I think if I will move somewhere in the near future for an extended period of time it will be to Georgia (country).

while abroad I read a book by John Steinbeck called ‘Russian Journal’. I found two things particularly striking about it:
I. That Russians really haven’t changed since the 50s (not really a bad thing)
II. That Georgia sounded really awesome

The culture seemed super rich and inviting. I liked the idea of being able to visit ancient cities, sitting on stones that were still standing and over 1000 years old. That sort of thing is the type of thing I think is cool.

They also have a really bizarre looking language that looks foreign and new and beautiful and amazing. I haven’t really listened to it yet. This is what it looks like:

i love how it is so round.

За год в России он научился хорошо говорить по-русски, и перед каждой композицией на концерте озвучивает небольшие комментарии к ней. Большинство сыгранных в тот вечер вещей написаны в Сибири – на одну вдохновил страшный мороз, другая возникла из сострадания к бездомным собакам, поводом к третьей стал закрытый для иностранцев город Северск. Но главное – Брендан не просто сочинил здесь новые композиции, а нашел принципиально новое для себя звучание. На мандолине он играет совершенно не классически – вместо спокойной, плавной мелодии создает жесткий «барабанный» ритм. Манера петь у него тоже своеобразная: хрипловатый голос, монотонные интонации…Пожалуй, психоделизм фрик-фолка достигается благодаря пению.

Then I google translated it for friends. It looked like this:

Last year in Russia, he learned to speak in Russian, and before each song at a concert voiced little comments to her. Most games played in the evening things were written in Siberia – one inspired by a terrible cold, and the other came out of compassion for stray dogs, the reason the third was closed to foreigners the city of Seversk. But the main thing – Brendan is not just composed new songs here, but found a completely new sound for themselves. On the mandolin, he plays a totally classic – instead of a calm, smooth melodies creates a hard “drum” rhythm. The manner of singing he also has a kind: a hoarse voice, monotonous intonation … Perhaps psihodelizm freak-folk is achieved through singing.

Then I translated it back. It looked like this:

В прошлом году в России, он научился говорить на русском языке, и перед каждой песни на концерте, выразили мало комментарии к ней. Большинство игр в вечер вещи были написаны в Сибири – один вдохновлен страшный холод, и другие пришли из сострадания к бродячих собак, причина, по которой третий был закрыт для иностранцев в городе Северске. Но главное – Брендан это не только новые песни состоит здесь, но нашли совершенно новый звук для себя. На мандолине, он играет совершенно классический – вместо спокойной, плавных мелодий создает жесткие “барабан” ритм. Манерой пения он также имеет вид: хриплый голос, однообразной интонацией … Может быть, psihodelizm фрик-народных достигается за счет пения.

Even if you don’t speak Russian, you can see the significant difference. Then I did it one more time:

In the past year in Russia, he learned to speak in Russian, and before each song at a concert, have expressed little comment to her. Most games in the evening, things were written in Siberia – one inspired by a terrible cold, and others came out of compassion for stray dogs, the reason why the third was closed to foreigners in the city of Seversk. But the main thing – Brendan is not only new song is here, but found a completely new sound for themselves. On the mandolin, he plays an absolutely classic – instead of a calm, smooth melodies creates a rigid “drum” rhythm. Manner of singing, he also has the form: a hoarse voice, monotonous tone of … Maybe, psihodelizm freak-folk is achieved through singing.

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOLOLOLOLOL.

Actually, I’m pretty surprised how good it is.

Full article in Russian here

It’s a pretty lame excuse and all, but at some point I sorta forgot this blog existed.

And then I remembered but I was busy and I didn’t post anything.

And then I had a good idea and started writing a post but then I had to leave on this current month long trip I’m taking through Russia with some other Americans. We have a banjo, a guitar, a mandolin, and a celtic harp. We are taking trains and buses for long distances in order to visit children and teach them about American folk music. So far it’s been super fun. It’s also nice to see more of Russia besides Moscow/St. Petersburg/various Siberian cities. This picture is of a time when we were standing outside the train at a stop but it looked more like a field and there were some cows there. I chose this picture because I think it represents Russian men really we re: clothes/squatting/trains. The train was very hot inside and I sweated there for 50 hours. That is why many men aren’t wearing shirts. Russian men also don’t wear deodorant. Imagine the smell.

It is paid for by the State Dept so thank you for paying your taxes and allowing us to to do this.

Of course we have a blog about it and that can be found here.

