In Which We Discuss Bigness

Moscow is huge, man. Huge in a way that facts and figures don't really express, but here are some anyway:
In 2004 the population inside the city limits is 10,101,500. All these folks are crowded into an area of 1,081 sq. km. That makes it, as near as I can tell, the second densest city with a population over one million. Only Paris is denser, but it has a measly 2,153,600 residents. (Los Angeles, by comparison is 1,290.6 km² with a population of 3,844,829).

All that, true though it is, isn't exactly what I'm talking about. Moscow is BIG; exhilaratingly, oppressively, inescapably, exasperatingly, sublimely HUGE. It partakes, in its totality, of the Platonic form of BIGNESS. It's BIG: as Big as Leroy Brown is Bad; Bigger than the Brobdingnagians; Big like Tom Hanks at a carnival. I mean BIG! Or, as a Russian Billboard advertising a new 1 liter bottle of beer put it: "a BIG taste for a BIG country."

You see it in the parades of giant concrete tenements, 10 stories high, 100 metres long, that march off in ranks as far as you can see.
You hear it in the car alarm symphonies that play in the distance (and not-so-distance) at night, each a fitting sub-melody gracing the grand cacophony.
You feel it in the body warmth of that smokin' hot Russian babe who, on the train in the Metro, is stacked up next to you as tight as cigarettes in a pack.

A Gift From My Student

"The Da Vinci Cat"

(Kot, the Russian word for 'cat' and Kod -- "code," sound very similar in Russian)

Oh, While on the Topic...

"I don't think anyone anticipated the breach of the levees. Now we're having to deal with it, and will."
George W. Bush. Sept 1, 2005.

"If it keeps on rainin', the levee's goin' to break,
When The Levee Breaks I'll have no place to stay."
Robert Plant. 1971.


Robert Plant for Prez!!!


NB: I realize that the song was written by Kansas Joe McCoy... but he's dead now. Therefore, Robert Plant for Prez!!

Teaching Tunes

I think I'm an OK teacher. Probably not great, but not terrible either. I hedge my bets, though, by trying to maintain a good rapport with the students. They may not learn anything while I'm with them but, damn it, they'll like me... they'll really like me!

So, I try to be the cool teacher. It's not just that I'm laid back -I am, but that's only because I haven't yet found that confrontational bone. I try to do things that will make class a little less tedious, like bringing to the class the sweet sweet sound of English language music.

Everything is permissible, of course, but not everything is beneficial. I try to find some pedagogical justification for rockin' out in class. Last night, I was reviewing conditionals - you know: if... then.. statements. If you're like most people, you just say them without knowing what they are called. Some examples:

1st Cond: If I don't go to work, I will get fired. (If + present tense... future tense)
Used when talking about probable consequences.
2nd Cond: If I got fired, I would piss on the photocopy paper. (If + past simple... would+infinitive)
Used when talking about hypothetical or improbable situations.
3rd Cond: If I hadn't come to Moscow, I wouldn't have known all this crap. (If + past perfect... would + present perfect)
Used when talking about actions that were possible in the past.

So, the play list I have come up with is this:

For 1st conditionals: Led Zeppelin When the Levee Breaks

If it keeps on rainin', the levee's goin' to break,
When The Levee Breaks I'll have no place to stay.

For 2nd conditionals: Lyle Lovett If I Had a Boat

If I had a boat I'd go out on the ocean
And if I had a pony I'd ride him on my boat
And we could all together go out on the ocean
Me upon my pony on my boat.

The problem is, dear readers, I can't think of a song for 3rd conditional. Any suggestions?

Ours

In my Russian class I read a short story by Sergey Dovlatov. He was a Soviet émigré who moved to New York in the seventies where he later died. His prose is stark and spare and powerfully moving. Anecdote and observation are blended and time and tense collide in the mind of the narrator to create an intensely subjective experience. Here is my translation of his autobiographical short story.

Ours

“Our world is absurd,” I say to my wife, “a man has enemies in his own house!”
My wife is angry and I hear:
“Your only enemies are cheap port and fake blonds!”
“In that case I am a true Christian, for Christ taught us to love our enemies,” I say.

These conversations have lasted for twenty years. Almost twenty years...

We met in 1963. It happened like this. I had a room with a separate entrance, and every evening friends would gather at my flat.

Once, I woke up in the middle of the night. I saw dirty dishes on the table and boringly thought about yesterday. I remember running out three times for more vodka.

I suddenly feel that I’m not alone. On the divan between the fridge and the radio someone is sleeping.
I asked:
“Who are you?”
“Lena,” answered a surprisingly calm female voice.
I thought for a moment, and then asked:
“And who are you, Lena?”
A calm female voice said:
“Guryevich forgot me.”
“How did that happen?”
“Guryevich got drunk and called a taxi.”
Finally I remembered her. Thin and pale with Mongolian eyes.

The day began strangely and mysteriously. I took a shower. After showers I am always apprehended by a feeling of clarity.

I get out in three minutes. Coffee is on the table with pastries and jam.
We ate breakfast and talked about nothing. Every thing was nice, simple and even pleasant. Lena took her things, put on her boots and said:
“I’m going”
“Thanks for the pleasant morning.”
Suddenly I hear:
“I’ll be back around 6.”
“OK” I say.
I thought that maybe she had confused me with someone. Perhaps with some close friend?

