Too much ____________________________

A daily journal. Trying to think of something inspiring to post, daily, is taxing. Not in an oppressive way, but in a guilt-inducing way. "You have not posted yet," or "you don't have access to the internet -- how are you going to post!" (which is why I'm missing a day or two of posts) are phrases that nag at me every now and then.

"Maybe you should blog about THIS" is another that pops into my head when something out of the ordinary happens to me.

"Does this rambling mess make sense?" Read on to find out ...

Today was rather ordinary. Today was a day in the life. Today reminds me of Catherine II "The Great" of Russia. Not in any kind of self-aggrandizing megalomaniac sorta' way, but in a kind of deathly way.

Catherine the Great died. We all die -- or will die. It is a part of nature. But not all of us have legendary deaths. Catherine's is legendary.

The seedier side of Russian history is beautifully glossed-over here when you go on tours around Moscow. "The Soviet Union entered World War II in 1941" - after they were party to a non-aggression pact with the Nazis, supplying the Nazis with raw materials before the Nazis decided to double-cross the Soviets and invade (they tend to leave that part out). "Maria Tsvetaeva [a famous Russian poetess] loved her husband very much" -- but had numerous affairs with other famous male and female Russian poets (they tend to leave that part out). "The Soviet Union was anti-Fascist" - under STALIN?!

"Catherine the Great died in bed."

High school history taught me about the rumored death of Catherine -- one that makes Peter Shaffer's Equus look like child's play. Still, Catherine seems like my kind of gal: a tyrant with libertine impulses. Empowered and enlightened, someone who owns her sexuality, someone who imposes -- perhaps too much so. Big characters draw big slanders. The equine rumor that found its way into freshman year World Cultures class may have been only that: a two centuries old character assasination created by her son Paul. Still, it is born of excess: a mother's ego vs. a son's vengeance.

The next "death tale" of Catherine's involves the potty. In the summer of 1997, I decided to read the 864 paged biography: The Romanovs - Autocrats of all the Russias by W. Bruce Lincoln.

http://www.amazon.com/Romanovs-Autocrats-All-Russias/dp/0385279086/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268948521&sr=8-1

It was, and I say this in all sincerity, a great read. In here was relayed the story about Catherine's death: she had a stroke while on the toilet and died two days later (having never regained consciousness). Not exactly a noble way for God's appointed ruler on earth to pass onto the heavenly realm, but it happens (ask Elvis).

While in either situation I am sure that Catherine was brought to a bed (in the case of the first tale, she was most definitely in bed), the details that precipitated the move fascinate me. History fascinates me: it is created by the victors. Check that -- it's created by the **living** victors. So tamed tales and vengeful myths color our understanding. History is perspective.

The past few days, for me, have been filled with classes and theater. Feet in dirty shoes on sooty pavement, tramping up and down the ornate marble staircases of various theaters and Metro stations; this is my history. The past few days have been salaciousness-less. This lack of salacity made me think of Catherine -- via her valet, Khrapovitsky. He kept a diary worthy of Catherine's German heritage: no nonsense, simple details, bland.

When Catherine's former lover, Potemkin -- a man whom she had spurned -- died, this is what Khrapovitsky wrote [as quoted from Lincoln - see above for link to book and copyright information]:

Tears and despair. At 8pm she was bled. At 10pm she was put to bed. Entry for October 12, 1791.

She awoke in grief and tears. Entry for October 13, 1791.

The weeping continues. She said to me: "How can I replace Potemkin? No one can do so. Who would have thought that Chernyshev and other old men would have outlived him? He was a true aristocrat, a wise man. He never tried to sell me to others. No one could buy him. Entry for October 16, 1791.

They're simple details that humanize an inhuman figure. They cut to the truth of the woman, without being colored by horses or toilets. It's intersting writing without being manufactured. I need to take note of Khrapovitsky's style, and rather than fret over writing something entertaining, I should just write. For, as my memory serves, these bland details lead to captivating stories.