August 27, 2009
View through uneven glass, past wasp husks pasted to the render, a hanging vine of electrical cable, to a lightening sky, rain easing. Shushi sounds like rain dripping onto tin, a sluggish rooster, a Lada door creaking open and clunking closed then its thin, trusty motor catching, rising, carrying, and gone. Behind the hotel, apartment blocks, five stories, charmless and dilapidated with hopeful laundry flags on balconies and pegged to long strings that connect the buildings like tendrils. One block is mostly abandoned – one apartment glows sprucely, sadly, from its crumbling façade. In the foreground, stepped, untended garden beds tangled with wildflowers and weeds, chickens scratch around a broken bathtub, twists of rusted metal, a playground with cheerfully painted metal equipment sprouting from gravel. And now as the rain stops, people emerge: a soldier, a man in jeans kicking stones, two men building a stone wall that imperfectly separates nothing from not much else. The air is cool and, later, we will see a perfect unbroken rainbow beyond a church beyond a wrecked car beyond a scrambled verge, beyond.