I have a full-time job along with a couple of minor freelance gigs on and off again. It is also autumn. The weather is cooler, the nights are a bit longer, and pumpkin spice lattes are back in coffee shops everywhere. This also means that after the doldrums of summer, when it is far too hot and unbearable humid outside and my brain takes a vacation from that whole creative sort of lifestyle I lead, my creative side is on overdrive. Work is the same way, with all sorts of little things popping up to devour my evenings after I get home.
This might not have been the best time to dive into a masterpiece of Stalinist-era, satirical Soviet surrealism. I mean, I’m having a hard enough time keeping up with myself, forget what Ivan, Margarita, and all the other madcap characters in Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita are doing these days.
I’m sure that if I were better versed in Soviet history, more of the satire would be apparent to me, but I’m muddling by with what I know. It’s a little like when my etymologist friend strikes up a conversation about the intricacies of honeybee behavior. The only reason I can at all keep up with her is due to my high school biology class. I miss half of what she says, but I get the overall gist of the matter.
Likewise, I’ll keep muddling through the Bolgakov and hope I can keep up with the myriad of unfamiliar names and nicknames and lost track of the narrative thread until I can somehow collide with the conclusion.
And if I send a telegraph from Yalta, please do not assume that I have lost it completely. There is sure to be a highly irrational explanation for it that is entirely true.