SPB

"One day people of St. Petersburg will wake up and see it's gone. Disintegrated into thin air, like a dream, a vision. And only the Horseman remains on the Finnish swamps, on his feverish, tired, beat horse."
Dostoyevsky

I'm leaving in two days. Of course I'm not ready. I'm never ready to go anywhere and that's just how I go. Never dressed for the weather, accident prone and always getting lost -- its a miracle I'm still around.. I go back with much trepidation, my ties with that place are not reliable, and every time I return some major life change knocks me off my feet. Still I keep coming back or rather fate keeps kicking me back there..Its as magnificent as ever and corrupt, nothing to be taken at face value -- you must decipher this city to survive. I've seen friends turn into depressed alcoholics and infantile derelicts..some are dead already. SPB's beauty is intoxicating, disarming.. Let your guard down and it'll lull you right into its timelessness. Time means little there. Like any great necropolis, its tuned only to its own phantasmagorical rhythm..As for mortals -- tough luck figuring out directions, street numbers, schedules -- no rhyme or reason whatsoever. A fortress, it still has that military feel, almost prismatic in perfect geometry of its palaces and canals,  replicating in perspective, their cold grandeur only enhanced by decay..Paranormal and grotesque, its a sharp contrast with the rest of orthodox Russia, and for all its beauty its as cozy as a crypt for some. All for good reasons. People tend to disappear, it never gets dark at summer, while the rest of the year is cold, damp and gloomy gray, driving up vodka sales and suicide rates. There are black holes at every corner, endless court labyrinths leading nowhere, all kinds of bottom dwellers lurking in the dark..This is indeed a twilight zone. Built on a whim of a mad czar in a stretch of wetland deemed most unlivable -- it has seen it all, the royals, the lumpen, the nouveau riche, inspired great minds and great turmoil. Russia's IT place for two centuries, its glory days now well behind it. It has taken on a life of its own, oblivious to les miserables that inhabit it. Poverty is striking, never mind the tourist traps -- dive into a labyrinth off the main street and you'd think you stumbled at a demolition site. People still live there, in completely walled off courtyards that never see the sun, live there like moles..They get by, with lots of booze and trademark black humor. They're tough. This cradle of chaos will only seize to exist if flooded by gulf, as it often has been, but I'm starting to think it undestructible. It only changes names, detached and invincible, floating well above here and now, shrouded in fog, an old Flying Dutchman, destined for eternity. And it's taunting me with memories.. I look back and my heart sinks, and I want desperately to embrace it, breathe in its salty air, touch my hand to granite pavements, run it through wroth iron gates, wander into its sleepy gardens once more....nod to statues and angels and pigeons..
peak through an open window, stairs winding down..
step lightly..
its likely
I'm caught in the middle..
a spell,
a riddle.
read it
or
beat it.
I'm
coming
home.