some people leave no electronic footprints
which is frustratin' somethin' awful to your casual armchair stalker
I am - for it seems the forty billionth time (but really just about the third time) - trying to find some electronic footprints left by my ex-girlthing in St. Petersburg, Russia. It seems there aren't any for a fifty-something non-English-speaking butch dyke roadside-flower-kiosk-employee with no college degree and whose 15 minutes of fame was founding the first Russian lesbian club Sappho and taking them to a last place finish in team handball (Team Sappho) in the 1996 Berlin Eurogames. Look up Natasha Petrova Ivanova and you end up with too much information about an Anastasia Romanova imposter. Maybe she's going by her nickname, Ivanov. Oh well, the slacker stalker has been forced to admit defeat. Again.
Saturday, September 14, 2002
Homesick for An Adopted Home
Somehow, when I lived in Russia all the hijinx of the US government seemed distant, predictable, even funny.
My cable tv has started including suddenly my old favorite channel- American Movie Classics- and today they are playing that creaky cold war movie White Nights which I haven't seen since it came out in 1985, or maybe 1986. In 1989 I went on a student trip to the Soviet Union, because it was either there or Emden, Germany, where I would have to live with the exchange student I had been forced to endure from there, who was a racist nationalist. I also thought the Evil Empire would be cool. I didn't think I would feel like I'd come home. I learned Russian and went back there to live.
Now, I find myself in homesick tears watching the defected Mikhail Baryshnikov do a heartfelt, grief-filled dance to the dissident song "The Horses" of the Russian bard Vladimir Vysotsky on the stage of the Marinsky (circa the Soviet Union it was the Kirov), a gorgeous theatre in Petersburg where I tried to see a performance at least every other month, and every time I've been back. What that dance, on that stage, to that music must have meant for Mikhail. I can only imagine. It brought together the old Russian empire design of the theatre (see in this Quicktime tour the box for the royal family center-screen), the Soviet conditions, and the resistance music.
I remember watching this movie when I was 12, when we borrowed the VCRs and movies from U-Haul (where my mom rented out trucks). I was suckered in by the creepy music making the Russian landscape seem creepy, never for a moment doubting the good intentions of the US Americans. It's not a great movie, but it brings out two realities that are very true for me: the existance of Russian petit tyrannies over individuals, and US American racist arrogance towards non-white artists. The movie never relents-- they are always cutting to scenes in Petersburg that wrench my insides with longing. The storefront of a reliable, good bakery on Nevsky Prospekt. The griffin bridge that's next to the Economic Institute where I used to crash on weekends, and next to the club where I went to the club "Joy" whose gay dance party on Saturday was called "Greshniki"-- sinners-- but which on Friday was the lesbian night club -- and was called "Greshnitsy" -- girl-sinners.
The pale yellow of Leningrad-Petersburg's buildings, the gorgeous Italian-style architecture- music to my eyes. The cobblestones my tired feet knew so well. There is nothing like it in this country. I have the lukewarm unreliable hot water, but I don't have the cobblestone pereulki, the sidestreets winding you into the maze of bridges.
Oh, and for the record, I'm not really a Communist. I'm not really a Capitalist. I've decided recently that I'm a Pagan Theocrat- we should all worship the Earth and regard Her protectors as our leaders. Our holy ghost if we need one can be Judi Bari.
If the environment was a little less abused there, and women were a little less targeted by crime, and, oh, maybe if Natasha hadn't dumped me the last time I was there, I would go back to Petersburg in a heartbeat. Maybe the United States' international policy of violence against anyone who doesn't let us control their oil production wouldn't feel as much my problem as it does. Then again, maybe it would start to make sense.
I did hang an American flag (stolen off a mailbox by a girlfriend after a concert on the first Lollapalooza tour as a token of affection) in my one-room apartment in Novgorod. Next to a picture of Ani Difranco. If the boys I hung out with said anything overly sexist I would point to the flag and say "you're on American territoritory here, that shit don't fly." But of course, I used Russian swear words, since Russian boys are allowed to say things in front of Amerikanki womenfolk that they aren't allowed to say in front of Russian young ladies. I would always embarrass them parroting back their horrible turns of phrase. Finally, on Valentine's Day, I got my Russian boyfriend to teach me the grammar system of "mat"- the forbidden swear language. Ah, the romance.
