— This writer lived here? He’s everywhere. — You bet. Hiding from the American authorities. — What did he do? — Accidentally shot his wife in the head. — How do you accidentally do that?! — Playing William Tell. Aimed for the apple, missed. — You really know how to find places. We’ve checked into Burroughs’s old motel. The room looks like nothing’s changed since the fifties — his portrait on the wall, a wardrobe, a sink. Downstairs there’s the Tangerine bar, bass thumping up through the floor. It’s one a.m. I’m lying here, looking at the moon through the window, thinking: I always get what I want. One way or another.

Some families meet in the kitchen over tea. Ours has a slightly different geography. My mom and I live in different countries, and to see each other we have to pick a third place. Ideally — somewhere with as few triggers as possible and plenty of novelty. Last time it was the Camino de Santiago. Two weeks of rain, wet boots, heavy backpacks. But we made it. Not without mishaps, but we got there. This time it's Morocco. I'm flying from Porto, my mom from St. Petersburg. We're meeting in Tangier and figuring out the route as we go along. We'll see how it unfolds. But the fact that we keep trying — that's already something. upd: Right now I'm at the Tangier train station, waiting for her train from Casablanca.

There’s a mode where everything is about achievements and goals. And there’s another one — let’s call it the “Portuguese way” — where you simply let go. Not giving up, just releasing the need to hold on. That’s where I am now — as if I’ve dropped a backpack full of stones I’d been carrying for no real reason. In this mode there’s no “must”, only “want”. You read, watch films, dive into whatever sparks curiosity, write music for the first time, learn a language simply because it’s interesting. You map out trips you’ll take light. The world stops being a ladder to climb and becomes an open field — you walk, and under your feet there’s grass, stones, dust. You’re not rushing anywhere, yet you still end up somewhere. Because the important part isn’t the end point — it’s the journey itself. No strain, no perpetual race against time. Everything is already here.

Upon returning to Portugal, even after a short time away, I immediately notice how my view of the place I live in has shifted. The same river, the same streets, the same coffee, the same ocean — yet everything feels different. As if something had shifted within me in those few days. It’s a reminder, every time, that we never see the world as it is — we see it as we are. And the “I” is anything but constant. As we get older, it’s not that we become wiser; we simply change our lens. At twenty-one, it feels like you finally understand things as they truly are. At twenty-eight, you realize that was only one of many temporary insights. Those fabled seven-year cycles aren’t a straight line of growing up but a spiral: you move forward, yet each turn reveals a new layer of illusion. Someone who thinks at thirty-five, “now I really see it all,” simply hasn’t reached the next bend. And when you finally grasp the depth of your former blindness, that’s the surest sign that you’re still blind — just to other things. You always look from a single vantage point and mistake it for the only truth. #Porto #Portugal

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Снег лежит земля бежит

Dmitry Berkut · Введенский · Song · 2025

A trip-hop track I wrote to the poetry of Alexander Vvedensky, a Russian poet of the Silver Age who was killed by the Soviet authorities.

Туманный Порту похож на призрак. Улочки спускаются к Дору, и в молочном свете выцветшие стены выглядят словно акварель. Кажется, дождь смоет её в любую минуту. Идёшь по мостовой так, будто шагами пересекаешь слои времени. Никаких туристов — только местная жизнь, проступающая сквозь туман: дед, скручивающий самокрутку на крыльце, запах влажного камня, одинокий трамвай, возникающий из ниоткуда и тут же исчезающий. Такое блуждание похоже на медитацию. Туман убирает всё лишнее, оставляя детали: изгиб лестницы, отсвет в луже, тень за шторой. В эти минуты город говорит не словами, а намёками — запахом, влажным воздухом, мелкими жестами. И ты понимаешь, что Порту открывается только тем, кто готов немного потеряться в его утре.

мой новый трек

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Когда я вырасту - Single by Dmitry Berkut | Spotify

Dmitry Berkut · single · 2025 · 1 songs

Просто утро. Не хорошее, не плохое. Обычный день. Такие, без лишнего смысла — самые настоящие. Они не пытаются быть чем-то. Просто дождь, просто чашка кофе, просто португальская речь фоном. Иногда календарь выдаёт нейтральный сюжет. День без эпитетов, без оценки. Пространство, которое можно заполнить чем угодно — или ничем. Такие дни напоминают, что жизнь — не только события, но и паузы между ними. В этих паузах и начинаешь слышать самого себя.