The deepest metro on earth, tea at minus three on Khreshchatyk, the Lavra before the tour buses. I came back in 2026 with a disk in my bag and stood in the museum room where the machines of its generation still run. Kyiv is the city where my two obsessions, the archives and the machines, turn out to be one thing.
23 entries, newest first.
· Launch day for Ternary Dreams: what the work asked, what I am proud of, and quiet thanks to the early readers who went first.
· In two weeks Ternary Dreams meets the world. The first time the title and a real date sit together on this blog.
· Late structural revision at the kitchen table: a notebook of ternary-logic diagrams, and the click when the book's three-way spine finally behaves.
· Home in Bishkek, ten days of notes spread across the table, and the slow turn from travel toward a long essay on Ternary Dreams’ real roots.
· The last afternoon in Kyiv, a machine that reads magnetism instead of files, and one multiplication I did twice because I did not believe it.
· I went early, before the school groups, and I had it in my bag the whole morning. This is the part of that day I did not publish.
· Hlushkov has a grave with a named sculptor and a named architect. The three women I came to ask about have nothing anybody at the gate could point to.
· A morning among Kyiv’s early computers, and the odd work of researching the real history once the novel is out of my hands.
· A park from opening to closing, a wall beside a convent, and one name on a plaque where three people built the first machine.
· Arriving by rail via Warsaw for Ternary Dreams research: Feofaniya's quiet, metro air alerts, and respect that refuses to turn a living city into backdrop.
· On researching Kyiv’s Feofanija district as a frame setting, and why a live war can never be treated as scenery.
· Early research notes on a new novel about Soviet computing, balanced ternary logic, and why a third state beyond yes and no feels like the right shape for hidden lives.
· A small golden dome against the black Dnipro, and the last quiet evening before the trip north.
· A microphone with a famous cube on it, one question about why I came, and the strange mirror of being the story.
· A blue gown, a ladle, and an hour of service in the tradition that fed a revolution.
· A seat offered at the memorial camp, a young woman wrapped in a flag, and warmth as the oldest form of welcome.
· December nights on the Maidan: veterans rebuild the camp in miniature, and the fires in the barrels are lit again.
· Maidan at night from the upper terrace: the stella, the lights, and a square that is never only a square.
· Golden domes under snow before the tour buses, and a monastery that has outlasted every catastrophe on its doorstep.
· A plastic cup on Khreshchatyk, steam against the cold, and street tea as municipal infrastructure.
· Kyi, Shchek, Khoryv and their sister in a December whiteout, and a city calmly older than every empire that claimed it.
· Arrival in Kyiv: the deepest metro on earth, marble and chandeliers, and a crowd that carries you like a current.