In the evening we ate dinner. I ate to occupy myself. Lena cleaned the dishes. I can see that it is nearly one. Time for bed.
Lena says:
“Go sit in the kitchen.”
I sit, I smoke. I read the evening paper. I go to my room and sleep. We sleep on the same divan.

I lay awake and listened. Not a single sound. I waited another ten minutes and then fell asleep.

In the morning: everything all over again. Light confusion, shower and coffee with milk.
In the evening I said:
“Lena, Let’s talk. I don’t understand what’s happening here. I have several questions. If I can be blunt...”
“I'm listening,” she says.
I ask:
“Is it that you don’t have anywhere to live?”
She was a little offended. Or, to be more precise, slightly surprised.
“Nowhere to live? I have a flat in Dachny, so what?”
“Nothing at all... It just seemed to me... I thought... Then there is one more question. Again, I beg your pardon, but.... could it be that you like me?”
There was a long pause. I feel myself blushing. Finally she said:
“I have no pretenses towards you.”
She was absolutely calm. Her gaze was cold and hard like the corner of a suitcase.

“And the last question. Please, don’t be angry... You aren’t, by chance, a member of the KGB?”
It happens all the time, I think. I am, after all, a rather noticeable person. I drink more than enough. I talk a lot. The radio station ‘The German Wave’ has talked about me.
I hear:
“No, I am a hairdresser.”
And then:
“If there are no more questions, let’s have some tea.”

And so this is how it all began. During the day, I ran around town and looked for work. I would return upset, humiliated and evil. Lena would ask:
“Do you want tea or Coffee?”
Or:
“Where is our laundry detergent?”
My daily regimen had changed. Ladies almost never called. And why would they when there’s a calm female voice that always answers?
We remained perfect strangers.

On Saturday morning I said:
“Lena, listen! Let me be frank. We live like man and wife... but without the most important element of married life... You cook and clean... Explain it to me, what does it mean? I am about to go mad...”
Lena calmly looked at me.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t know what I want! I want to understand...”
Lena was quiet. She lowered her Mongolian eyes and she says:
“If that is what you need - then go ahead.”
“No,” I say, “What for...?”
How could I, I think to myself, so rudely disturb this peace.

Two more weeks passed. Vodka saved me. I drank in one progressive reaction. I came home around 1 AM. Well, and how should I say it... I forgot myself... I infringed...

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a moment of weakness. This was an attempt to escape from chaos. We hadn’t even even called each other by the informal ‘you.’

In a year our daughter Katya was born. And this was how we met...

My Flat

Language Link is a British institution, and I, wouldn't you know it, teach British English. Having lived there for a year, this isn't really a problem: the difference really only entails a slightly different vocabulary and some very subtle grammar nuances.

Some of the differences I like. Lazy speaker that I am, I will always prefer to say anything in as few syllables as possible. Therefore, I am quite keen on using the succinct 'flat' over the longer and more cumbersome American version 'apartment.'

Other differences I like include: 'Ginger' to refer to those of us whose hair color is similar to that of a carrot, rather than the inaccurate 'red-head;' and 'boot' to refer to that part of a car which we store things for transport -- i.e. the trunk -- seems much more fitting for some reason that I can't quite explain.

In other differences American English is clearly superior. One erases pencil marks with an Eraser... the damn British would have you believe that you use a prophylactic. And I must count any language an impoverished one that doesn't include such wonderful euphemisms as: 'Sticking it to The Man.'

Anyway, my intention was to post pictures of my modest abode. And here they are:

Housekeeping

Apparently some people don't like that you have to sign in to comment on the blog. For the voyeuristically inclined, anonymous comments are now permitted.

Hint Hint

For those interested, I can receive mail at:

Russia
Moscow 127055,
Ulitsa Novoslobodskaya 5/2,
Language Link
Peter France

If You Can't Do...

During my many years as a student, I developed a theory concerning teaching. My experience on the other side of the pedagogical stick seems to rather have confirmed this suspicion:

The relationship between teaching aptitude and aggregate pupil performance is not linear, but rather a very shallow curve. In other words, while there may be a big difference in the performance of the pupils of a 1st percentile teacher and a 20th percentile teacher. The difference between, say, a 50th percentile and a 70th percentile teacher is MUCH smaller.

Once a teacher has a basic level of competence, the most he can ever hope to effect are the marginal cases. The good students will still be good students with a poor teacher, and bad students will still be bad students with a excellent teacher. I've seen several teachers enter the profession who have vague Stand-and-Deliver type dreams of making a difference, but it seems to me that these are almost certainly doomed to failure. (After all, Edward James Olmos' class consisted of self-selected students who wanted to take Calculus. Not random brothas from the barrio.)

Experiments in Lighting

Last Thursday I went to Sergiev Posad and had a whompin' good time. I did some experiements with lighting on my camera, and came out with a few shots that I thought were pretty good.

Pictures!

Ginny!

'Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer,' said Lawson. 'What has nature got to do with it? No one knows what's in nature and what isn't! The world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. Why, for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, and by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet discovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we choose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows blue, it'll see them red and blue, and, by Heaven, they will be red and blue.'

'To hell with art,' murmured Flanagan. 'I want to get ginny.'

--W. Somerset Maugham Of Human Bondage


Is it just me, or does that sound a lot like Lakoff's conceptual metaphor theory?
Further, I think Flanagan's response mirrors my own when I hear someone earnestly discourse on the topic.