tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51249787903870378592012-02-11T22:45:58.540-05:00No outside dry.Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comBlogger6971100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-30447907309711468492012-02-11T22:45:00.000-05:002012-02-11T22:45:28.166-05:00

"Is it luggage? Is it luggage?" said the man on the corner as I folded my Brompton. "Is it luggage?"  "No, it's a bicycle," I said. "Where do you ride that thing," said the man in the elevator. "Wherever I need to go," I said.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-59646913721395719592012-02-06T22:51:00.000-05:002012-02-06T22:51:18.477-05:00

"You have an inner ear outer ear problem," he said. "Everything I tell you goes in one ear and out the other ear."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-59059074885724706972012-02-05T02:00:00.006-05:002012-02-11T22:45:58.548-05:00

Maiden voyage on the Brompton in Prospect Park last weekend. In search of lost time. Photo: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-89030174215133133762012-02-04T11:51:00.000-05:002012-02-04T11:51:45.651-05:00

He said he hated to find himself walking behind a woman on a dark, narrow street.  She quickened her nervous bird steps in response to his faceless but certain approach.  He longed to overtake her, to pass her and walk on and on and on. He longed to turn around and call, "See, I didn't harm you."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-10377897129137192832012-01-30T14:58:00.002-05:002012-02-04T11:44:11.500-05:00

In our first year, we spent an inordinate number of hours planning how everyone on our floor would simultaneously blast Carmina Burana out their window one evening. The plot was satisfying even if it never came true. You would knock on my door out of the blue and ask me to sit with your candle while you fetched your finished laundry. One thrilled spring night we roved the campus with the King's

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-78032861889105080752012-01-29T10:45:00.001-05:002012-01-29T14:32:41.331-05:00

Ever since I labeled my umbrella handle with my initials, I feel self-conscious on the train. "Now strangers know my name," I said. "They're just your initials!" you said. "That still leaves a lot to the imagination."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-85353523755753359902012-01-25T21:06:00.001-05:002012-01-25T21:08:16.821-05:00

"Say hello," you command strangers on the street. You want to hear their voice. You are looking for a voice. It eludes you, like Cinderella's foot, like Xeno's arrow. You don't run a chorus on the side; you suffer from partitioned brain.  Your wits are literally about you. You are talking to anyone who will listen. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-89973467017121896882012-01-23T22:39:00.001-05:002012-01-23T22:40:59.670-05:00

"Where you work?" he asked. "Midtown," I said. "Midtown Comics?" he said. "No, just midtown," I said. "Oh," he said, "cause when people say midtown, I always think Midtown Comics."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-26810469942769808052012-01-22T22:07:00.000-05:002012-01-22T22:07:50.544-05:00

In the space of a song – "I want you (She's so heavy)"– I swung my hand too wildly inside the refrigerator, cracking open an egg without meaning to. And I fried the egg, and ate it with a relish on a hunk of nine-grain bread, while the flattered afternoon took its leave of me.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-36374806056649295132012-01-19T19:53:00.000-05:002012-01-19T19:53:39.858-05:00

"This bread's not very good," I said. "Maybe it's spelt wrong," you said.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-74400443696356374762012-01-16T12:26:00.000-05:002012-01-16T12:26:09.630-05:00

She called me, "Rapunzel." In the metro, she commanded me to turn around and show off my hair to strangers.  Emerging onto the street, she said seriously, "Let's go the barber." "Let's not," I said. One day she drew a single tooth and its accompanying gum -- nothing else. When she said, "Thanks," it sounded like a sneeze. "This bag is really heavy," remarked her mother in the elevator one

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-71512190483719142062012-01-14T19:41:00.000-05:002012-01-14T19:41:26.509-05:00

"Those Tamaras are flying off the shelves," he said. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-75667485992492604082012-01-13T23:24:00.000-05:002012-01-13T23:24:58.048-05:00

You leave a smattering of things in your wake: memory cards and lens caps and other details. I call this the Ilyushan archipelago, after the Aleutian one.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-63850383864988977302012-01-12T23:02:00.000-05:002012-01-13T23:25:09.621-05:00

