Melancholia

The ghost of the fall has swept across Tbilisi.

I start writing posts and then delete them.

Kazantip is over. We returned for another weekend, danced our feet off, kidnapped pair of Russians and came back to our work.  Since then, I have been trying to avoid fall.

We’ve been walking with the Russians and going to parties. We went to clubs. We drank wine. They drank wine. I don’t like alcohol. It numbs me.

 I have started several posts, about futility of monogamy, about digital photography as the end of my picture-taking, about killings, about 90ies back in fashion and in spirit.

Summer is another planet, wrote someone, summer is my planet, even  unbearable, hot summer, it’s the time when the sea is salty, when the day is free.

...Sometimes I’m scared of this new job adventure, new house adventure, and I guess this is why I keep postponing it, postponing posting the prices on websites, postponing hiring designer, postponing long-term commitments.

I am sitting in my office, alone, waiting for clients to drop out of blue sky.

I had 5 clients yesterday. Clinic clients. It is uneven. It is unstable. I work good. I help people. I just started. I need time.

...I want it all and I want it now.

We’re selling our apartment, you know the one with all-night parties and bar stand and a cat and a hubby and plants on the windows that the said hubby systematically murders while I’m away for trainings.

Mortgage slaves. That’s what will become of us.

Of course, I can always sell my body.  I’ll probably be more successful then now, when I’m selling my mind.

...This summer planet, it was so nice. It had Lviv in it and new friends, it had Batumi with no rain (!), it had Kazantip , I miss the sea, I need more sea, my tan is pealing. I look like a zombie. I did not get enough sea.

When was the last time I got enough sea?

...The thing is, this psychological counseling thing, it’s a gamble. What if the market is not ready? What if I sit in this chair forever?

...Each day, I fear the winter. I keep thinking of cold weather and mushy snow.

Each day, I fear the new day.

...The ghost of rain and yellow leaves.

P.S. the pic: my happy summer planet - I took this pic at Kazantip

P.S.S. I wrote this post a week ago but I had so much work to do that I just couldn't sit down and edit it.
:-( I'm kinda over moping now :-)

Samarkhvo Kazantip - Anaklia 2014

Never has my blog name felt so spot-on: my friend has been stuck outside of the Former Democratic Republic of Kazantip for two days now; he was promised Kazantip visa, to set up a condom stand. Once he got there, with a box full of prophylactics, he got stranded in a tent city. “There is no sex in Kazantip” is the official stance of this year’s republic.

The president declared that he respects Georgian traditions. This is the moment that I facepalm myself bloody, hide my Georgian passport and pretend I am from Mars.

See, Kazantip turned out to be so much different than I expected. I kept calling it a music festival, but it really is a separate country, with its own rules (and I thought that was just a marketing trick). People honestly believe in this idea. Hard to imagine, but citizens of Kazantip actually seek peace, love, community, freedom, acceptance. They call it “happiness”. Imagine, thousands come from collectivistic, harsh, rigid, post-soviet societies, they flee from repression and “must do”’s. They save money all year to visit a place where they can be not who they are, but who they want to be. Those are not empty phrases. People start transforming into what they want to be, from head to bottom, from crazy creative outfits, to friendly and loving attitude.

They do so responsibly. They actually read Kazantip constitution. They do not fight, do not sexually assault and do not pee in the street. None of them. But they expect infinite freedom beyond that. They seek happiness.

Where is the happiness? -  I keep hearing it from Kazantip citizens over and over. Happiness has been sacrificed to “Georgian traditions”.

Happiness is not drugs, it’s not sex and it’s not cheap food; people who say that Kazantip sunk due to shortage of the noted products, do not know what Kazantip is. Happiness is wearing whatever you want, animal costumes, Buddhist monk ensemble, polyester swimming suit or nothing; happiness is endless dancing without being molested by local boys; happiness is sleeping on the beach, on the pavement or on a bar stand without being approached by law enforcers; happiness is talking with complete strangers without being grabbed and insulted; happiness is wandering weary and possibly drunk at 6 a.m. without feeling gaze of judging police.

