This blog is on the move… ;-)

Dear readers and visitors,

As a part of my eternal struggle to make everything even more confusing and unpredictable than it already is, I decided to move my blog to a new home. Please record the new address and follow me there for more details and hopefully more pleasant blogging experience:

http://www.MyFreeThoughts.com

I’ll see you there. :-)

Blogger bugs...

It seems that blogger has a new (at least to me) bug… It happened a couple of times now. People write a comment and the comment does not appear with the other comments, nor do you get an email notification about it, UNTIL someone posts another comment to the same post later... I don’t know if other people noticed this but it is a very annoying bug because I do rely on my email notifications to know when someone wrote a comment and I almost missed a couple of the comments so far.

Some things are better left unsaid

Alarm. Confusion. Anger. Car.

The rhythm of the music wakes me up. The bass and the drums are giving me the strengths to be. Powerful relentless force from the guitar riffs carries me forward. I am one with the music. I am the music. The music is what keeps me alive right now.

The tires cry for help on the sharp turns. “Help!” they scream, “Heeeeeelp!” The noise of the engine competes with the guitars on the long stretches of the streets. The car is a deadly weapon. It is a metal casket rushing to its final destination. I am the only thing that stands in its way to destruction. I am the only force that makes it move. I am one with my car for that is the only way I can make it through the turns alive.

Is it rain or do I see some snow flakes? I reach out and touch the pavement with my tires. The street feels cold and wet. My rear shoes are very old and worn out, can they handle it? Am I going to slip? I better check my speed.

I am being sucked onto the highway. The fast lane. The streams of dirty water are tearing my face to pieces. I can feel the paint being torn off my sides. It’s hard to see. I wipe my eyes – left, right, left, right, left, right…

The high pitch of the guitars breaks into the routine of the rhythm. I see a battlefield. Black clouds are so heavy they almost touch the valley. Countless bodies pilled up as far as my eyes can see. Spears, swords, banners lie helplessly among those who carried them with pride just some hours ago. Nothing lives here anymore.

The lighting strikes. Its electric snake tears through the heavy air and touches the earth in the middle of the valley. But it doesn’t disappear. Instead it attaches itself to the ground and begins to dance. It is a flower of electricity glowing in the midst of death, destruction and darkness. It twists and turns slowly. It moves its neon arms towards me. It is calling me as it sways back and forth. “Here, here, come here...”. As it turns side to side I feel that every muscle in my body becomes tense. I am in pain. It is pain. I am one with the pain.

The phone vibrates on my side. “Yes. No. Okay. Bye.”

Turn, another turn, I stand on the porch of her house. I can see her through the window. She is sitting by the table. She doesn’t know that I am here. I take a few seconds to look at her face. She has an unusual face. She interests me. She saddens me. I don’t know her at all but I know enough to realize that she and I are alike. I’ve seen her eyes, they tell stories. She might have seen the lightning dancing on the battlefield. She just might have.

But she is not the one I am here to see. I ring the bell. Her friend comes out and we are back in my car.

At first she is quiet. I break the silence. She comes alive showering me with details. I comment, brief disagreement, silence again.

We are in a crowded restaurant. I dislike this place. The bird that made a nest in the letter “b” of their sign is the only life around here...

They brought my coffee. I look at her sitting across the table form me. She is lost in her thoughts. I look into her eyes. I want to tell her that I love her... but I stop.

Love. She hears this word a lot, but does she really know what it means? Is it just a word for her? Is love just a word? Is the meaning, the intensity, of love proportional to the amount of pain one experienced? Isn’t it utterly strange to speak of love in this place?

I close my eyes. My body drifts slowly through the air, forward, towards her. Nothing, not even the table can stop me now. Like a cloud my being surrounds her and I hold her tight in my arms. I don’t need to speak. I don’t need to say a word.

Perhaps some things are better left unsaid...

They say it’s cold today

They say it’s cold today.

Liars.

Oh sure, it looks cold...

It’s grey.