Tomorrow I am getting together with my bay area Russian-speaking dykes potluck and conversation group. I hope there is some good gossip from back home, and if I'm lucky, dish about Natasha.
Somehow, when I lived in Russia all the hijinx of the US government seemed distant, predictable, even funny.
My cable tv has started including suddenly my old favorite channel- American Movie Classics- and today they are playing that creaky cold war movie White Nights which I haven't seen since it came out in 1985, or maybe 1986. In 1989 I went on a student trip to the Soviet Union, because it was either there or Emden, Germany, where I would have to live with the exchange student I had been forced to endure from there, who was a racist nationalist. I also thought the Evil Empire would be cool. I didn't think I would feel like I'd come home. I learned Russian and went back there to live.
Now, I find myself in homesick tears watching the defected Mikhail Baryshnikov do a heartfelt, grief-filled dance to the dissident song "The Horses" of the Russian bard Vladimir Vysotsky on the stage of the Marinsky (circa the Soviet Union it was the Kirov), a gorgeous theatre in Petersburg where I tried to see a performance at least every other month, and every time I've been back. What that dance, on that stage, to that music must have meant for Mikhail. I can only imagine. It brought together the old Russian empire design of the theatre (see in this Quicktime tour the box for the royal family center-screen), the Soviet conditions, and the resistance music.
I remember watching this movie when I was 12, when we borrowed the VCRs and movies from U-Haul (where my mom rented out trucks). I was suckered in by the creepy music making the Russian landscape seem creepy, never for a moment doubting the good intentions of the US Americans. It's not a great movie, but it brings out two realities that are very true for me: the existance of Russian petit tyrannies over individuals, and US American racist arrogance towards non-white artists. The movie never relents-- they are always cutting to scenes in Petersburg that wrench my insides with longing. The storefront of a reliable, good bakery on Nevsky Prospekt. The griffin bridge that's next to the Economic Institute where I used to crash on weekends, and next to the club where I went to the club "Joy" whose gay dance party on Saturday was called "Greshniki"-- sinners-- but which on Friday was the lesbian night club -- and was called "Greshnitsy" -- girl-sinners.
The pale yellow of Leningrad-Petersburg's buildings, the gorgeous Italian-style architecture- music to my eyes. The cobblestones my tired feet knew so well. There is nothing like it in this country. I have the lukewarm unreliable hot water, but I don't have the cobblestone pereulki, the sidestreets winding you into the maze of bridges.
Oh, and for the record, I'm not really a Communist. I'm not really a Capitalist. I've decided recently that I'm a Pagan Theocrat- we should all worship the Earth and regard Her protectors as our leaders. Our holy ghost if we need one can be Judi Bari.
If the environment was a little less abused there, and women were a little less targeted by crime, and, oh, maybe if Natasha hadn't dumped me the last time I was there, I would go back to Petersburg in a heartbeat. Maybe the United States' international policy of violence against anyone who doesn't let us control their oil production wouldn't feel as much my problem as it does. Then again, maybe it would start to make sense.
I did hang an American flag (stolen off a mailbox by a girlfriend after a concert on the first Lollapalooza tour as a token of affection) in my one-room apartment in Novgorod. Next to a picture of Ani Difranco. If the boys I hung out with said anything overly sexist I would point to the flag and say "you're on American territoritory here, that shit don't fly." But of course, I used Russian swear words, since Russian boys are allowed to say things in front of Amerikanki womenfolk that they aren't allowed to say in front of Russian young ladies. I would always embarrass them parroting back their horrible turns of phrase. Finally, on Valentine's Day, I got my Russian boyfriend to teach me the grammar system of "mat"- the forbidden swear language. Ah, the romance.
Tomorrow I am getting together with my bay area Russian-speaking dykes potluck and conversation group. I hope there is some good gossip from back home, and if I'm lucky, dish about Natasha.