The lunch ladies were fat and tyrannical. Everyone had to hush for the reading of the menu. If you brought lunch from home  – they called that "cold lunch" – you could not eat it until your classmates had been served their "hot lunch." The lunch ladies decided the order in which tables were called to get their hot lunch. "We'll make it up to you," they said. "Since you were last to get lunch,

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-4680607799166424792012-01-10T22:43:00.000-05:002012-01-09T22:43:20.182-05:00

Sometimes a man gets into the train carrying many baskets, and I think: he is going to organize his house. He is going to turn his life around.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-19992933187021075572012-01-09T21:16:00.001-05:002012-01-15T10:22:25.855-05:00

"I'm looking to buy a bicycle for my kid," said the man, "but she's not a professional or anything."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-49871246921520884452012-01-08T17:40:00.002-05:002012-01-15T13:30:17.961-05:00

"Too bad Cassandra couldn't 'short' Troy," he wrote out front. He admired the chalkboard, and stepped back inside TB Ackerson Wine.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-52901147061296107692012-01-07T21:34:00.003-05:002012-01-08T10:20:01.160-05:00

"The train will be arriving against the wall," bellows the conductor, "against the wall." It arrives against the wall and we take it and then we come up for air among the bridges and have a staring contest with the stars. "What, just do anything?" they ask blankly, and look away. All the kind people have turned their evergreens out. This fact does not trouble their appetite for kale in their

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-22240315315882964422012-01-03T22:12:00.001-05:002012-01-07T19:23:44.362-05:00

Please let's sit together long enough for the carnies to fold the enormous tent of night around us. And I will air the well-appointed rooms of my heart.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-89115462405731530742012-01-02T22:16:00.001-05:002012-01-07T19:24:37.254-05:00

After a party, a homespun feeling comes. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-91587857781870164102012-01-01T17:33:00.002-05:002012-01-01T17:34:32.870-05:00

"Lost earrings in hotel how to recover" brought someone to The Mayor's Hotel in 2011. So did "percentage jokes," "noise gateway crime," and "Newsday crossword puzzle solution 10/28/11." I do agree that noise is a gateway crime. Perhaps the most appropriate question is, "When was Nixon out of office?" Your searches bewilder and inspire me. Here's to a new year.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-54195080685864596592011-12-29T20:48:00.001-05:002011-12-30T20:20:31.128-05:00

"Oh, that one," he said hysterically, "I crammed that one through Congress."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-14299479703170134092011-12-23T18:55:00.002-05:002011-12-23T18:59:16.041-05:00

"I can't fall," I said, when you came to check, was I sleeping.  I spent the day moving things and rehearsing a tender karaoke. You'd think two rooms would not last me all day but they did.  My shoulders are full of ballast and my voice is caught in the elevator shaft.  The darkness has a very high thread count.  The solstice been and gone, but it's not getting better out here.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-80558889752982144962011-12-19T20:39:00.001-05:002012-01-07T19:25:49.484-05:00

I swept pine needles and bobby pins. I ferried coats up the stairs.  The coats made small talk among themselves. My gaze was frank and my legs bare. Your house was large enough that the threshold did not dictate a margin in my brain. I drank cream from a thimble. I stared at the barn, which was a pleasing shape. I was your Fresh Air Kid.  The bus north was a slow-moving river.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-15208039279907620442011-12-11T17:17:00.002-05:002011-12-11T18:48:11.081-05:00

"What is your favorite color," he asked. "Blue," she said. He wrote "blue" on an index card, and gave it to her. "Here's blue," he said, "thank you for making green."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-15360515224624962822011-12-10T21:46:00.004-05:002011-12-10T22:11:19.541-05:00

M. Niglio used to say that we looked like the night of the living dead. To wake us, he played Dalida's rendition of "Hava Nagila," in French and Hebrew. He lent me the cassette tape so I could copy it. I sang it obsessively at home. He said our previous teacher had merely terrorized us. She knew she was fierce. "Mme Morey n'est pas un crocodile," she dictated lightly one day. She handed out