Suddenly, all of our Geo insecurities came to life, all of them. Oh, a tourist, great, let’s make them pay 2 Lari per Khinkali! Oh, Slavic girl, let’s grab her boobs instead of greeting her (this is not an exaggeration)! God forbid people sit in the middle of the road (inside of the gated, no-car zone)! Call the police!

The police. They are at every palm tree, behind every rock. They are riding motorcycles, BMW-s, Mini Coopers, Fourwheelers, Segways, Golf carts. They are blinking and yelling and just watching your every move. And here you are looking for infinite freedom and ultimate happiness, collectively watching sunset under enchanting music and tuning your heart to beats of a gong that are calculated to sound precisely as the last rays reach the Former Democratic Republic of Kazantip. And as you dance in trance, someone is asked not to sit on a pavement.

Every year, for closing, Kazantip citizens write their wishes on yellow balloons and send them to the sky.

Here is my wish: I wish for a miracle. I wish for Crimea to go back to Ukraine, I wish for Kazantip to go back to Crimea and I wish for me, a free citizen of my new country, to go back to Kazantip every year from now on.

Cause I want my share of happiness.

p.s. Samarkhvo means fasting in Georgian;

p.s.s. pic taken by my hubby. I took part in this fun Kigurumi parade. 

Lost Lviv

Don’t you hate it when you write something and it gets deleted? Has your E-mail ever evaporated? Did you throw the comp out of your window?

 My first Lviv post, the one that I wrote with care, the one that I did not publish right away because I wanted to re-read it, perfect it, is gone, gone, and now I have to write it again.

How do I confess my love for the second time?

My first post started with the words “good morning, Lviv, do you miss me, Lviv?” I was addressing the city, I was talking to the city, I was talking to its colors, to its funny tourist cafes, I was talking to its lightness and its miniature elegance.

I talked to Lviv, I told Lviv, hey rememeber, how I rolled my suitcase at 8 A.M. , to a bus stop behind the opera, spilled coffee on my new Ukrainian shirt, ruining my grand entrance? How resistant I was to move away from your streets for training? How I hated to leave training once I got there?

I wrote, dear Lviv, it was just the three of us, hubby, you and me, walking around at night, away from the tourist zones, talking about life, Lviv, about loathed work and dull existence. It was you Lviv, I wrote, who listened to our dreams, me with my hostel and him with his bar, you listened and grew quiet and your streets were hushed and peaceful.

Oh, Lviv, I wrote, I miss the training, I miss the people, I miss talking all night long. I wrote, Lviv, I tortured my body, I deprived it of food and sleep, but I gave it Buddhism, video stories, jokes, flirt, I gave it friends, I gave it global problems, debates, issues, I gave it new ideas, so who cares about the shell of flesh?

My first blog post, so pathetic at times, full of exclamations. I talked to Lviv, Lviv that is no longer close, no longer right outside my window, not even half an hour away, not even in the same country.

Lviv. Listen. Running like crazy to board the plane in Istanbul. Three-day non-stop touristing. Souvenirs. Searching for pins. Surprise hubby visit. Coffee that tired-rock-star waiter set on fire. The apothecary museum. Strudels. Walking golden statue in the rain. Masoch café with chains and bras. Flowery sheets in rented apartment. Singing “Suliko” in nationalistic underground bar. Coolest country presentation. Tornado energizer. Friendly folks with different accents. The stop-animation video our team produced. Funny punishments for late trainees. Sessions that we lead. Sessions that we watched. Car on 6^th floor terrace café. Hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick. Constant picture-taking. Curly hair and midnight talks. Walks in the forest. The crisp sunset air and the Slavic church in an open field of grass. Talks. Smoking sessions. More talks. Those silly games with bottles and cards. Posing. Philosophical discussions. Gossip. Breezy trip on Bosporus. Airport. Hubby. Home. FB requests.
Listen, Lviv, I wrote. I miss you, Lviv, I wrote.

I miss you Lviv.

Pathetic.

Good thing I lost it.  Repressing feelings of infinite freedom and returning to normal life.

Good-bye, Lviv.

P.S. the coffee with caramelized sugar set on fire in a coffee-mining cafe (I know, right!) in Lviv.

Safe Clubbing Rules

Second weekend in a row I’m greeting sunrise on Turtle lake, after all-night clubbing. And second weekend in a row I feel nauseous all day after. And I’m not even drinking alcohol.

