Been in the camps too long. What new reality will I encounter? They thought they could break my spirit by breaking my back. Hard labour was nothing compared to the desolate landscape, the desolate guards. Thought I'd never see the sun again. Pushkin, ah Pushkin. When they confiscated his poems they thought they'd finally broken me. Ha! I stood face to face with that ugly guard, Putin, and recited A Little Bird:
In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.
I'm now free for consolation
And thankful to almighty Lord:
At least, to me of his creations
I've given freedom in this world!
He beat me good after that. Ah, the pain. I thanked him for it. I was still alive. It's the numbness (and the cold) that takes away the spirit, the feeling of alive. I fell asleep that night recalling a line from Pushkin's Morpheus:
Oh, Morpheus, give me joy 'til morning,
For my forever painful love.
I repeated it each night thereafter as a mantra until I'd fall asleep. And when I wasn't overly exhausted to dream, he would come to me. In the form of a little bird, he came. From above, we could see the real Mother Russia. She's harsher and more desolate than any landscape, any ugly guard, when she needs to be. She cannot be broken by the spiritless, by their abject rules of intolerance toward human decency. To look into the eyes of Mother Russia you need to go blind. You need to feel your way around yourself as a blind man feels the land through touch and sound. You must enter a domain you know you will never exit. You must face a greater reality. You must carry your Self wherever you go. Without the luxury of sight you must face this wretched being and make it whole again.
At night, I listened to the piercing howl of the North Wind. It had a way of entering me. I could feel it on my fingertips as I pulled the blanket tighter and tighter around me. Everyone is alone in the dark, no matter who you sleep with, no matter who is touching you. But sound, sound can penetrate like no other sense, no other form. Pushkin, the radical, Pushkin, the noble, Pushkin, the song, Pushkin, the dueler to the death! Pushkin's voice howled through me in the wilderness and I was saved. From what? I now ask. Where am I headed? The monotonous sound of the train comforts me as I have become accustomed to a monotonous life. But my eyes fail me after 25 years of injustice, 25 years of darkness, 25 years of numbness. I close my failing eyes. Morpheus comes to me. He is a little bird. We sail above the harshest winds and gaze down at Mother Russia. Together we can see more clearly. She stretches on and on and on. She is eclectic and neurotic. She is harsh and desolate. She is beautiful. There is hope yet.
*
M C R
This work is copyrighted by the author, David Woodward. All rights reserved.
