ultra-ana-ci

[ultra-ana-ci]

Когда пальто на плечах слегка велико

И за окнами сумерки-стражники

Борются с робкими лучами света,

Не отрекайся от любимых,

Ведь расставаться в сентябре всегда легко,

Но труднее дотянуть до лета.

Не отрекайся от любимых,

От однодневных, вечных, даже прошлых,

Ведь и они когда-то были тебе милы,

И если ты не можешь держать их за руку,

Хотя бы обеспечь им достойные могилы.

Не отрекайся от любимых,

От вспыльчивых, заносчивых и даже предавших,

Они когда-то научили тебя жить,

Если так получилось, то хоть по любви,

Ведь в жизни каждый ошибается минимум дважды.

Не отрекайся от любимых,

Пока они рядом,

И их любовь не требует ответа,

Особенно, если на твоих плечах пальто,

Которое слегка велико,

И остается больше,

Чем считанные дни до наступления лета.

[ultra-ana-ci]

О чем вообще писать в Тамблере?

·      писать надо о том, что знаешь, так говорили многие, пожалуй, и знающие толк в этих вещах, люди. Значит, надо писать о жестоком цинизме, граничащем с сердцем, что кровоточит за каждый грех человечества.

·      Видела бездомного, мирно спящего в кустах у остановки, у его ног примостился большой пес; лежит, лишь изредка поглядывает в сторону проезжающих мимо машин, от рева моторов лишь сильнее прижимается к своему хозяину. Преданность, кажется, величайшая благодетель, но благодетель эта несет в себе наказания за грехи тех, кого мы любим. Все мы немного тот пес на остановке, которой и при желании бы не мог выбрать себе другой участи.

·      Все, что мы делаем – все это ради любви?

[ultra-ana-ci]

at a different time in a different place, probably in winter, we would meet and I would wear red instead of beige and we would be at the suburbs of Paris. 

in a different place at a different time we are still in love. if only anyone could get me there.

[ultra-ana-ci]

если бы мы не встретились, то Земля бы не остановилась; люди бы не перестали рождаться и умирать; поезда по вечерам все так же возвращались в свои депо;

будто, если бы мы с тобой однажды так случайно, глупо, взбалмошно, сломя голову не повстречались, то ничего бы вовсе и не стало;

ну да, подумаешь, мы были бы слегка, ну, или совсем другими - может умнее, может скучнее, может бы читали модные журналы, может быть разбирались бы в авторском кино;

но какое-то немое, спонтанное обстоятельство случая все же произошло;

и мы научились вместе мечтать, верить глупостям, опускаться на дно, воскрешаться по субботам или знойным вечером мая, непременно жить лишь одним днем, выжимать из будней радость и слезы до последней капли; мы все же смогли встретиться как-то;

если бы мы не встретились, то Земля бы не остановилась; мое сердце бы билось ровно, все бы было по линии, без придыхания, без этого язвящего колкого чувства, что я называю “тобой”, а другие люди этому говорят “искусство”.

[ultra-ana-ci]

“On trying to become a local”

When I first came to Prague almost six years ago I was only 18, fresh out of school, without a clear vision of what I am going to do, with friends and family far away in Russia. I neither planned to assimilate, nor to fully embraced the Czech culture. To be perfectly honest, I was not concerned with culture as a concept or as an omnipresent component of social reality. I practically was a child open to and easily fascinated by almost anything. Only a year later, after finishing my language and preparatory course and starting my bachelor degree studies at a university in Prague, I realized that I could not stay an amused tourist anymore. The more involved I was getting with the locals and Czech social and state institutions, beginning with renting a flat and applying for a long-term residence permit and finishing with casual conversations at hospoda (a traditional Czech bar), the more confused I was feeling about my own cultural and personal identity. This confusion resulted in a peculiar obsession of becoming a  local (or maybe it was more about passing for a local) and abandoning the majority of cultural stereotypes that essentially belong to what is typically recognized as being “Russian”.

