Brutally honest, personal accounts about life are hard to find these days. I struggle as a single father in forced exile, in the harsh and unforgiving city of Moscow, constantly dealing with a violent ex-wife that suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder. In a lawless wasteland, I protect and nurture my six year old daughter as best I can - sometimes with nothing but sheer force of will, always with food cooked with a lot of love, with music.
Anyone touched by a messy divorce, or an abusive relationship can find something that resonates here. If cooking helps you keep the wolves away, if making music is your salvation then we have something to share.
About me: North's highly regarded blog is described by one reader as “the work of a modern Chekhov”. The fact that the ongoing story is not fictional, that North is really an expat NYer living in Moscow because his daughter was kidnapped there only deepens the experience.
impossible
The sun does not seem real in Moscow. I can't believe it comes up so early. The green grass and the trees bursting with leaves overnight are all fake. There are tiny oceans of tulips bobbing in the breeze that I know were not there yesterday. They were planted in the middle of the night.
Spar... Mon, 21 May 2012 11:45:00
la prima pagina (the first page)
Twelve years since I sat in a loose chair on a piazza, staring off at the rooftops. I was finishing my novel. It seemed easy, after lunches of bresaolo and long walks.
Our bellies are full. N turns to me sometimes, a quiet smile plastered across her face. She has never been here before.
... Mon, 14 May 2012 08:59:00
fireworks (five minutes later)
We tumble into the apartment, groceries dangling from my arms. E is kicking off her sneakers, the remainder of an ice cream dripping on the floor.
I hear a massive sound, like a giant clapping his hands. E's face jumps. It is still daylight outside.
"Fireworks?" She asks me.
I shrug m... Mon, 07 May 2012 10:28:00
the bravest (a miracle on ice)
Music theory class ends, and we shuffle out into the bright sun. The streets are full of dust. We make our way to the metro. Friday afternoon is the hour of crowds.
Our friends are waiting outside Rimskaya, outside the third ring at the far East edge of the city. On the top floor of a shop... Mon, 30 Apr 2012 09:32:00
the shiny balloon and the waltz of the dolls
Her face is puffy and red. Her cheeks painted in tears, she sits in the dark, empty room waiting for me to take her. Time to put on jeans and a coat. Time to go to guitar class. The teacher breezes into the room as we are leaving.
"Sontsei maya." She says. My sun.
She smooths a hand over E's... Mon, 23 Apr 2012 07:32:00
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