The sky is a muddy milkshake. It is almost entirely uniform with occasional splattering of chocolate Oreos dissolved in its greyishness. It is depressingly dark, yet it is still the brightest object there is, for the light is still able to penetrate it and give us some kind of semblance of daytime. The blue sea of a sunny day is not gone forever, it is just behind the clouds, it is waiting its turn. Tomorrow we might have a day of blue. Today is grey.

It’s windy.

The trees are conducting invisible orchestra with violent movements of their branches. They are waving up and down, hundreds of little green flags in their hands trembling in the wind. Spring leaves act as if there were about to be torn of the branches and carried away. They are young and powerless, yet it is only though them the wind is capable to exercise its full power upon the trees. If it were not for the small green flags the invisible orchestra would fall silent.

It pours.

A little puddle of water in front of my window is peppered with tiny circles that appear and rapidly vanish into nowhere just to be replaced immediately by dozens of others. The surface of the water is the definition of randomness. No being is capable of discerning any recognizable pattern in such a hurricane of succession of shapes. The confusion of unpredictability is shaped entirely by the disturbance of the water. It’s amazing how logically perfect circles wreck such havoc upon the mirror of the puddle.

It is death.

I dial a number. My friend is very upset. His voice is raised, he is angry. He tells me a story of ducks.

Some people came late last night and set some baby ducks free in a little pond next to his place. Little ducks were hiding under the bush most of the night and now they are gone. “It was very cold at night”, he said. “What is wrong with those people?” he asked. He paused for a second and added, “I think the little ducks are dead.”

I look outside of my window, at the sky, at the trees, at the puddle. It’s not a weather for the little ducks to be out there all by themselves. No, definitely not.

“They probably just found a warmer place to hide…” I say into my phone.

I don’t think my friend believes me…

I look outside again. It’s still rains...

They say it’s going to snow tomorrow.

Liars.

I’ll wear my shorts and sandals out...

Two sides of an empty room

I was sitting on the floor and I was drawing a picture of a rose on my big toe. The room was empty and dark and walls were painted in different colors. The wall in front of me was white and the wall behind was black. One on the left side was red and one on the right was blue. Two doors in the room were closed.

The door in the blue wall opened and a green man walked in.

“Hi!” - he said.

I picked my gun up and shot the man.

I almost finished my rose when the door on left opened and a yellow woman came in.

“I’m not really a woman.” - she said.
“I am sorry.” – I answered.
“My nails are fake.” - she said.
“Oh yeah?”
“My mother is a whore.” - she said.
“Hmm…” - I responded.

She made a few steps and stopped in a bloody spot on the floor. She looked somewhere behind me.

“What do you see?” - I asked.
“Red rose.” - she answered.

“Well, let me tell you a story.” - I began. “It happened a long time ago when the moon was full and the earth was wet. The wind was cold and the night was dark. A man was sitting in the room. He was painting a rose on a wall and he was so alone that he painted the rose red. And since then this rose is red on the black wall.”

“Okay.” - she said. “Now it’s my turn to tell a story. It happened just now - about a second ago. I felt something that I’ve never felt before. I think it was love but it has a dark side.

“I painted a rose in my heart so my blood can wash its sadness and loneliness away. But now, I think I’m dead. The rose is sucking my blood away and nothing can break the ties of love inside my heart.”

“Well, let me help you.” - I said. “I know just a thing to help you out.”

And I reached for my gun...

I don’t know why my life is connected to this rose in such a strange way. All I know is that there is no end to the blackness surrounding my rose and there are no edges to the emptiness inside of me. And it means that I’m happy.


------------------------
October 29, 1995

Translated from Russian. Maybe...

Evening by the lake

Evening by the lake

Unitarian Jihad

A friend sent me this link. This is pretty good: Unitarian Jihad

Blog restoration…

Thank you all for sticking around and your support.

I am currently working on trying to restore some of my old posts. I found a way to restore the text of the posts but, unfortunately, I still yet to find a good way to restore the comments. I really want to restore the comments because there were some very good ones in almost every post. Even if I will not be able to do it immediately I will figure it out later.

That should teach me not to delete stuff… Argh… ;-)