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-26319312333575816782011-12-09T23:40:00.004-05:002011-12-10T12:20:23.632-05:00

At twelve, I still thought "shot" and "killed" were synonyms.  We lived then above a bar called Greenfield's. I used to put my ear to the floor and listen to "Total eclipse of the heart," which they played every night.  We shared the landing with a war veteran who walked up and down the hall, feeling the walls. His sister, who lived on the next block, brought his meals. "Yoohoo," she called as

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-5236996154773155202011-12-08T23:50:00.000-05:002011-12-09T23:50:22.055-05:00

Marlon loved to say in class, "My pagination is different from yours."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-48870699458609762972011-12-07T18:57:00.000-05:002011-12-07T18:57:06.875-05:00

You are washed out like a road, like the Lady of Shalot. You chide yourself for the second person but you can't snap out of it. Your last dream each night is the opening sequence of "Fly Away Home." So your day begins with devastation.  After work you go down to the Whole Foods on Houston and stand in the narrow space between the building and the pine trees being sold there. And stand and stand.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-30523097958497022792011-11-28T08:00:00.002-05:002011-12-10T22:11:34.627-05:00

"Sure, you could steal her identity," he said, "but would you want to?" This, too, she took as a compliment.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-69944556782447639172011-11-27T14:18:00.002-05:002011-11-27T14:49:48.474-05:00

She bought apples at the Greenmarket and carried them home in a bag labeled, "Patient's belongings."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-75222095499840053542011-11-26T14:01:00.003-05:002011-11-27T14:49:26.099-05:00

I saw a man stuffing leaves into the street gutter. As I approached, he stopped, looked at the sky.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-76488876020129051022011-11-25T18:05:00.001-05:002011-11-25T23:34:24.748-05:00

They will not say of me, later, that I was dainty, or that I wrote for the drawer.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-35752807998912588952011-11-19T15:40:00.003-05:002011-11-19T17:06:56.277-05:00

Your lights start conversations.  For example, we took the bus back to our hotel Kabuki after returning our rented bikes to the shop on Bay and Taylor. "Nice light," said a man. "We live outside of Manchester," said his wife, "where the lanes are poorly lit." "What's it called," asked the man. "Lupine," you said. "Like a wolf," he said. "I always think of the flower," I said. "Girl brain,"

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-75138301324763108972011-11-18T16:46:00.000-05:002011-11-19T16:46:53.392-05:00

"That's just one more thing I have to write in my book," said the security guard, "so I look away."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-33918721267699971272011-11-11T20:50:00.001-05:002011-11-12T15:19:46.792-05:00

To the notion that the government pays people to live in Alaska only after they've lived there two years, I said, "That's indentured servitude!" But I'm not running for President.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-34267691497173158272011-11-10T23:34:00.001-05:002011-11-10T20:41:53.885-05:00

The bridge here is ruddier than my cheeks; my anxious heart is singing like a cable car. I'll change that. I'll bring my heart in line with the steady rocking of the knife at the back of a taquería in the Mission. There, a single man chops all day without crying, flanked by two unabating pyramids of onions. They stay his worries. "Yes," you say, "all those things," and you order a knickerbocker.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-6012603076330119922011-11-09T19:59:00.000-05:002011-11-09T19:59:57.531-05:00

"They broke the keel of the boat," he said. "The rudder," she corrected, "it was the rudder." "The rudder, the keel, whatever," he said. "They're trying to sell it, but no one is buying boats these days."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-41360423254978779332011-11-08T20:04:00.003-05:002011-11-09T20:10:09.905-05:00

In my papers I found the diary of a slave named Hazel, which I wrote in the sixth grade. "Why does every child write slave diaries? Because they feel imprisoned!" I said. "Because it's part of the curriculum," said M. reasonably.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-66342836948799341782011-11-05T23:15:00.004-04:002011-11-09T21:07:18.915-05:00

We go to the Farmers Market at the Ferry Building, where we eat more than one strawberry. "You may sometimes be expected to pay $6 for a peach," wrote A., "but this is when San Francisco shines." If we believe the Daily Mail, we have eaten more than the weight of "the whole internet," which, they say, "weighs the same as a strawberry." While the hordes storm Lombard Street, we gaze into the

