Summertime records. Untitled album.

I’m walking the streets I don’t have memories of. There is only here and now. No expectations, no regrets. It feels like freedom.

Sur les pages lues

Sur toutes les pages blanches

Pierre sang papier ou cendre

J’écris ton nom

Paul Eluard, Liberté

Belle Dommage, Photo by the author, Helen Vechurko

Tape 1, Side A

Checking the mailbox became my recent times' obsession. If someone ever told me, I would be checking these graves to pizza discounts and political brochures every time I go out, I would laugh in his face.

There was nothing exciting about this ancestor of an email unless a few years back directing professor asked us to pass the scripts via his mailbox. He was in his mid-70s. A monument to Soviet cinema living in the monument of Ukrainian regal architecture. I still remember that shaky feeling walking through the hallway of the 19th-century building to feed my struggled scribble to the slit mouth of a green box.

Then I moved to Lisbon. No one to send me a postcard signed with “P.S. I love u.” How little I knew of what can touch one’s heart. The first envelope with my name contained my social security number. I didn’t expect a legal letter could make you that happy. It felt better than finding coins between perfumed…