It is important to say, that my desire to be accepted as a local did not solely bring negative consequences. For one thing, I became more sensitive to cultural predispositions. In Russia we do not extensively learn about the events that took place during Prague Spring in 1968. In terms of Russian history textbooks 1968 is another year in rich history of Russia��s many battles and conquests, it is just a sub-chapter of a sub-chapter of the twentieth century. However, for the Czech Republic, Prague Spring is a key event of communist past, a turning point in history of the country. Here it is not a paragraph but a bunch of books and publications that expose lack of justice, oppression, and aspirations towards freedom, the themes which, I would say, are pretty reoccurring in both historical and social narratives of Czech as a nation and as a country. So, when somebody on a tram would say “How dare you to speak Russian here” or “Say hello to Putin” after overhearing us with my Russian speaking friends, I were still feeling pretty insulted, but at the same time, I would just say to myself that the person who fells necessary to make such a comment just lacks this cultural sensibility. On another end, while visiting Russia during my school breaks, I would notice that this shortage of cultural reciprocity and understanding works in the same way. Famous Russian phrase “ponajechali”, which addresses people from different countries (usually of worse economic conditions) or even smaller Russian towns or villages, made me realize that nationalism was omnipresent, well, everywhere, and “to belong” was a privilege.

Is it possible to earn this privilege or does one have to be born into it? Well, I still do not have the answer, but the question itself kind of lost its relevance. Nevertheless, it took me a couple of years trying to pass as local in a foreign country to realize it.

On my mission to become a local I got acquainted to Czech culture and art, which was a great earn on my behalf. As my language skills were improving, the whole new world, built of a completely different mentality, was opening to me. Undoubtfully, this is an advantage of living abroad. However, as I was acquiring this access to new and distinct way of seeing, I was mutually excluding the old one. Russian music, cinematography, art and with it some elements of language were being erased in order to let the new, as I though, the better ones, take the place. To make things more complicated, I was studying at English at the time, and so I justified myself by honestly believing that two languages and cultures are better than one.

Another crucial aspect is the people we choose to surround ourselves with and as a “wanna be local” I was mostly communicating with Czechs. Important thing here is that I consider this experience to be rich and experiential as I was talking to people of various age groups (some of my acquaintances were even in their sixties), social classes, occupations, people with different dreams and aspirations. I have to admit that these people taught me a great deal, primarily, by showing me how my lifepath was not uniform and how many possible and fascinating paths are out there. On the other hand, as any foreign person, I was starving for a sense of belonging, but in order to belong to something else, something else has to be refuted. And in this refutation, I had to pick sides and make preferences. Even when I thought I picked a side of my new locality, I was frequently asked “and what about Russia?” or “why people do (something) differently in Russia?”. Those moments were particularly confusing, because I wanted to show my new friends that I was not representing the country of my origin, I was just being myself. But being myself was never quite enough to being seen as a local, a glimpse of my foreignness manifested by my accent, manners and looks was always there. At those times I felt especially lost: I have intentionally alienated myself from my native culture while not being let into the new one, I was an in-betweer, somebody with a puzzled identity. For me as a person in her early twenties, this feeling was excruciating. On the one hand, I was blaming myself for refusing my native cultural baggage. On the other hand, I was feeling unappreciated by the society which, as I thought, did not make an effort to accept me as their own.

As for now, I quitted on pretending to be a local. I have both Czech and Russian friends and acquaintances, I read and attempt to write in both languages. I try to appreciate different cultural aspects of various cultures. I cannot quite set the moment or the period, but at some point (surely it took me longer than might appear), I just realized that it is more than enough for me to simply be myself, a girl in-between cultures who is open to the world. Instead of thinking that a new culture is better than the old one, or that two cultures counts more, I came to a satisfying discovery that I can have all there, or even more. It does matter where we came from, but, at the same time, it does not wholly define us. The only criteria that define us are set by ourselves, by our desires, fears, insecurities and passions.

[ultra-ana-ci]

24 je krásný věk, zatím nevím proč a na co je krásný, ale rozhodně je.

[ultra-ana-ci]

[ultra-ana-ci]

Crazy stupid “Love”

When I was younger I thought that true love supposed to hurt. I thought it was a euphorical feeling that burns the heart and clouds the mind. It was love or death, happiness or gruesome sadness and nothing in-between. It was the only thing, I believed, that was ultimate. Turning 24, I am beginning to realise that love is in-between, it is full of ambiguity, doubt and not so great moments. Now I think that real love very much resembles life: it is confusing with its good and not so good days, it is filled with compromise and “not as I have imagined” moments. However, the most important thing is it does not have to hurt. to be more precise, love does anything except for hurting, love does not have anything in common with toxic sympathy or attachment. This simple thought took me a couple of years to accept. Funny, silly, but true. I guess, we want to be loved and we want to love, but, at the same time, we are strongly addicted to this sweet pain of wanting somebody so much in our life that it almost literally burns us from the inside. 