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-72404670980425227462011-11-01T00:01:00.001-04:002011-11-01T07:25:10.429-04:00

He asked whether the station platform would collapse. We said it would hold. He asked why there were so many policemen. We said there’s a lot of everything in New York. He asked whether we were heading towards the ocean. We said we were moving away from it. He was relieved because there could be nothing good near the ocean. He said some trouble was afoot off the coast. He’d seen all the Irene

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-45888778731174635452011-10-31T23:00:00.001-04:002011-11-16T07:39:37.428-05:00

In Russian, we say that we brought something "к чаю," which sounds like, "towards tea." I nudge these apple tarts across the table towards you. On my way here from the market, I realized that I forgot myself. Perhaps, in the course of tea, I will remember where, and we can throw ourselves into our coats and go there. When I was a kid I used to walk from the M train without my glasses when it

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-27158824890378278712011-10-30T21:01:00.000-04:002011-10-29T21:43:43.990-04:00

My first Barbie doll wore a denim jacket and skirt with an American flag print motif. Her shirt and shoes were pink. I sawed the heels off the shoes because I wanted her to stand flat. But her feet were forever in a tiptoe position. My parents were friendly with a couple who had two sons. When we visited them, I sorted their toy cars by color and alphabetized their baseball cards.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-35580281006706147912011-10-29T15:24:00.001-04:002011-10-29T15:37:17.205-04:00

We took the public bus (no. 42) to Pearl Harbor. It was two buses in one, with a connecting section like an accordion. It stopped often. We took a shuttle boat out to the startling white memorial slung across the sunken hull of the USS Arizona. Later you told me the story of a man who would have read all the names aloud. It was the man who sat within our earshot the previous night and read the

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-69158151096801055782011-10-28T22:27:00.000-04:002011-10-28T22:27:11.123-04:00

I have: the attention span of a bridge. I constantly find myself on the far bank of the river. There's not a ferry in sight.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-69634822852826343402011-10-22T21:54:00.001-04:002011-10-22T21:54:38.301-04:00

There was a man named Karl Ludwig. When people called him simply, "Karl," he cried, "Don't cut me in half!"

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-19542199144949067362011-10-21T22:22:00.001-04:002011-10-23T13:30:30.865-04:00

"Take off your glasses," you dared me, "and see if you get the same answer." We sat together in the back row of art class and exchanged notes in the margins of our notebooks. We used to stall at the beginning of each class, to delay the drawing of the blinds and the hum of the slide projector.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-1321749603748591562011-10-18T21:48:00.001-04:002011-11-11T07:37:27.963-05:00

We are surrounded by empty tables covered in heavy white linen. They resemble ice floes. We sit at our ice floe and eat the ice from the bottom of our drinks and talk about real things.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-17747271631137458222011-10-17T08:19:00.002-04:002011-10-17T08:20:22.448-04:00

I keep my eye on the prize; your eye is the prize. Let's snatch the salt and pepper shakers and ketchup bottles from the surrounding tables to make a map of the city on our table. The longshoremen are lining the docks with crates of new work by minor poets. A crane suffers a dizzy spell and folds like origami. The sunlight is stale, like water brought to a boil again and again, but tea

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-69489700634697183472011-10-12T23:22:00.000-04:002011-10-12T23:22:23.434-04:00

The hill is tremendous and there's no elevator.  My troubles have pointy elbows and they live in close quarters. The sun is shy; the bees, Calvinist. You told me the story of a dog that doesn't know his name. In the story, he trots about, pleading, "Позови меня! Позови меня!" ("Call me! Call me!")  I follow his example.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-322341228402970232011-10-10T00:05:00.000-04:002011-10-10T00:05:00.160-04:00

"Why do I always," I wrote in the margin, "always – no matter the class – feel like thudding to sleep?" I kept a single notebook for all my non-Russian subjects, and another notebook for Russian, yet my calculus, philosophy, and art history notes are laced with Russian poems and song lyrics written out from heart. There are also desperate pleas: "Stay awake, Kasia!!" I never spoke up in