RUSSIA
TURNED ON ITS SIDE
LOOKS LIKE A PHILLY PHANATIC
CLUB-FOOTED
IF THAT’S WHAT A CLUBFOOT LOOKS LIKE

THIS IS HOW I FEEL HERE
OR AT LEAST
THE BEST I COULD COMMUNICATE
BUT AFTERWARDS
I MAY
FEEL
DIFFERENTLY

picture by Keith Birthday

I’m going to take this poem and I’m going to turn it into something else
probably something like a rock
or maybe an airplane
I’m going to take this rock or airplane
or poem
and turn it into a forest

I think that you’ll be impressed if I take this poem and turn it into something else
cause, if you see this poem not as a poem,
but as a rock
or an airplane
It’ll be better than a poem
cause I did something to it that made it something else

See, the actual idea is not to write a poem
and make you think of a rock or an airplane or a forest
It’s to tell you that it is
Why should you need to think that it’s anything else
than what I tell you?

This poem is not about a rock an airplane
a forest
It is those things
cause I told you
Who needs a poem when you already know what it is?

[I wrote this after I judged a poetry contest at a local university. I kept arguing with the other judges who kept giving points based on 'presentation' meaning things like costumes and acting and guitars and powerpoint presentations. The focus was removed from the poetry entirely and merely became a showcase of lower-than-average other talents of these Russian students. I was furious]

I had taken the tram to the outskirts of Krakow. Like many European cities I have been to, the outer edge of this city resembled American strip mall suburbs. Large stores surrounded me on all sides. Here I was supposed to wait for my ride to Berlin arranged through Mitfahrgelegenheit, an online German carpooling service. Think craigslist and carpooling. Via email, I had contacted  a man, and we had arranged for him to pick me up in this place, at a BP.

It was a simple process really. I waited at the gas station I was told to. Then a car pulled up, and out stepped a man in his late thirties and a woman in her twenties.

‘Sie sind Keith?
‘Ja.

I put my things in the trunk and we pulled away.

I was exhausted really, having been up late in the night drinking with K and the girls from the continent of Australia. There were some Spaniards too. I drank too much, got sick. The others went out to the club. I left K a note with some postcards, asking him to mail them in the morning if he found a mailbox. Now I was in the back of a car whose make I forget, luckily without any sort of sickness. The man and the woman spoke in German in the front seats. He had a strong Polish accent. She was obviously German. I introduced myself, thanked them for picking me up. Then I fell asleep.

I awoke about an hour later, I think. They had switched to Polish. She was struggling. They noticed that I had stirred, asked if everything was okay:

‘Alles klar mit Ihnen?
‘Ja, bin nur müde. Danke.
‘Was haben Sie denn in Krakau gemacht?
‘Nur rumgeschaut. War nur kurz da. Wir können dutzen, wenn es Ihnen nicht stört.
‘Klar können wir.

[I was glad that they were okay with informal address. One thing I've always disliked about other languages is polite 'you' forms. Although the rules regarding them are pretty clear cut, I find it disturbing. I feel there's a wall being put up. Even worse is when you learn that 'yous' in English turn into 'Sies' and 'Выs'.]

I learned that he drove to and from Krakow on a regular basis for business. I learned that she was a German student studying abroad in Poland and heading home for a few weeks of break. I didn’t speak about myself much, I figured I had already given myself away. They didn’t really ask. I figured things were better than way. They started to converse in Polish again.

‘Pszysyrrywy?
‘Tak yaswrwyzysywysywywpcy.

and so on. I fell asleep again.

I woke up as we were coming to a stop at some sort of polish roadside cafe. They went inside to get coffee and go to the bathroom. I walked a few laps around the place, stretched my legs. The man looked at me as I approached the car.

‘Was machst du in Deutschland?
‘Mache Urlaub, treffe mich mit Freunden dort. Danach fliege ich nach Neapel.
‘Wo wohnst du eigentlich?
‘Dieses Jahr, in Sibirien. Bin dort Englischdozent.

He looked a little surprised. I guess he hadn’t met many people who lived in Siberia.

‘Bist kein Deutscher?
‘Nein, Ami.
‘Heisst du bist Deutschsprechender Ami der in Sibirien Englisch unterrichtet?
‘Ja, so kann man es sagen.

[I had never really thought about my current state of being until he mentioned it. A German speaking American who currently lives in Siberia and teaches English and currently vacationing in Poland. I though it made me sound special.]

