I am a bit nostalgic. Remembered Glasgow, and how I wrote essays. Remembered its ascetism. Library. My hostel room. Computers, books. Simple, clear. Tea with milk to hush hunger. The smell of books in the library. The deep fog which fell when I was reading for Growth Accounting essay. I went to the library in fog, sat there and downloaded articles in fog, went back home in fog.

And best of all was sitting on the grass, on the hills, looking at the clouds, in September.

Generally, looking at the clouds. They run so fast on the Island. Just like here.

Sitting with my back to the office, the only person I can see is Vika. Her desk is opposite mine. Right now, I know, she’s working hard, as always. She’s working at something as exciting as I’m working at. I know she’s got a headache just like me. I am seriously thinking whether I should quit the job before I’ve turned into a parsnip.

If I turn slightly to the left, then I can see Genia. He’s a tall guy in glasses. He wears a pony-tail. He looks like an IT-guy, but he’s not. He makes me laugh a lot. He has a white toy mouse in his hands and is clutching it while talking on the phone to some nuclear energy engineers in Moscow or elsewhere about the volumes of subcontracting for 2009. We reported how much project documentation we are going to buy from them, and they reported how much they are going to sell us, to our parent company. Very unsurprisingly, the figures drastically varied.

Oh, by the way, I went to Moldova last weekend! It was cool! There was a nice crowd of people, and I had a great catch-up with Violeta. Chishinau is a quiet town, filled with golden-leafed trees which smell awesome: a fresh, sweet, smoky autumn smell. I had the tastiest wine in my life at a Moldovan home.

A bank swallowed my card because it had a chip (!). They say it’s a usual thing in Moldova. Thanks God the next day with the help of Violeta I managed to get them fish it out.

It’s midnight on a Friday, and I’ve just listened to Asatoma approximately 18 times. I thought that amrtam(immortality) sounds suspiciously similar to Amritsar, and Rishab texted me a minute ago that Amritsar means the lake of immortality. Amazing. For that matter, mrtyor (death) obviously shares the root with the Russian word myortvyi, or smyert (dead, death). And tamaso (darkness) in Russian is tjma. A linguist in me is dying, but blissful.

Incidentally, I went to India. It’s been three weeks since I’m back, two of which I was ill. All sorts of maladies. It has less to do with India, I believe, than with the terrible unwillingness to work.

I don’t know what to say about India. Rishab was urging me to write a travelog, but I don’t want to. I went to Delhi, Bangalore, Mysore, and Goa. And it’s more or less the same to me. I cannot separate India from Rishab. It’s more or less the same.

I went to India, and it was a journey of love.

India, like Russia, is a country of paradoxes. Like Russia, extremely poor and extremely rich. Unlike Russia, awake and aware.

Very vibrant.

I can’t believe I’m saying all these banalities!!

It’s impossible to go to India and then avoid being banal.

Unlike Russia, very alive.

Goa was lush. It had red soil, white houses and obscenely emerald greenery. Horrifyingly fertile. We went on a scooter across the fields, and the palm-trees rushed by on both sides. At first I was terrified to go on that scooter, but then I got used to it. I wore a blue dress which flew in the wind, and imagined I was a princess. So in a way it was also a journey of trust.

Travelled non-stop. Ate things, touched things, walked on things I thought I would never dare to eat, touch or walk on. Barefoot. In Goa, I stood in the sea and remembered the line from Placebo: It’s time to ask the sea for answers. I pleaded with the sea to change me. I desire to change.

…

(Listened to a fragment of Aapki nazron ne samjhaapproximately 9 times. I found it on a magical promotional CD Bhav game me ages ago, called Lola’s world.)

…

I think best of all I loved Agra fort in the rain. Walking in the puddles on the white marble floor. They were so warm, much wamer than my feet, taking the warmth from the stone and giving it to me. As much as I loved putting my arms around Rishab when we went on the motorbike. Trusting that in this craziness and turmoil nothing bad will happen to us, and we’ll come out intact.

Is it the world or my temperament? I constantly feel the craziness and turmoil around me, even when I sit safely in my kitchen and type. Maybe it’s a good idea to sing Asatoma for the 19th time…

Perhaps it will give me hope that in the turmoil nothing bad will happen to us, and we will come out intact, and carry out the light, flickering fervently.

At work. Eating chocolate in industrial quantities (the first time since the summer of 2005 when at Caux, Switzerland, I ate too much). Drinking green tea with a funny taste (we buy mineral water in big bottles, and green tea made with mineral water tastes very funny).

Still at work, though it’s 7.22 p.m. (working hours are till 6). Am I needed here? Am I doing anything useful? No. I’m sitting on my table and typing, because I’m bored out of my mind. There are people from financial department and one of my numerous bosses at the next table, loudly discussing figures and who will have to come to work tomorrow (Saturday).

I went to India, came back and fell ill. It’s been two weeks.

Sigur Ros were beautiful. There were such beautiful lanterns, like huge paper balloons… And they flickered… And I closed my eyes.

I have and I will continue to celebrate various half-anniversaries. Half a year since I left Glasgow. Half a year since I came to St.Petersburg, half a year since I started to work. Soon will be half a year since I started to live in this flat.

