she had sparse, coarse black hairs on her chest and shoulder.
Later, I flipped through Cosmopolitan magazine — strangely in album format — and hated it.
It was so awkward to turn the pages.
April 30, 2003
I dreamt of fragrant lilacs — purple lilacs — wild greenery.
I climbed from apartment to apartment across balconies.
I dreamt I was Holly Marie Combs and someone tried to “dominate” me — which strangely turned me on.
But the lilacs — they stayed with me the most.
May 11, 2003
I dreamt I was a mermaid — white hair, blue eyes, Spanish temperament.
Men acted like lunatics.
It was astonishing — to feel how differently you’re treated when you are stunningly beautiful.
I searched the deep for my mermaid mother.
But all I found were artificial beaches with fake sand and fake sun.
Later, some flower witch cursed me — two extra toes grew on my left foot, one on my right, and daffodils sprouted from my hands along with my fingers.
May 21, 2003
Instead of going to St. Petersburg, for some reason I went to Yaroslavl.
There, I met my sister, and we found a treasure our grandmother had hidden — silver plates, shoes, and spoons.
Two spoons were stuck together face-to-face.
In one plate, we found a pie — moldy outside but fresh inside — apparently preserved by the silver.
Vovka called angrily: “And which station are you at now?”
I bashfully mumbled I was in Yaroslavl but would catch the first train to St. Petersburg and be there by the 8th.
May 22, 2003
Keanu Reeves in Moscow.
Interview, journalists, news footage.
But he wanted to be with me.
In my room, we lay half-reclining, half-kissing in the dim light.
He held my hand.
The moment was perfect.
He had to return to America.
I walked him out.
He paused and wrote phone numbers on my left wrist with a ballpoint pen.
I barely kissed his right eyebrow.
Suddenly, he said, “Come with me, baby!”
I hesitated: “I don’t have a visa.”
“You’ll have one now. Are you ready to leave everything and come with me?”
“Let’s go!”
“Right now!”
“YES!”
I woke up…
May 29, 2003
Mom and I entered a building — not ours.
Suddenly, a tiny horse followed us inside.
Not a foal — a tiny horse.
It was the size of a medium dog, scrawny, as if just born.
The horse cuddled up to me, then started crying.
“Mom, he’s hungry — he needs milk!” I cried.
Mom agreed we should take him home.
But then the horse started behaving strangely toward me.
When we entered the elevator — it happened.
The horse turned into a young man in dark clothing.
He pulled out his “weapon” and assaulted me.
I tasted semen and urine in my mouth.
The elevator walls closed in.
I kicked and screamed, but my mouth and eyes were stuck together by the sticky liquid.
When the elevator doors opened, I shoved him toward the balcony with all my strength — hoping he fell over.
The next day, near the building entrance, I saw him — holding a huge bouquet of beautiful flowers — light orange, pale yellow, white, and soft pink — some mix of gerberas and peonies.
I grabbed the bouquet, smacked him with it, threw it to the ground, and walked away.
He stayed, smiling — as if he knew exactly what would happen, and even enjoyed it.
Later, in a room full of girls, like in a summer camp, I read a book by the window.
He walked in.
I buried myself in the book — it was genuinely fascinating.
“God, who writes like this?” I exclaimed aloud.
One of the girls pointed at him, saying: “Tobash wrote it.”
I looked at the cover — it said, large letters: Tobash E. (The last name was lost as I woke up.)
Suddenly, my hatred vanished.
He wasn’t a monster anymore — he was a gifted writer who gave me flowers and wrote a breathtaking book.
I squatted down…