the narva greenland summit

I WAS DISPATCHED to cover the Greenland Summit, which would take place in Narva, Estonia, of all places. Delegates from the Kingdom of Denmark, the autonomous territory of Kalaallit Nunaat, the Republic of Estonia, and the United States of America were to descend on the old castle of Narva to feel each other out. At the last moment, it was announced that Vice President Vance would also be joining the Narva Greenland Summit. I drove up there through the pines of Ida-Virumaa and parked my car at the foot of the ancient fortifications.

But it was here that I encountered Els Stenbock, the poetess and repeat winner of the annual Lydia Koidula Prize, as well as the recipient of much Estonian Cultural Capital largess. She was sprawled out on a knit blanket in the snow by the castle, eating an apple and reading a book, clad in a light blue summer’s dress. “Oh,” she said, cocking an eye at me. Her amber hair was braided and her fair skin shined like the snow. The cold wind lifted her dress. How she wasn’t cold when yr.no, the Norwegian meteorological website, had predicted temperatures of -15 degrees Celsius was hard to understand, but she looked as lustrous as a patch of summer sunflowers. “Come here,” Els Stenbock said. “Let’s read some of Koidula’s poetry together.”

Soon we were kissing, long, sumptuous, lingering kisses. I had forgotten all about Lars Løkke Rasmussen, Marco Rubio, and JD Vance. But Els Stenbock was not satisfied with me. “Next time we meet in Narva, you should really wear some clean socks,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I would wind up kissing the best poetess in Estonia today.” “Mmm,” she said. “But your socks should always be clean, just in case you do.” Didn’t she have a husband? Or at least a domestic partner? But these Estonian women, they knew no loyalties. They were only loyal to their present whims, how they felt at that moment. She felt like this. “Kiss me more,” Els whispered. Her light blue eyes attained a kind of supernatural effect. “More, more, more.”

Supposedly there was also a farmer’s market taking place in Narva, to coincide with the Narva Greenland Summit. But I could not find it. I walked along the river later and turned up a road, but when I got there, I only found dilapidated farmhouses and it was getting dark already. This area by the river scared me, not because of the risk of being kidnapped by marauding Russians, but because it supposedly was stalked by a werewolf of some kind, which had devoured several pedestrians. Up the hill, I saw some lights by the old Lutheran church, and headed up that way, expecting to find the market. Maybe they were also selling Narva Greenland Summit merch? But when I got to the church, it was empty and there was no one there at all. There I stood, watching the flakes tumble down. Slowly, slowly the snowflakes fell into winter bleakness.

At the foot of Narva Castle, Els Stenbock was still waiting patiently on her blanket. She had a little picnic basket with her. Some Russians or Ukrainians were milling around nearby, and so I went over to them and asked about the Narva Greenland Summit farmer’s market. To my surprise, they responded in Estonian, but said it was being held in an adjacent town. Maybe Narva-Jõesuu. I returned to the poetess and lied beside her. “Is it true that you got all of last year’s cultural capital budget?” I asked. “To publish 10 volumes of poetry?” Els looked up at me with her hungry blue werewolf eyes and said, “Shut up and kiss me, lollpea. More, more, more.”

a seat at the table

I HAD A SEAT at the table, but what a table! It was a long, wooden table with smooth surfaces that were almost soft to the touch, unvarnished, the kind of table you might see as the centerpiece in a spread in the Country Living magazine. It was also unusually tall, standing two or three storeys high, at the least. The legs of our chairs also reached down the height of the table, so that if I looked to my side, I could see tiny pedestrians going about their affairs, women walking dogs, boys on bikes, delivery cars arriving. Was that Manhattan down there?

At this table in the sky, there was a kind of supernatural service. A server set down a drink in front of Kerouac. He examined its contents, taking a moment to admire the way the light split and dissolved into it and then breathing in its sumptuous and potent vapors, as if it was a medicinal or even spiritual elixir. Kerouac was wearing a blue suit, which seemed unusual for him, and he had a few white hairs climbing up his sideburns. His brown greasy hair was combed up at the top, and he looked a bit worn, a bit frayed. Kerouac beheld his chosen spirit again and then in an instant, drank the first third of it from the glass. “Ah,” he said. “Ah ah ah.”

To his left sat Riken, the lanky Japanese mountaineer, in full hiking gear. He held some papers in his hand, A7 layout, with neat rows of black printed text, Times New Roman. The title at the top of one of these pages read, “The Adventure of the Snake.” He said, “I’m not sure what I think of it. I’d give it maybe a 3 out of 10. Or maybe a 3.5 on a good day. Three point three? Somewhere in the low threes.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you what I think of it,” Kerouac grumbled. “I think it’s total crap.” “But I was inspired by you, Jack,” I protested. “I’m trying to emulate you.” Kerouac drank down the second third of the drink with a gulp. “Well, kid,” he said. “You could do a better job. You’re not really devoted to your writing. Allen,” he addressed a third man, who was lying across the table on his back, staring up at the sunlight. “What do you think? Allen?”

“What?” Ginsberg turned over on his side, and it was young Ginsberg, with the hair and the oversized glasses that made his eyes look two sizes larger than they really were. “I’m sorry, I was just talking to William Blake,” he said. “Allen, what did you think of his stories?” Kerouac said. “Oh, I loved them, they were fantastic!” “Thank you,” I told Ginsberg. “Actually, I think I was more inspired by you when I was writing them. Surely you can see echoes of Howl in my writing. ‘I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness.'” “Starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,” Ginsberg went on. “See, Jack, the kid was inspired by me and not by you, by me, not you!” “Your messianic robes don’t suit me,” he said. “What do you say, tomodachi?” Kerouac asked of Riken. His arms were crossed now in deliberation. His craggy, weather-beaten face bore a pensive expression. “I still say 3.3,” he said. Kerouac turned back to me. “See,” he said with a grin and a shrug. “See! Listen to the man.” Then he lifted his glass and drank the final third.

i’m not afraid of fires

THEY TROOPED IN from a party and one of them was just perfect, fuzzy-haired and round, just like a fire spark. I still don’t know her name or who she was, and maybe there’s no reason to. She was probably a nobody with a nothing story. But maybe that was just me trying to write her out of my mind. Maybe she was the most vivid fire starter of all. I’m not afraid to get burned anymore, you know. I’ve got those sous-chef hands. I’m not afraid of fires. I like mine hot. I want my fires hot just like her, plump and flickering, orange, red, yellow and warm, rimmed with gold, and blue at the core, with eyes the same color that wink back to you just like a blueburst flame. Every oscillation is another step out of cold dark winter’s heartache.