The girl came back from the bathroom. The man informed her of my state of being. We talked awhile about my time in Germany, my Swabian accent, Russia, Siberia, the Russian language, America, Polish vs. German vs. Russian. We got back into the car and continued on.

Shortly thereafter we encountered a sign saying that the main highway to Berlin was closed. There was no real detour offered. Out came the map and an intense discussion about where we needed to go. I said nothing from the back, knowing very little about Polish highways. Eventually a route was found/decided upon.

I think this route was much better than the highway one we would have taken. We ended up winding along small roads through villages. I looked out the window a lot, tried to read the signs in Polish. Every once in a while there would be some sort of reassurance from the front seat, although I really didn’t care if we were going the right way or not.

‘Wir finden es gleich, versprochen.
‘Okay. Hab es nicht eilig. Ich glaube dir.

I always find something deeply charming about small Eastern European/Russian villages. Old women with scarves tied about their heads walking with some obvious destination in mind. Children in sweaters running about, maybe laughing. Old motorcycles pouring smoke and making noises only a two-stroke engine could manage. Houses made of wooden slats with roofs that seemed to be slowly sloughing off. Faded signage on local businesses, maybe one of the chains had rusted through and the sign dangled.

Eventually we found the other highway and arrived in Berlin only a bit later than expected. They invited me to eat dinner with them, but I politely refused. I said I had some place to go. I made my way to the subway, took it to the hostel. The man at the desk recognized me, asked me how I was. I said I was fine.

[At some point the driver considered us lost, we pulled into a gas station to ask for directions. I stayed in the car while they decided to walk about. Out the window I saw another car with the morning's snow still on it. Someone had written 'LOL' on the rear windshield.]

Counterculture reduced from an ideal
or maybe lifestyle
to
blacknpinknskullsnsadness
‘sadness’
these girls cuddle teddy bears on streets
call it ‘dressing emo’

The front strands of her hair are dyed black
the area around her eyes is colored black
her fingernails are painted black
her hood is on her face

She’s got an iPod
4th generation and it is black
she is at this party and she is wearing headphones
stares out windows
eats some chocolate she bought

In Russia they say ‘эмо’
sounds like eh-mo
funny to think 30-80GB of music
all of it shit
probably.

I got out of the train, stepped out into the evening cold. I was in ‘Taiga’, the city named after the forest, or perhaps vice versa. This city connects Tomsk with the Trans-Siberian line. I had two hours. I walked up onto the overhead crossing in order to snap a few shots with my cameraphone as the sun was setting. A man asked me for a cigarette and I said no. He then said something else I didn’t understand, then smiled and laughed at me when I told him I didn’t understand him. Then he said, ‘don’t worry about it, you’re still young.’ I wonder what it was that he said that I wasn’t supposed to worry about.

[I like the way snow looks as the sun is going down.]

Inside the train station, I sat and read “The Crossing” by Cormac McCarthy. I had noticed that there was a gathering of people drinking lots of milk. The women were plainly dressed, all in long skirts and without makeup. I assumed they were conservative and religious. I was right. The youngest one came and sat next to me, brown hair, freckles, glasses, face like an anthropomorphic rodent, but in a good way, like the Whos in Dr. Seuss books.

‘Hello I’m from the dsf;kahsdoiaekjadhsfkjahweoiy
‘I’m sorry I didn’t understand.
‘I’m from afsd;jkahsdfhkj christian asdkljasd. We’ve traveling to Tomsk, how about you
‘I’m going to Krasnoyarsk, for a conference.
‘Are you a teacher?
‘Yes, I’m an English teacher, in Tomsk.
‘You’re not Russian?
‘No, I’m American.

[The green of the trains became more intense under the light of the setting sun. Almost electric. They shine against the blue of the snow and the redorange of the sky.]

‘What is your religion?
‘I’m an atheist.
‘Really? Then what happens when you die? Do you go to heaven or hell.
‘I think nothing happens. I think you die, and then there’s nothing.

[I had a desire to find the center of town, I had a few hours, I could make it there and back. Looking each way on top of the metal crossover bridge was disorienting. There wasn’t one way that looked as though it lead to the center. If I wanted to find it, I would have to ask. The sun had almost set. I didn’t want to ask, so I went into the train station instead.]

They tried to convert me right then and there, the whole lot of them. Told me they have so much fun when they sing and dance and praise god together. Asked me to play the guitar with them. There were so many. They frowned when I said that Jesus was just a regular guy who happened to be convinced that he was the son of god. I still think he made major changes to the morality of westerners. That answer wasn’t good enough cause he wasn’t the son of God to me.