So what the f...?

Dehydration, my friends. I get so caught up in dancing trance that I forget to drink water and I don’t want to be bothered with bathroom stops. However, several bottles of water could save my Saturdays. Thus, I've compiled web sources and my own experience to share with you guys the ways of healthier and ultimately, more pleasant clubbing. Here's the wisdom:

-       - Before you start drinking, eat fatty and sugary foods. Carbs actually help with nausea. Also, have some salty foods – they remind you to drink water even if you forget to.

-       -    Energizers block your intoxication awareness. Party regular vodka+red bull actually gets you much drunker than you think. Hence, worse hangover. Pace yourself. Alternate between alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Have a fatty snack. Or just get prepared for a horrible morning.

-        -  Rule of thumb: if you mix substances, you will feel like shit later. Some substances are more mixable, bla, bla, yes, that’s true. However, generally, more you mix, worse you feel the next morning. That is if you wake up. Some substance mixes are very dangerous. So do your research! No high is worth dying for or even damaging liver, brain, etc. 

-         - If you are on some uppers – please stay hydrated. People die from dehydration. Put on water alarm on your phone before, force water in your throat when you don’t feel thirsty, I don’t know, ask your friends to give you liquids. Do something to combat "oh I can dance for days with no food or water" feeling.

-         -  Don’t go to sleep the moment you reach home. This works wonders for me: have some breakfast. What should you eat when you drag your un-cooperating legs home? What gets your energy levels up and helps your muscles restore? Complex carbs and proteins. Good source of complex carbs: potatoes, oatmeal, rye bread. As for the proteins, meat, fish, dairy, eggs. If you have consumed alcohol, add some fatty foods. So, in nutshell: if you fry some bacon or sausage, make an omelet and have a yogurt or cheese plus toast, you will get everything. Add some orange juice and there’s additional portion of vitamin C to help repair your immune system damage, caused by drinking, inhaling cigarette smoke (directly or indirectly), overtaxing your muscles, and depriving body of a night’s sleep. Also, broth restores sodium and banana – potassium.

-        -   Replace lost fluids. Restore electrolytes – don’t just drink water. In US they have sports drinks, in Geo – opt for Sprite. It is caffeine- free. 

-   - Buy food and drinks ahead of time! How often do you wake up with a headache and get to your nearest store shaking, wishing for miracle Borjomi (Nabeglavi, Mitardi, whatever)? 

-       -   Try contrast water therapy (O.K. I know that no one, no one will do this after clubbing, but still, let me put it out there): 2 minutes hot water, 30 seconds cold water, repeat 4 times. Allow a minute of moderate water between those 4 times. Smile – it’s for your own good.

-        -   Please sleep. In a peaceful setting. Your sleep will be irregular and light, so turn off the phone – you may not be able to fall back asleep if disturbed.  

Wish you good and safe and pleasurable nights of dancing!

Tbilisi Tango Therapy

I won’t write about Shevardnadze’s death.

I won’t write about Mayor’s elections.

This week I will write about something enticing.

Have you ever considered many films and books telling a story about a hero outsider? That archetype of a born-outside-of-the-realm saver, the one who comes to a foreign world and helps natives find strength in their own resources? Like Paul Muad’dib in Frank Herbet’s “Dune”, like that soldier guy from the “Avatar”? Fremen’s term for Paul is Lisan al-Gaib (sci fi haters, bear with me): the voice of the outer world.  Yes, on one hand, it has a colonial, white-men-will-save-the-world aftertaste – because why can’t natives just save themselves- but on the other hand, when you’re stuck in the same shit daily, the voice of the outer world is what gets you out!

 Got me out, in any case.

Tbilisi has a little tango society. All you have to do is look them up on FB. Simple, right? No. Because why would I suspect it in Tbilisi? Thus, just like in a classical sci-fi adventure, a voice of the outer world, my Latvian therapist, who visits Georgia once in a blue moon (O.K. every other month), looked for the tango-dancing folks and joined them. And of course, despite his multiple stories about them, I still refused to believe that they exist. Tbilisi tango. A little cognitive dissonance. Beautiful magical unicorn.

But my best friend got interested and practically forced me to accompany our therapist to his tango lesson.