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-89236262330976670002011-10-09T20:44:00.000-04:002011-10-09T20:44:51.356-04:00

And our feet are threadbare from dancing, and we've thrown out the anchor with the bathwater, and Amelia Earhart lives.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-85144136256266800102011-10-08T13:54:00.000-04:002011-10-09T22:09:39.253-04:00

You frequent a restless place called Sunday, where the week has skidded to a halt. The days are dominoes. You are cardless. All your best sleeves are in the wash. Anxiety has pooled in your elbow. Your voice is a washboard. The house is grimy. The blades of the ceiling fan are trimmed with brown-black Ocean Parkway dust. Your mariner stripes, too, are drawn. The yellow pages doesn't

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-60773797215537507522011-10-04T20:56:00.002-04:002011-10-06T20:45:15.738-04:00

In the Whole Foods on Twenty-Fourth and Seventh, two men. "You know how people cut you in line?" asked the first man. "Don't you think that's rude?"  "Never happens to me," said the second. "Oh, not in a store like this," clarified the first. "I mean in the ghetto." "Oh, in the ghetto," said the second. "Yeah, I hear you."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-85308385328986907192011-10-03T20:38:00.001-04:002011-10-03T20:39:54.136-04:00

In mariner stripes I sail down the hill on my bicycle, and nearly run over a fleeting furry mass that darts beneath my wheel. This squirrel will now forever represent time. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-10380103400972497032011-10-02T17:16:00.008-04:002011-10-03T19:20:20.753-04:00

Mr. Allen charged a dime anytime someone in our class cursed. He used to lunge for his gym bag, threatening to stuff his dirty socks into the offender's mouth. Every morning he wrote a "wuzzle" on the board: a word puzzle. I suffered through these because I lacked idioms in English. He required that we find our spelling words in the newspaper each week, and cut them out. He said that once we'd

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-65005651407724413282011-09-26T21:02:00.000-04:002011-09-25T21:03:02.749-04:00

In a time of grief, the sweetest drink is tap water from Brooklyn.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-43594245316942087142011-09-25T12:44:00.001-04:002011-09-25T12:44:23.758-04:00

Got a porch, but no time to use it? Local, apartment-dwelling writer seeks a porch on which to sit, mornings and/or evenings. Quiet, neat, bearing no resemblance to Goldilocks. Will sit in return for coffee (and occasional bathroom use). Will make your Victorian look homey and do wonders for property values. Will bring out the vibrant hues of its painted trimmings, shutters, gables. Happy to

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-56081502075923777182011-09-23T23:49:00.000-04:002011-09-23T23:49:43.997-04:00

"It's swell," he said, and added, "I refer to my heart."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-88655354659326902132011-09-21T22:39:00.000-04:002011-09-23T21:14:42.237-04:00

What is this city, with foosball tables in Herald Square, and a carousel in the shade of the Brooklyn Bridge? "Mi amor, mi amor!" yells a woman on the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Sixth Avenue. This is how she gets you to take a flyer from her hand. Down the street there is a heartbroken man who advertises for a men's barbershop. He extends a wordless flyer to men and women alike. They brush

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-54884096413328906972011-09-20T22:35:00.002-04:002011-09-20T22:35:52.933-04:00

I dreamt that I was sledding. The hill was actually a long steep staircase.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-57538301842158633142011-09-19T23:10:00.001-04:002011-09-19T23:10:50.778-04:00

The City tore up Avenue H last week; now they're laying it down again. Anxious believers shuffle darkly up and down the streets – in the brilliant light, the tweed air. The elevated tracks over McDonald Avenue are – at once – still and moving. In a Turkish place in grimy midtown, we spoke of hotels, and barnacles on the hull, and our sense of narrative. We remembered the Rackets days, like a

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-87792384301363392852011-09-16T20:37:00.002-04:002011-09-20T22:49:36.841-04:00