[ultra-ana-ci]

“Every day you want me to make Something I hate all for your sake I'm such a fake, I'm just a doll I'm a rip-off and it turns you on.”

[ultra-ana-ci]

Když někdo přesně popíše tvoji budoucnost 

kdybych byla spisovatelka, tak bych byla dost na hovno spisovatelka. nejspíš bych bydlela v jednopokojovym velkoměstskym bytě, nikoho bych tam nebrala, byla bych furt sama a topila se ve smutku a tadytěch věcech. samotná bych pila víno, vzpomínala na starý lásky a pak ležela na zemi mezi zmuchlanými papíry a brečela, že nejsem schopná to všechno aspoň zformulovat. cejtila bych se jako bych nikoho neměla, akorát mladší sestru, která by žila “v klidu život” někde na vesnici. a tak bych se jednoho dne zabila lahví slivovice a předávkováním antidepresivama, který mi beztak nepomohly.

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*24

Смотрю с тобой на этот летний закат,

В сердце щемит, то ли восхищение, то ли грусть,

Пытаясь задержать мгновение в памяти,

Шепчу про себя тихо:

Ну и что, что время летит?

Ну и пусть.

Ведь оно не может отнять эти летние закаты,

Когда ты возвращаешь меня в нашу юность. 

[ultra-ana-ci]

miluju českou kulturu

pride month mood

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Will the future come?

I used to be a fan of “you can do better”, “you can be better”, “just try a little and wake up a new person” kind of stuff. I used to and, I guess, I am not anymore. I am at the crossroad of the biggest life desicions and I am paralysed. I am unable to move to any of the introduced directions. I am just standing here waiting for the flow to just go with it. But, typically, the flow never comes. Well, I guess I can sign up to the people that I have always detested the most. I am joining the undeceive and inhibited, I am subscribing to those who are unable to move (for various reasons) and just...What? Hanging on and waiting for the flow, I guess.

[ultra-ana-ci]

Some things get stolen over night, some things are getting stolen over the years. some things are just taken from you in a manner of a brutal robbery, and some are slipping through your hands, like a gift you didn't really want unless somebody decide to take it from you.

our love was smashed to pieces in the still of the night. our love was smashed with a hammer of wrong people, thousand miles and selfish attitude. it has been crashed, and somehow we are still alive.

p. s. it’s gonna rain and I will love you till the end of times.

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I wanna be a little princess

I started to believe in fairy tales when I was 16.

I started to believe in magic when I realised that all the magic creatures are fallen and in despair, hiding in their one-bedroom apartments and at local bars at 4 a.m.

It all became real and trustworthy when I met princesses and princes in their dirty sneakers and with messy hair, high and drunk, amusingly bewildered and lost. 

[ultra-ana-ci]

Buckle up and...

We wake up, we go to where we are supposed to go, we take lunch breaks, we earn money, we collect information, we talk to people we do not really want to talk to, we shake hands, we buy stuff online, we meet up for drinks, we wait in lines, we leave messages, we take buses, we do the dishes, we think about the future, we reminisce over the past, we touch, we kiss, we sign papers, we make coffee, we sleep, we rarely dream, we run, we are on a carousel that never stops turning.

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I remember seeing this piece of art in a gallery in Munich and instantly falling in love with it. Not that it was an only interesting and talented thing there, definitely not. There were famous paintings and brilliant works, but this one caught my special attention. For me that is a perfect reflection of a lonely night, of a night that you, me, we, all of us have experineced at least once in a lifetime. It captures this chilly captivating feeling of hopelessness and abundance. It tells a story of a person, just another regular person, for whom one (one more) lonely night lasts for eternity. It pictures an empty cold bed, no lights in the windows, slightly dusty dinner table and fridge in which there is not enough food for two. 404-not found and does not seem to be anywhere close, and you just don't know what to do. Tender is the night, but it is only tender in somebody else’s arms.