Imagine:

You get out of a smelly taxi.

Walk by the oft-visited TBC bank.

Glimpse towards road that leads to the despised Ministry of Education.

Walk into Eldorado café.

Chandeliers light up.

Girls in pretty dresses and high heels are perched on the wooden Vienna stools.

Pair of strangers dance.

Chocolate flows in the right corner.

And as time passes by, slim, well-posed boys walk to the group of girls, silently exchange looks, smiles, gestures, stand oppose each other, hold hands, press faces together and start dancing…

Couples multiply. It gets harder to focus on a particular pair. They are part of a bigger entity, they all do the same thing, they all do the different thing. Some dance shy. Some dance strong. Some dance close. Some dance apart.

 A confection of white lace and silk floats by and all I can think of is Rafaello dessert (I know, consumerism has maimed me for life). The girl has such reserved, tender passion, she keeps her eyes closed, she keeps her body away, save the temple area on the face, the hands around the back and sometimes, only sometimes, a high-heeled leg shoots up in the air, and sometimes it brushes against partner’s calves. Sometimes she wants to step away, but her partner blocks her with his feet. Smiling, with eyes closed, she dances in the free space that he lets her have, because, he is the one that cannot close his eyes, he is the one that has to watch out for other couples, choose direction, guess her wishes.

I squirm uncomfortably upon this realization. “But what if a girl does not want to sit around and wait to be picked? What if girls wants to lead?”, I ask. I live in a world where girls are not allowed to choose and lead. “They often learn the other part and partner up with each other”, casually answers my therapist and I really, really want to see that. He is back at the table, with his sickeningly good camera zoom, taking pics of the dancers. Then he walks up to a covey of Georgian girls, looks lingeringly, until one of them accepts his invitation, presses her face  against his and they join the dancing current.

We leave after 3 hours.

We walk through old streets with old wooden balconies.

I still can’t connect what I’ve seen with my city.

As I go on living in it, as I keep on walking in its streets, as things get mundane and tiresome, as I come up with all-night dancing and 100 happy days projects (more on that later), trying to fight this desperation, trying to cover up the emptiness, as I keep sacrificing sleep, healthy eating, rest, self-esteem, I forget that good things, truly good things exist in Tbilisi. I forget that I don’t always need to forge my own happiness, that sometimes happiness just sits there, waiting to be discovered.

I am plotting the next tango meeting.

P.S. the pic: this pic is horrible. My camera phone sucks at capturing motion and I didn't want to post close-ups, since I haven't asked for permission to post these pics. But, this is the proof that the unicorn is real :-)

Vagina Monologues in Tbilisi. Again.

My vagina liked last year’s Vagina Monologues so much that it begged to come back. And come back it did, a director vagina. An important vagina.

My vagina sat with many other vaginas for 3 months and we talked about…guess…vaginas. We talked about our monologues. We talked about parts of our souls they touch. We wrote about the women we presented. We made their stories our stories.

My vagina tried to direct. Honestly, it was more like giving personal feedback. It’s not like my vagina ran around artistically, yelling at the actors: “action, action!”

As we changed, so did our stories. Some vaginas lost love, some gained confidence. Some vaginas grew stronger. Some vaginas fell into darkness. Our monologues changed colors. Though in the end, our vaginas felt accomplished. It was like vagina therapy.

And so it happened that my vagina went to a Vagina Workshop.  To discover own form and essence. After practicing and practicing, my vagina finally talked about it in front of 200 people and it was elating. It even tried to convey an orgasm on stage. My vagina was funny. People laughed.

My vagina also made a little speech in the beginning. My vagina said, hey, women are killed in Georgia. Wheelchair-adapted swings are taken down in Georgia. My vagina said, we need to hear these women in Georgia. My vagina said, we need to hear them.

Backstage, my vagina watched other vaginas talk, one by one, and it was proud, my vagina was proud, it was my team, it was our team, we dared and talked about vaginas when most do not dare and  do not talk about vaginas.

No one yelled and no one screamed.

Some felt uncomfortable. Sitting and listening to other women’s vaginas. Some laughed nervously. Some felt connection. Some felt like they knew these vaginas on stage – through work, through life, through their own vaginas. Even if they did not have one.