Your body has many rooms and all of them are ransacked by allergies. You look in the mirror and you don't know yourself from a can of paint. For even Billy must change to survive.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-45364559656275228112011-09-07T19:45:00.000-04:002011-09-10T20:53:32.218-04:00

The ballerina sends a cable from sea. Her lover is a barge-hauler on the Volga. When they met, the moon was a mini Babybel. They will make Bloody Marys when life gives them lemons.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-52579697904271637522011-09-06T22:10:00.001-04:002011-09-06T22:17:58.310-04:00

"Hipsters are like cicadas," you said. "How so," I asked. "How they come up every seventeen years and say, 'I'm from here.'" You say truths, like other people say their names. The truth is from here. Vysotsky sings, here: "Синева кругом, как не выть." ("The blue expanse surrounds me; how not to howl?")

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-24182272333062166392011-08-27T10:13:00.003-04:002012-01-09T22:11:51.742-05:00

"I'll sing it one last time for you, and then we really have to go. ...Light up, light up."–"Run," by Snow Patrol Irene is pending, and Nixon is. There are people with good eyes, and people who are no longer looking. There are knights in other states who can ice a cake while riding a horse. There is an abundance of caution. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-46996253332266434952011-08-26T23:07:00.001-04:002011-08-26T22:07:07.284-04:00

"Don't leave me," said one cashier to the other. "I never did a return before." He forgot to staple the two receipts together. His colleague chided him: "We gotta keep things together."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-30767780721171682372011-08-25T21:18:00.000-04:002011-08-24T21:19:19.085-04:00

this would be my song: I HATE SIRENS I HATE SIRENS I HATE SIRENS I HATE SIRENS I HATE SIRENS.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-77816475196749611372011-08-24T22:38:00.002-04:002011-08-23T22:43:59.183-04:00

"Buzzers" is what you call the bees in the garden. A "sweateasy" is like a speakeasy, but hotter and muggier. You are an "icebreaker." I have the "talkies." If you manage to hush me, you say you "froze the talkies." In the tea cupboard there hangs a cheatsheet to remind me how many sugars to put in your tea. When I ask what kind of tea you want, the answer is always, "Surprise me." Once you

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-73959356569643152292011-08-23T21:25:00.002-04:002011-09-19T20:26:31.972-04:00

"Due to an earlier Earthquake in Virginia, there is no effect to train service."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-18284408535367319332011-08-22T22:50:00.000-04:002011-08-23T21:47:06.761-04:00

Our house is covered in Post-its that say, "Be writing." I be. I am. Sometimes I bolt awake at night and hear them speaking in inspired paisley voices, as if in a neighboring hotel room. They carry on about their youth, the ancient Greek case system, and the price of tea in China. And I think I'll be sick, but I have to listen. Nixon traffics in aphorisms. Nikolai tends the surrounding

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-49952159937074651962011-08-19T10:51:00.003-04:002011-10-02T17:08:29.804-04:00

We had a science teacher in the fifth grade who kept a list of troublemakers on the board. The list was called, "Not Cooperating." The same boys' names appeared there as the class dragged on. Anthony, James, Chris, John. Repeat offenses were denoted by a check next to the name. Mr. Hansen carried a huge bag of clippings and fledglings that he'd rescued from local curbs. He used to ask the kid

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-53258622989365245432011-08-18T22:12:00.006-04:002012-01-09T22:14:33.664-05:00

There was a little boy at a Stanley Kunitz reading years ago who corrected the poet when he read, "hanged."  "Shouldn't it be 'hung?'" he whispered to his mother. She hushed him.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-11518718737709424482011-08-17T21:17:00.002-04:002011-08-23T21:47:27.861-04:00

"The white cop woke me up on this same train," he said. "He woke me up OUT OF MY SLEEP."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-18419104886431633282011-08-15T21:18:00.002-04:002011-08-23T21:47:37.154-04:00

There were twenty-one hollering kids in the A train with me on Friday afternoon. They were dressed in identical turquoise shirts bearing the name of a Brooklyn day camp. They hollered from Forty-Second to Fourteenth. "Nineteen heads," said one teacher to the other. "Just kidding," he added right away, "We got all twenty-one." "We're gonna be quiet now," he boomed to the kids, "because if we're

