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Roerich

I went to the Roerich museum in Moscow
Inside a big yellow cupcake mansion across from Gorky Park
I walked around in there for hours
I had always loved the landscapes he painted 
so bright and uplifting and simple
He painted Altai and Tibet and Arizona
On a grand caravan trek across Central Asia 
He was an explorer and a painter who brought his family along on his journeys
He was also a mystic and the head of a humanist spiritual movement for World Peace
The part of the museum dedicated to world peace and spaceship humanity
Was so sad
Because it contained the hopes of that broken dream 


The countries he and his family trekked through
were in a fix in the 1920s and 30s
Deciding to stand for independence or have limited autonomy as Soviet satellites
Stalin was the head of nationalities before he became general secretary
He was a swarthy man from the periphery who spoke Russian with a thick accent
But made himself the most indispensable bureacrat in the metropole
Like a Puerto Rican becoming Secretary of State
He had thought about and lived this question more than anyone

Walking around Gorky Park I wondered what the Chekhists and Comintern people 
Thought of the Roerich family
They had a lot of agents mucking around in China and Mongolia and Tibet
Trying to tamp down on the independence movements
Which whatever their true aims were perceived as icebreakers for the imperialists and white guard

Gorky park was filled with hipsters and families with strollers
And among all the old Soviet statue heads
An agitated looking Russian woman came up to me and asked where’s Stalin?
I said huh?
She said where’s Stalin, in English
I said I hadn’t seen him but I was looking for him too

In New York years later, I was walking uptown and the sun was shining but feeling a little blue
I went up to the Roerich museum 
It was in an old mansion by the Hudson River
I recognized the flag with the three dots wafting outside the building
Flag of his world peace and love movement
You have to get buzzed in but its free to visit

Maybe it was being in a creaky 19th century wooden house
But the pure landscape paintings there are even more stunning and beautiful
Just mountains and light
Or shards of ice with ice wind blowing through
Churning and elemental

I skipped all the ones about religion and prophets and the Middle Ages because they looked like fantasy nerd fan art
There was one of Madame Roerich I had never seen before
She looked like a very interesting and warm person
A Russian woman on the top floor was filming a documentary and asked if I wanted to be in it
I said no
I have a lopsided face and don't like being on camera

Stalin had a withered arm
And a bad limp
And a face cratered by childhood smallpox
But didn’t mind being on filmreels
And loved when handsome actors played him in the movies
But he wrote himself out of the history books  
I've read biographies by Stephen Kotkin and Robert Tucker and Trotsky 
They called him the Russian sphinx, his true character still remains elusive 

Me and the filmmaker talked for a while
She said Roerichs trips were sponsored by the United States and England
I had always thought he had the backing of the Soviets somehow
Why would they let him and his group go otherwise?
They could just be imperialist spies
Disguising themselves as mystics and artists and travellers
She said no
He was hated deeply hated and blacklisted until 1990
Her Russian assistant listening chimed in no
“Khruschev had a good relationship with his son so he came off the blacklist and was permitted during the thaw. But Brehznev put him back on.”
“Yeah, Brehznev put him back on the list,” she nodded

I walked around looking at the beautiful paintings another half hour 
The sun was setting when I let myself out the big wooden door
I had no one to meet and nowhere to be
I didn’t feel good but at least when I closed my eyes I saw those beautiful colorful landscapes, 
and I thought about his two year journeys across the steppes
Who they must have met what they ate 
the loneliness the strange food the smell of all those fires 
and all the Central Asian herdspeople in the midst being Sovietized

Generation

He took a job at Mashable. She got a book deal from her blog. He stopped playing in his band and got a masters degree in Philosophy, and is now an adjunct professor. She’s a bartender. He works in food service. He works at a hip used bookstore. She set up an unemployment march and was so well connected that it turned into a job fair—everyone got hired at places like The Center For American Progress and The Nation. He got married to a pretty girl with lots of tattoos and moved back to Little Rock and had a baby and the last time I saw him he was working in one of those fake open air markets that try to be like the Paris Arcades, organic food shopping for bourgeois people. She works as a second grade teacher. She works in the field of public health. He kept doing a zine and eventually alienated all his old friends. She moved to Murfreesboro and bought herself a cute little house and is working on becoming a midwife. They’re still straightedge and still living in a crummy punk house. His band is doing really well and he travels the world and is about to get married. She’s still playing in her high school punk band and inherited a bunch of money and is a self-satisfied anarchist. He stopped making his zine and now he’s a really great union organizer. He went back to school to get his Masters degree in Economics. She moved to Louisville and manages a restaurant. He died of an overdose. She took a job as an anti-war organizer and still goes to queer dance parties on the weekends. He had a baby and works part-time at the library now. His book flopped and he moved to New Orleans and I think he’s a DJ now. She closed down her feminist zine distro. She became a commercial artist. He got Crohn’s disease and spent a lot of time on Internet message boards. He killed himself. He’s dead from an overdose. He wrote an essay against Vice and later started writing articles for Vice. He kept putting out books on a small indie publisher and self-promoting and no one cares. She is still on unemployment, still hanging out and dating a number of dudes at the same time. He quit his band and moved out to work on an animal sanctuary. He went crazy and moved to a commune up in Vermont. She used her brother’s fame as a springboard to her own fame. He blew his inheritance on a record label. She’s not playing in any bands right now but people say she had a baby and is doing really well. 

CDG

Paris airport at dawn. Somehow possible due to the cloudy morning light and the forests at the edge of the Tarmac, Paris feels more American than Chicago. People smile at me, perhaps because it’s morning time and beautiful. The customs official, the guys at the magazine stand. I like it here but immediately realize how expensive it will be with my weak American dollar. I jump the 8 Euro train fare, nearly sixteen dollars American. On the platform, the European automated noises and recorded warnings sound much more menacing and futuristic than their American counterparts, like something out of an X-files episode. The buzzer that announces my trains departure sounds like a fire alarm going off. When the train comes out from the clean tunnels, a landscape of gray flat buildings, sanitized and cleanly, like Washington, DC. Strange because Washington, DC was built and planned on Paris. France as a country with an individual identity is gone; replaced by big empty fields and silent, sleek Eurotrains, periodic gas stations that look like something out of Back to the Future and shiny unmarked buildings, just a state in this united EU of the future; one united currency, one bland technocratic appearance. Not at all the Paris of the American imagination—the Moulin Rouge and Montmare that lifestyle tourists seek in cheesy, expensive cafes and tourist shops now, can only be found in dingy hidden squats now.