Blya-blya-blya

     I could write about my emotions concerning atrocious punctuation in a letter I'd received from our kid's school. Or about women who love to hug you just to force their perfume memory on you for the beginning of eternity. And I always want to write about egos - someone else's, of course, how unconscious they all are. Flies and mosquitoes are another unnerving topic, as I stare at my own annoyance, battling mental exhaustion. But would any of it do any good? And what kind of a question is that in the first place?
     Do you want to do good? What do you want to do with your life? Are you going to have regrets about doing nothing at the curtain's draw? What is a regret, where is its source? It is easier to forgive or erase from memory? If I simply watch my thoughts and patterns, I am being proactive? In other words, am I evolving? What does that even mean? Why I am dissatisfied with all aspects of my life at the moment? What is all this mush in my head? Why can't I seem to find a jiffy to breathe and clear, to see myself, to be myself?
     Every day I am bombarded by opinions not my own. Like advertisements, without my permission, bits of information rip through my material life and imbed themselves, tick-like, in my sluggish body. What do I want?! Where do I stand? I want to scream, to push, explode, tear, bleed, dance with chaos, destroy. And then I want to calm and create anew. From scratch. Like a Goddess. A Big Bang.

Cet enfant ne sait pas tenir sa langue.

     Когда-то давно, во времена первых пятниц, я познакомилась с мужчиной, который представился мне учителем. "Учителем чего?" - спросила я. "Я преподаю враньё", - ответил он. Я тогда усмехнулась над этой оригинальностью, мне просто было нечего на это сказать. А он пояснил, "Я - учитель истории."
     Это правда - нашу историю стирали, переписывали, сжигали и уничтожали, перевирали, скрывали, за неё платили и умирали, в неё не верили в конце-концов. И не только в прошедшем времени. Многое утеряно, особенно всё волшебство. Но утеряно временно, просто этим никто не интересуется. Не важно. Интересно то, что всплывают моменты ясности. Есть у нас выражение "Держать язык за зубами". Всё просто, чего объяснять. А несколько лет назад я узнала, что есть в йоге такая техника накопления энергии - именно держать язык за зубами! Не буду наскучивать подробностями самого процесса, но я уверена, что на Руси о такой технике знали и ею пользовались! И выражение это не просто говорит об утечке энергии, а напоминает как раз о неё накоплении!
     Да так, просто кусочек волшебства. Кому интересно, тот раскроет суть.  

GOD

     She searched everywhere, until finally stumbling upon pink-stone ruins in some unknown city, where small animals (hedgehogs?) took her by her hands, her sides, her legs. They led her up a pink side, and as they walked the stone changed in front of them, like a kaleidoscope, like a dream, a dimension different. Inside, he was sitting at a table, writing and having a cup of, maybe coffee? He was surprised, asking why she keeps finding him. The floor under her feet started to fall away; he was disappearing again ... this was a chance to say something, to stay, to change everything. The door to this world kept closing. He said, "I'm not the one, I only saw you once, brushed against you, you're a girl, don't look for me". The floor was losing color. She was just a girl. And before everything was gone again, she screamed, "I love you!"

Fimbriae of a fallopian tube under microscope. Credit, anyone?

What's inside of you?

     Trash. Had a visit to the "dump" recently, or Landfill, as it's called. Awful experience. Depressing. Who had the idea to excavate the earth and fill it with human-made waste materials is unknown to me. The idea was terrible, but it's still in use every day, all over the world. In some places, the ideas are worse. There are satellites orbiting planets of this galaxy, yet human trash is a problem unresolved. Crappy ideas are all around you, just notice.
     Every human death I celebrate as less trash in the landfill. Famous or not, from this day on I celebrate people dying.

Не попса, наконец-то

Шалостью бризовой,
Шелестью рисовой
Поговори со мной,
Поговори со мной,
Солнечной, лиственной
Вязью осмысленной
Ну поделись со мной
Тяжкими мыслями,
Темными думами,
Мрачной кручиною
Слушать угрюмыми
Соснами чинными
Буду как рай земной
Под кипарисами
Поумирай со мной,
Поговори со мной,
Слезы повылей чуть -
Я ведь как оттепель,
Я тебя вылечу,
Станет легко тебе,
Будто бы сызнова
Встанешь из пламени,
Только держись меня,
Не оставляй меня.
А коль решишь уйти,
Вот те пророчество
Будешь искать пути,
Да не воротишься.