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-73821892515367870152011-08-12T21:21:00.001-04:002011-08-12T21:21:31.317-04:00

"Please be quiet on phone calls," said Vassily, "I don't want people to have heart attack on upscale bus."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-11332917228708159462011-08-10T21:37:00.003-04:002011-08-23T21:47:46.759-04:00

There are women who do wordsearch after wordsearch on the train.  Once I saw a woman peek at the answer key in the back of the book. You said, "This is why they can't find your file at the doctor's office."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-61615766934047122992011-08-08T20:44:00.003-04:002011-08-19T10:55:03.550-04:00

Mondays, I am a string of pearls that snaps. The pearls flee into all the corners of the sprawling offices of my mind. Some of them burst out into cicada song.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-70492532363457041692011-08-04T19:43:00.001-04:002011-08-12T20:56:17.438-04:00

We came to America in 1990 as a family of four, shortly after Mother's Day. We took turns eating and drinking out of two bowls, two plates, and two mugs. I remember the pattern on the plates included orange geese. The mugs read, "Mom, without u, I just go all to pieces." Photos: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-29877686145376234832011-08-03T20:07:00.001-04:002011-08-08T20:19:30.929-04:00

All the people in the Ikea magazine are always having a cup of coffee. There is no surface sold there, that will not accommodate your piping hot cup. Even the bathtub rim will do. When we were kids, we each had a copy of the latest Ikea catalog. We spun our dreamhouses out of there. We wanted to buy things for the sake of their names. I am sitting at our own Jokkmokk kitchen table.  Now serving

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-10908007329957240832011-08-02T02:00:00.006-04:002011-08-02T06:43:24.393-04:00

The clay bottle is from Akhasheni semi-sweet red wine, from Georgia – the country, not the state. The flowers are asters. (They are not real.) Photo: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-48252181917029541612011-08-01T22:42:00.001-04:002011-08-01T22:42:52.820-04:00

"Show me your scratch paper," said a tutor in a café.   This reminded me how you once said of my papers, that if we lived in New Orleans, I would have lost everything by now. "And you would've had to start over," you said, "and you'd be fine." I know it.  I could tell a story with the string that binds a ham.  If I so much as go to sleep with sand in my hair, I wake up by the sea.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-78188424496378848322011-07-30T18:53:00.001-04:002011-08-13T10:30:21.125-04:00

We stood in each other's well-appointed company on the edge of the party, and argued about whether the fireflies had singed the crème brûlée. 

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-48627200529518922742011-07-24T14:14:00.001-04:002011-07-24T14:14:23.592-04:00

"Why did the colonials get angry at the British," you asked. "Why," I said. "Because the British took all their quarters for laundry," you said.  You added, "You can write that down."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-2868493427934272852011-07-20T21:00:00.004-04:002011-07-20T21:11:27.102-04:00

His lady's gold slippers are stuffed into the pockets of his black velvet jacket. He is playing "Beyond the Sea" on a Murphy piano, while she waltzes about the room in stockinged feet. He pre-caches his thoughts so as to talk faster. Every time he opens his mouth, he throws a wrench into our hair. Down in the street Hemingway kicks a can. The moon rises, and it looks like a deviled egg platter.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-44183207250321378292011-07-19T07:35:00.001-04:002011-07-19T07:35:50.808-04:00

A poem I made upon returning from D. C., using words from The Washington Post (July 9, 2011). The background is part of a theater poster from Barnard College (circa 2007); I don't remember the play. I chose this background because, while I was in D. C., I dreamt that someone told me, "You are like a windmill." Photo: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-81098412133883997492011-07-18T00:03:00.001-04:002011-07-19T20:58:40.106-04:00

"Don't worry," said Nikolai, "it's just a week, it will go quick." "That's easy for you to say," said Nixon. "You'll be with yourself – but what about the rest of us?"

