Privet Comrades!The Ka-tet has broken, and I've been left hiding behind a bookshelf in the back of a bar in the Baltics, bullets in my ears, waiting for my papers to come through. Oh, my friends, Romans, and countrymen, a time it was, and what a time it was! I have a photograph...
Prague was a dream, a great warbling dream. Sleepy days and restless nights. Rain and sunshine. Wine and water, water and wine. The only vocal approximation I could make of my time in the Czech Republic would be a string of fluid, ululating syllables - impossible to transpose, and too embarrassing to be heard on public radio. Decency, my dears.
Poland, where I birthdayed, drew us under its membranous, bat like wings; hid us from reality a while longer, though the wings were transparent, and shadows drew along our vision. Krakow was a languorous shoulder massage. Warsaw, a numbing shot in the arm. Lithuania shocked us with it's brashness, and with it's Cili Pica. O Vilnius, you great comic-book villain, where are your charms? Your people? 
Your life? All I saw was Frank Zappa's head and a handful of dust. But O! Do you remember? When I blew that dust into the air, it glittered like the snowflakes in a shake-up Christmas globe, at least until the dream-charged dust settled back onto the tear-stained cobblestones. And you ask me how I can write about sand? You tell me I know nothing of it? Sand and dust are always at my belt - I blind myself with them. Tell me, have I never given you cause to rub your eyes?
Your life? All I saw was Frank Zappa's head and a handful of dust. But O! Do you remember? When I blew that dust into the air, it glittered like the snowflakes in a shake-up Christmas globe, at least until the dream-charged dust settled back onto the tear-stained cobblestones. And you ask me how I can write about sand? You tell me I know nothing of it? Sand and dust are always at my belt - I blind myself with them. Tell me, have I never given you cause to rub your eyes? 
And now, I'm sick. Lungs, head, nose, stomach. It's all there, they're just not working right. Balloon-headed, I'm bouncing about Riga, Lats in my pocket, whiskey (and Amarula! praise be to ye gods!) in my backpack, and a lot of time to kill. Should I head into the belly of the beast, the former CCCP? Or, ferry myself across the great Baltic sea into Sweden? Navigate the mass of trains and buses to Tallinn? Slowly creep back South into the Ukraine? I'm at a waystation, pardners. Lots of doors. Lots of paths. Got any suggestions? Thomas, I'll be in Bulgaria in a bit. I'll let you know a few days in advance. Still up for the beach? Get ahold of Sidekick girl. She's going to help you sort the flat s
ituation. Even if the one we discussed isn't kosher, see if you can't sort something out, eh? Tim, time is most definitely not on my side. There's little chance I can make it down anywhere near Greece during that window. I ran into an iron curtain. Still, anything can happen... Skopje at the end of your trip perhaps? To the rest of you, my brain's as full of words as ever, but there's a liter of snot plugging them in there, so I must bow (with a hanky poised to avoid the inevitable loss of charisma), and say goodday.
ituation. Even if the one we discussed isn't kosher, see if you can't sort something out, eh? Tim, time is most definitely not on my side. There's little chance I can make it down anywhere near Greece during that window. I ran into an iron curtain. Still, anything can happen... Skopje at the end of your trip perhaps? To the rest of you, my brain's as full of words as ever, but there's a liter of snot plugging them in there, so I must bow (with a hanky poised to avoid the inevitable loss of charisma), and say goodday. With a bullet, a bribe, and a back-up plan,
Aaron Rotsinger
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