And now it is over. My vagina believes that after performing last year and performing and directing this year, it has talked its talk. My vagina wants others to get involved. My vagina encourages you to participate next year.

And then you can sit down and write your own vagina monologue.

Like the one I am writing today. Or this one.

In any case, come and listen.

Because we have to:

Let our vaginas talk. Let our women speak. Let our inner, hidden, repressed selves finally declare: Enough! No more violence!

P.S. My Vagina Workshop scene

P.S. life is so hectic, I hardly find time to sit and think. And if I don’t think, I don’t write. And if I don’t write…well, I loose you guys.

That’s it. I promise to write in July. And thank you for still checking my page out.

The Invisible Women : M

 It’s been a while and I am sorry. You probably got tired of waiting for me. I don’t blame you. I wonder if anyone is still left here...

May 17^th went by just like any regular day. Some activists placed empty shoes on the “pogrom” site to honor the unseen, unheard people. Fliers appeared all over the city and stairway by Tavisupleba subway was painted in rainbow colors.

That day I arrived at the Pushkin square with my spare footwear to discover a man collecting shoes in big, black bags.  He told me that it was all gay propaganda. “But I brought shoes”, I whimpered. “You can put them down and I will collect them”, he answered very politely. He then complained that he “was forced to” throw away shoes.

Women were killed this spring, lots of women killed by angry men. Anyone notice that? Oh yes, government was preoccupied fighting gay propaganda (they demolished the rainbow stairs! Not painted over, demolished! I mean, the level of paranoia!!) just as it is preoccupied with incarcerating pot smokers at the moment.

I guess these several posts are my shoes. My attempt at “Dirty Pretty Things” (Haven’t seen it? Download right now!)

There are women in my life, who are invisible.  They are strong and they are independent and many times I look at them in awe. I just want you to know about them.  This is the first story:

M is smart, friendly, service-oriented. First time I walked into a salon where she worked (little, ugly thing  close to my house), she talked to me, explained stuff about my nails, hair, eyebrows, took care of my poor hands, walked me to the door and gave me her business card. As someone stuck in a post-soviet-service

limbo, I was pleasantly surprised. She was not nice because she worked in a high-class, expensive salon (it was yet another neighborhood barber shop) , not because I was someone important, but because that's how she usually talks to her clients.

Her skills are excellent. She had worked in Israel for many years, learning tricks of the industry, procuring better instruments, receiving better training. She was happy and busy and independent until one day her son almost boarded a bus that got blown to pieces in several minutes after the departure. They came back to Geo and she started working close to her house (to check in on her son).

Salon owner didn't treat M very well. He did not abuse her, nothing like that; he just did not value her. He had an exceptionally-trained nail technician in his shabby salon and he did not care.  He did not care about any of his female staff really. He was the boss who collected money.

M started saving funds, took a bank loan and eventually opened a tiny nail salon next to him. All of her clients moved away with her.  There she sworks now, in a neat little room that used to be a vegetable stand.

She decorated it and remodeled it and even extended walls a bit. Her salon has a tree in the middle. It was in the way and she did not want to cut it.

M is very strong. M sits all day, cutting people’s nails, shaping their eyebrows, she pays for the room, she pays for her life and she pays for her son’s life.  Sometimes she is sick, sometimes she is hungry - no time for lunch, though she never complains (We just chat about it. How are you? Oh well, hungry); she has never missed an appointment. Never. 

She is always fun. Sometimes she tells me her Israel stories. Some are funny, some are sad. How she got divorced.  How she loved. How she traveled. Other things.

Time after time she gives me mini lectures on skin care. She never judges me, no matter how horrible my nails look; doesn't reprimand me when sometimes I bite the skin on my fingers (gross).  She’s there, she’s always there and she probably does not even know how much security and stability her professional presence has given me over these, let’s see 3 years? 4 years? More? She has watched me change 4 jobs now.

I measure my month by how much time has passed since I last saw M.

I will always have M. Even when I move out of this place. I will make special trips to her little room with a tree.

M is invisible. M is not on TV. M does not attend rallies. M just does her job, professionally, cheerfully, with dignity. M is proud of her job. And I grow, I learn, I get inspired.

M is the first invisible woman I will tell you about. The first shoe that I put down.