Booba & The Systematic Endurance of Survival
My Grandmother “Booba” is on the left, holding hands with her mother. Both 100 percent Russian, tied to heritage, the Iron Curtain and a climate prone to disease, Alcoholism & corruption. Booba, as you can see, looks like she already has plans of her own, with a glimmer of hope, almost leaning forward away from Mother into a limitless expanse of prosperity and freedom. Their cottage was probably in the middle of a barren wasteland, or in the middle of the pristine undeveloped wildlife of Russia. When I see the show on the Discovery Channel about Wild Russia I think of Booba and all the chapters in her biography that she filled with a reckless childhood abandon, and how she matured into a divine woman, eloquent and distinguished from having been there, in the face of a hundred storms, a thousand days where she watched the sun beams hit a certain part of a rock in her back yard, and how she saw a face of the many dead that lingered on her soil, and maybe one of them took her. The ghost of her dreams, the positive one, who didn’t drink and die but the one who wore his skin to the bones, working in the fields to feed his family. He took her on top of the cloud line, where there were more ghosts and angels, whatever was remembered and revered by Humans was disposed in this junkyard of pink and blue spirits, like a simple pink and blue signifying gender on pillowcases and infantile clothing. There was also an imprint on her DNA that held a formative smile. Unlike other children crying into their pillow and leaving a sad face, Booba had a smile imprint in her DNA which gave her a strength seen only in men during those times. She rose in the morning like an emperor and fell asleep like a diplomat. There were little traces of diamond dust around where she played. She finally moved to America and unleashed her powers. The Karma at that time in America was dark with mafia ties and pimps and hookers strolling around NYC, baiting bystanders with perversion and fear. She walked through with an impenetrable light. She toed her aging mother behind and spoke maniacally about the Beatniks and the Art movement. They settled in Los Angeles where the sun turned Booba’s hair platinum. Booba became the poorest star on Earth and attracted the Buzzhounds, who began following her like Andy Warhol groupies from the Factory. She tied connections and sealed deals without stepping foot in the hierarchical white-collar incest of corporate land. She began to get a warm glow of motherhood yearning and wanted to begin a family. Alas, my mother was born and her sister, and the spirit continues. . .
Copyright 2012. ERIK CHRISTIAN
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