Memorycemetery

I have got used to changing places, countries, and places within countries. I moved a lot. Every time I moved I had to leave things behind. Every time you move you have to redefine what is important. When I was leaving London for good, I counted how many places I’ve changed for nearly 5 years living there. I counted 14; most probably I’ve forgot some of them. 14 times I had to pack and unpack things in a new place. Moving within one place is one thing. You can carry or move most of your staff with you. Moving things by hand, by underground and on the bus, moving things in a friend’s car, moving things in a hired van, moving things in a track for moving horses; finally moving things in supermarket trolleys with friends also can make a nice memory.

There were 3 of us, and we were broke. So we pushed our trolleys all the way down from Hackney to Angel, sharing a bottle of Teacher’s to warm up in a pissing November rain. We were artists; most of the staff we moved (and had) were paintings. Generally, if you want to paint, everything will do. Walls, doors, pieces of wood, carton boxes… Most of this you leave behind when you move.

Finally leaving London for good I had to pack everything what is important. I thought it’s funny to define importance of things by their weight: 20 kilos of necessary things and memories in total. … I had to damp or give away everything exceeding those 20 kilos, including many paintings once again. The dearest ones I stripped off from frames and rolled though; never to be stretched again as a matter of fact: because I never settled down. I remember places by things left behind. I’m not attached to things; on the contrary. I just try don’t keep anything what I don’t need. My wife told me as while visiting her friend in Sardinia, she was shown a wardrobe full of T shirts and clothes her friend used to wear since high school: that was her way to keep track of her life. So I keep my track by abandon things.

Sometimes we don’t have chance to pack things; rather we left with what we have. A few days ago I left my home in the morning in rush with a feeling I’m not coming back. Details are irrelevant, what is important is what all I had was my handbag with which I headed to work.

I felt very bad, to say as a piece of shit equals say nothing. To make matters worse, my probably only friend in this city (foreign to me without chances to adjust, as I don’t speak and doubt if ever will speak the language) let me down. He offered me to stay for a couple of days at his. I badly needed a place to crash, and even more somebody to talk to, to get drunk with and let my fucking brain lose all screws even if for a short while. I’ve got a big bottle of Ballantine’s finest and a couple of decent cuban cigars on the way  to start evening with; just to end up waiting for a couple of hours in a heavy rain to no avail. So I ended up drinking and smoking cigar on my own, somewhere in a third rate guesthouse by a train station in Chinatown. If you’ve seen “The beach” movie, and remember Leonardo di Caprio’s hostel room, you can grasp the picture. Laying on the bed and watching fucking ventilator going over your head in circles.

Somehow I felt not that bad anymore. I felt myself as a survivor. My ship sunk, and after making it through perilous sea, waves of nausea and bad weather I was ashore on the little island of my room, measuring 3 m long and a span of open hands wide. I thought about over survivors, starting from Robinson Crusoe. So I took out everything out of my bag and made a list of it’s contains. In the end of the day, this is a detailed description of who I am, thought I. You kind of can reconstruct a portrait of person by this person’s belongings.

So here it is: a memory about Boris by his bag, and all his belongins in the order of appearence:

a spare pair of socks

phone charger without a phone

1 week old newspaper

Microsoft Publisher CD

5 black and 2 red whiteboard markers

3 fine black markers

a business card

empty file holder

a map of Bangkok with scrabbled over notes

work permit

debit card

a splinter for my broken toe (could manage only half way through 28 days adviced)

skytrain pass

a roll of bandages

set of keys

handful of coins from 3 different countries

old supermarket receipt with those friend’s phone number: throw it away

broken umbrella

another receipt from dry cleaners (keep forgetting to pick up my trousers for nearly a week though pass by twice a day)

old art exhibition flyer

2 books: Michio Kaku’s “Parallel worlds” and “Black book” by Orhan Pamuk

half finished pack of Marlboros

a lighter

2 plastic bags

a lozenge

tobacco bits, bread crumbs, pieces of plastic packaging

yes, and half bottle of whiskey, cigar and a box of matches on the table.

And this is it. A useless collection of things. Nothing catching imagination. Oh, my god…what have I become?

Full period.

Boris Kilsitsin

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