How is it?

What have I left behind? I left something that I have an enormous passion for. Perhaps, it’s love? Because if I was simply passionate, I would perhaps find myself unable to leave. And perhaps unable to resist the temptation to get a Fresh Talent visa and go back. But I start doubting I will. I doubt I’m coming back next spring. And yet I cry. I cry when I read the descriptions of mists, rains and fogs. I’ve been reading ‘The Rain Before it Falls’ by Jonathan Coe. He writes about a cup of tea in the frozen hands of someone who finds herself at the top floor of a Victorian house in London. He writes about hills, delicate and reserved, like England itself. I recognise the Island in his writing, and I recognise it on the shelves of a supermarket. The echinacea tea I used to buy in Glasgow, the tiny fairy-like armies of Walkers, Twinings, Whittards. If I close my eyes in a shopping mall, I can imagine myself in the central street of any British town – such is the work of Lush. Same as the drizzle. It’s relatively rare, but sometimes when I go out of my door in the morning, the drizzle settles on my skin, my coat, in just the same way. Only on the Island I cherished every minuscule drop. And here, the water comes cheap to me. The rotten channels, and the same water runs from under the tap. No water will have the same magical impact on me. The Island’s water keeps running in me. When I cry, it runs out of my eyes. I drank so much of that water. I consist of it ; 90… how many percent? of me consists of that water.

Actually, pregnant thought. If 90… something percent of our body consists of the water we drink, do we actually… I think I do. When I come to the Island I simply BECOME it. It’s actually the argument we had with R. He says, people make the land. I say, land makes the people. And I am so damn sure I’m right. There are books written on it. It’s not something I made up to justify myself.

The mists and fogs, the eternal chill and hot tea. The smoothness, living with my eyes closed, the beautiful sleepwalking. Svefn-g-englum – that’s what I left behind. A sleepwalking land, a Hopeland, to continue this Sigur Ros theme.

Behind? I don’t know. Do we ever leave anything behind? I think yes, if we really chose to.

I don’t think I’ll go back to Britain next spring.

How does this sound? It sounds heavy, like an echo of an avalanche.

But do I need to go back? I’m there. Sleepwalking. Split my body and soul. I said to R. that a half of my heart belongs to the Island, and the other half to the rest of the world.

Well, geographically at least.

So what do I have in front of me and right now? Apart from the canals and the stinky water. I have God and his or her mercy, every day, in enormous amounts. Beautiful encounters and fascinating gifts. As much I’m trying to shut myself from the rest of the world, I, as always, never succeed fully, thanks God.

The city is just as beautiful as it is rotten and dilapidated. This stamp of decay and melancholy; I love it to bits. These sudden fits of generosity: the sun, the unbelievably blue water of the river and the canals. The gentle and delicate flow of life, the foreign languages in the streets.

I got a ticket to see Sigur Ros live in 15 days. I got a flat in the very city-centre, 10 minutes walk from work. Every day I go out from under the arch of the yard, and there’s the Sigur Ros poster outside the arch, on the left, on the wall. I smile.

I’m finding it hard to live every day as if it was my last night on Earth. It’s mainly because I dislike my job. This is a very sad thing. I don’t recommend anyone a job which they don’t like. I’ll use the words of Steve Jobs. Stay hungry, stay foolish. Keep looking, until you find. I swear to myself I’ll quit in March, but I’m not even sure 4.5 more months (taking into account all the paid holidays I’m going to take) are justified. I simply go on, because I don’t know what my next step will be. I don’t feel ready for it.

There is no higher delight than, with Sigur Ros in my headphones, walking fast through some construction-caused tunnel made of concrete blocks, brush the tips of my fingers against the black-and-white Sigur Ros posters. The ticket in my drawer. It’s 26 August 2008.

They gave me the visa, and I went to Sweden. It was a retreat with IofC people on Gotland, near Visby. I finally enjoyed my long-desired Scandinavia. And once I lay on the ground. I was alone in the field, and I was very scared to lie down, I don’t know why! I made myself lie down on the ground, and listen to the ground. The grass was cut, and it felt as if I was lying on somebody’s shaved head. Very strange. Cold and moist a bit. I think I was scared of the enormous energy that was coming from the earth. I hoped it would give me strength, and hoped it would tell me who I am. But it gave me more questions than answers.

Long live procrastination!

I’m in the office. My window faces (guess what?) a typical Peter-ish ‘well-yard’. But: I can see a patch of sky, quite decent size. It is beauuuuuuuuuutifully blue, and there are clouds. I don’t know why, but they look very, very special today. Last night was a terrible thunder-storm. I even got up, crawled over Katja sleeping on the other edge of the bed, and went to close the windows in the kitchen. It sounded so threatening! And today the clouds look gorgeous. They are so white that they seem  to shine with golden light, and they sail very, very fast. Wonderful clouds! I could sit for hours watching them.

I enjoy Peter more and more. I’m almost at the point of starting to love it… Will I be able to love it?

I went to the Swedish embassy today, and they didn’t take the fee from me, wow. Hope they’ll give me the visa.