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-62561510347700321212011-07-16T12:36:00.000-04:002011-07-17T12:36:11.486-04:00

"But all my teeth are sweet," you told the flight attendant, when she handed you just one packet of sugar for your coffee. Later she announced, "My ex-husband and his new wife are coming down the aisle to collect your garbage."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-86057873005054482002011-07-15T20:54:00.000-04:002011-07-15T20:54:36.817-04:00

Yesterday I spoke in cobbled French to my sister, who did not at first recognize me. "You sound like Julia Child," she said.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-74964621402384788582011-07-14T14:31:00.001-04:002011-07-14T14:31:48.579-04:00

The left shoulder is closed and the locks are jimmied. The news is going on and on about the Process, and unpleasantries on Mars. In his room, a man watches his foot, marveling that all his toes showed up, and assembled in such an orderly fashion.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-30186412762630615442011-07-13T21:16:00.002-04:002011-07-12T23:14:32.667-04:00

We crowded your kitchen, eating a creamy, runny, cheese bought that morning from a farmer in the Berkshires. The cheese had not yet been named. The doorbell sang out, and a guest floated downstairs to fetch the new guests from the stoop, and further, announced them. After he'd done this several times, we remarked optimistically on the revival of the butler as a respected profession. The light in

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-998144371524555692011-07-12T13:14:00.002-04:002011-07-12T13:14:52.711-04:00

My voice ran out in the formal capital, where New Hampshire turns into Florida, and the lettered streets play tag with the numbered ones.  As my train pulled into Union Station, the conductor had hollered, "All the doors will not open." Her syntax was a thorn in my heel.   We were a three-wheeled jalopy, and your whole house was great: a shrine to purple, amethyst and lavender. We walked past

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-27349285704840703292011-07-11T21:55:00.001-04:002011-07-11T21:55:35.168-04:00

"You are very organized," said Vasily, addressing the passengers. "You did not block the crosswalk. You are very upscale customers of an upscale bus company. This is why I love love love my job," he said.  "There is no passcode for the internet," he explained. "If your neighbor turns to you and asks, 'Please, do you know the passcode,' you will say, 'There is no passcode.'" "The trip is

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-89592579379279773412011-07-08T07:57:00.000-04:002011-07-08T07:57:30.045-04:00

A poem I made of words from The New York Times (June 30, 2011), and a distressed Nautica print advertisement, likely dating back to the late 1990s.   Photo: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-78579429364560055062011-07-03T18:24:00.001-04:002011-07-03T18:25:09.395-04:00

I am inclined to sit low, alone with the hamantaschen. The curtains brood, obscuring the thin lip of the horizon. I'm listening to the story of the cold war between the lemon and the honey, as told by my cup of tea. All over the city, people are going home with brooms and mops. I am not among them.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-42852292694114764632011-07-02T11:39:00.005-04:002011-07-03T17:57:48.206-04:00

"I'll be in late tomorrow," said Nixon, "I have to mend my screen door." "Your heart is a screen door," said Nikolai. "And you are the sea, rushing through it," said Nixon. "Every joke," said Nikolai, "is part joke."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-90581597731114108652011-06-30T08:27:00.005-04:002011-07-12T12:16:37.102-04:00

You sat on a park bench and reached down to forage in the hedgerow; the night dropped a grubby black sheet behind you. You work in paper. You coordinate diaries. You chase the parties, and do not catch them, and resolve to chase them again in the morning. You use your words. You dream that you stand comfortably under a moose in a field of wild irises.  You love women who wear sweaters over their

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-68495742322098119562011-06-28T07:38:00.004-04:002011-07-04T13:50:55.175-04:00

A poem I made of words from The Wall Street Journal (June 17, 2011), and a Bumble and bumble envelope. Photo: Ilya Nikhamin

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-61082078904009924172011-06-26T19:06:00.004-04:002011-06-29T21:09:00.175-04:00

"You should keep an overnight bag in your office," he said in a paisley voice, "in case you get fired."

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5124978790387037859.post-72696635893452888052011-06-25T15:11:00.003-04:002011-06-25T17:05:32.281-04:00

My heart is an interoffice envelope, with the same name written in – then crossed out –  over and over again.

Kasia Nikhaminahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10973603398475522580noreply@blogger.com