‘Listen, it was nice meeting you, but I have to go
‘You should give us your number.
‘So that…..
‘We can call you and invite you to our church in Tomsk.
‘No. I have to go now. Goodbye.

They all waved goodbye. It was dark outside now. I crossed the crossover bridge in darkness to get onto my train. It was hot. Everyone was sleeping. I made my bed and put on my headphones and felt the gentle rocking and shifting of the train. Two hours.

[If I ever go back to Taiga again, I swear I’ll find the center.]

I was just about ready to leave when the pounding started on the door. Heavy, rhythmic, coupled with my name  shouted in a heavily affected Russian accent ‘БРЕНДАН’ (pound pound pound). I opened the door.

Before me stood my downstairs neighbor, Alex. We generally don’t see each other much, we generally don’t talk much besides exchanging pleasantries on the stairs from time to time. Most of our conversations occur when the sound of people at my parties becomes unbearable for him on Friday/Saturday nights and he comes upstairs in order to ask us to be quieter. Usually he’s very civil, tonight he didn’t seem so civil and I had no people over to my apartment. I was confused.

Alex was visibly drunk. There were stains on his roughly knit shirt. He was carrying a large jar in each hand. One appeared to be filled with tomatoes; the other, with berries and a berry colored liquid that appeared alcoholic. Behind him stood a young man, early teens, pre-pubescent mustache. He was looking at the ground. On Alex’s shoulder was a cat.

-Brendan! I’ve come today to celebrate with you! I’ve brought my son and my cat!
-Alex, I was just about to head out, I’m meeting friends
-Nonsense! Today is the day of defenders of our nation, we have to drink!

He entered, entourage in tow. He led us into the living room. Let the cat go. She immediately ran into my room and under the bed. He sat down heavily, looked about him.

-Brendan, this is my son ________. He is fourteen years old. I wanted him to meet the American.
-Hello _______ I’m Brendan. How are you?
-….I’m fine….thanks
-Brendan! my son, he is a very good one. He studies hard, gets good grades, studies German.
-You study German?
-Yes….a little.
-Versteht dein Vater Deutsch?
-….um….Nein.
-Ist alles okay?
-Ja.

_________ wasn’t making eye contact, looked a little uncomfortable. I pitied him.

-Brendan! You can speak German?
-Yes, I lived in Germany for about two years.
-You are, you are, a person of the world.
-Thank you Alex, I appreciate the complement.
-You….and I….are people of the world.
-Yes we are Alex, yes we are.

He looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. His eyes watery with drink.

And red. He seemed lost in thought for a few seconds. He blinked, shook his head.

-Brendan! Do you have shot glasses?
-Yes, just a second.

I walked into the kitchen and started washing the few shot glasses I had for us to use. I didn’t notice that he had followed me in.

-Brendan! Do you have a knife?
-Yes, just a second

I handed him the biggest knife I had, thinking he was going to use it to cut some bread for us to eat. Instead, he started to play with it, flipping it between fingers, lunging.

-Do you know how to do that?
-No, I don’t. In America, we don’t have required military service
-I was a member of the military, during the soviet times. Do you know the USSR?
-Yes, of course.
-I know how to kill with this knife, I know how to kill with lots of things. Do you know how to kill?
-Well, I guess with a knife it’s not so hard, but…

Alex lunged at me, put the knife near my throat, told me not to worry.

-I am in complete control.

He was drunk; I was afraid. Not that he intended to kill me, but that in his drunkenness he would stab me. I tried to make my way out of the kitchen. Get out [of this situation]. Invited him to come with me. We headed back to the living room.

Alex took the lid off of one of the jars. Told me it was called ‘Nastoika’. Told me his grandfather made it.

-Is it like Vodka?
-No, much better, it’s made at home, my grandfather made this.
-Distilled?
-Yes, distilled, distilled!
-With berries?
-Yes! With berries! Let us drink!

He poured from the jar into two shot glasses. His son looked on silently. Looked embarrassed. The cat was missing. We drank. It was delicious. It was like vodka without so much burn and was filled with the sweet flavor of berries. It went down easily.

-Alex, this is the most delicious thing I have ever drank.
-Only Russians know how, you don’t have this in America. You can’t find this anywhere else.
-That’s probably true.

We drank again, Alex opened up the jar of Tomatoes, put one on the table. He took out the knife I had given him and tried to cut it. The tomato ended up all over the floor. He took another one, bit into it. The juice and brine ran down his face and onto his shirt. The air was permeated with the  smell. He offered me one and I refused.

-You don’t like tomatoes? My grandmother pickled them.
-I can’t eat them, I’m allergic

I lied. I just don’t like pickled tomatoes.

-So you were in the army?
-Yes for a long time. They taught us how to kill in the army, kill Americans. Americans are barbarians! Kill them!

-Really?
-Of course, it was the cold war. Americans were taught the same, ‘Kill Russians’!
-I don’t know if that’s totally true
-Of course it’s true, it was the cold war.

I  contemplated this idea, thought about the other conflicts going on during the cold war, [troubles with] Cuba, Korea, Vietnam. Russia wasn’t so important to us that our only military focus was their destruction. (is that really so??)

-Brendan, We were taught to kill, to kill Americans. I know how to kill with anything. With this spoon, this fork. With my hands. With my gun. Do you want to see my gun?
-Your gun?
-Yes, my gun, I have many of them. I was in the army.
-Um, really?
-Yes, _________! Go get my gun and bring it up here.

His son looked at him, got up and went into my bedroom. He emerged about thirty seconds later with the cat. He walked out the door. I figured we wouldn’t be seeing him again.

-We were taught that Americans were Barbarians. Now I see you, I know that’s not true.
-Why is that?
-Look at you? You don’t know how to kill. You went to college, you came to Russia to teach Russian students English.
-I guess I do know how to kill, but I don’t think I would be able to.
-That’s what I mean. You aren’t a barbarian, you speak English and German and Russian, and you’ve lived in a foreign country.
-That’s true, I guess.
-Let’s drink to that!
-Okay, let’s

He poured two more shots, we drank. We [then] drank three or four more shots together, commenting on the quality of the Nastoika.  The door opened. A broad woman stood in the door. Tense. She walked into the living room, stood by the doorway.

-Alex! What are you doing here?
-I’m drinking with my American friend! It’s a holiday, we’re celebrating!

They descended into Russian beyond my understanding. From what I gathered, she was furious that he had asked their son to bring a gun upstairs, and wanted him to come home. He protested that he was just sharing a drink with his friend and that it was a holiday. He would do what she wanted tomorrow. She left. We drank again

-To people of the world!
-Yes, Alex.

My phone rang, my friends who I was supposed to meet were wondering where I was. I didn’t answer, but I sent a message that my neighbor came over and that maybe they should come over and join us/help me. Alex had been here a while, he was making me very uncomfortable.

-I’ve killed people.
-Really?
-Yes, I don’t know how many, but I know it was many.
-How does it feel?
-I don’t know. I don’t think about those things.
-Do you feel sad?
-No.

We drank another shot. He ate another tomato. The brine was all over the table.

-I don’t think about it because that’s how it happened. I didn’t think. I just acted the way I was trained.
-Oh.

He stabbed the table with the knife. His eyes scanned the room, landed on my mandolin.

-Balalaika! You play the Balalaika!
-It’s actually not a balalaika. It’s a mandolin
-What’s that?
-Sort of like a balalaika.
-You play it? You can play songs on it?
-Yes.
-Play!
-Play what?
-I’ll tell you what

I went over and got the mandolin from its case. I sat down. There was a knock on the door.

-Who’s that?
-My friend Yana, I told her to come over
-Is she your girlfriend?
-No, a friend

I let Yana in. She walked in and sat down on the chair opposite the couch where Alex sat. They introduced themselves

-You’re very beautiful
-Thanks
-My wife, she is beautiful too, but she’s getting fat. But you couldn’t have me if you wanted to.
-Well, that’s okay
-She has a full fur coat, I own lots of stores. I have lots of money.

Yana looked at me. She understood.

-Are you going to play a song?
-Yes, he is!

Alex started to sing. He told me to play along. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Then I recognized the song as one often sang by Russians at my parties. I remembered the chords. Alex grabbed the knife and stood up to dance. He sang off key, stumbled, thrusted and twirled the knife. Danced about the room. His voice filled the room, the knife flashed with the reflections of the lights above it. It was beautiful. I played on.

Later, he would fall asleep on my couch, try to call and invite his friends over, say dirty things to Yana. Eventually Yana would have to explain to him that he needed to go home to his wife because she and I had ‘lovers’ activities’. He would leave, and Yana and I would look at each other in disbelief, start to clean up. The apartment would smell like brine for the rest of the week.