parallels and juxtapositions

what shall i name you? ever have you been close by. in the sky, and in soil, in parched sod and in mud, over the treetops and by the roots and fallen leaves, and yea, even in the season of spring when all is reborn, have i felt your breath. you have taught me patience,…

healing

well, i had another epic tumble down a flight of stairs last sunday. now i look like an ill-drawn map, all blackish, plum-colour, bruises-starting-to heal. and i have been feeling so sleepy.  and misanthropic. the best healing for me is this: no human people around, regardless of their attitude. loads of sleep. loads of hot,…

when all else crumbles

this remains. like the breath, like the blood that flows through the veins, like the earth under us and the sky above, and infinitely, untestably more. even when things fall apart, or when church happens to one, even then Christ is not far. he is actually very, very near. because church happened to him, too.…

roses and tomatoes

roses are green and red, and yellow, and orange. tomatoes are green and red and yellow and orange. roses smell nice. tomatoes smell nice. now, how come, we do not put tomatoes in a vase, and do not eat roses for salad? ======================================= my dead mother inhabits my dreams, mutely disappearing at the most odd…

eventfully

so, here i am, reclining in my bed after a day of, well, let us call them events. having checked essays and other student not-so-creative writing till 2 AM, i got up at 7:30, did some hectic running about the house and breakfasting, and then got to the shower at about 8. and then i…

indigo

the feather clouds all spread out like fingers to keep the indigo sky from falling to pieces we enter the little stars of scilla, ink on green all my steps, all your steps coloured a time by the rudimentary snowdrifts, liverleaf anxious to look, to be seen all in blues of breaking they come in…

exp +360

and again. for the past nights, i have been dreaming of losing her again. or not losing. it all is so confusing. my rational mind tells me- all that could have been lost, has been [lost], and there is nothing, nothing at all to be done about it. my body memory, morphic memory, tells me that something…

epic yet again

dear diary, we have not talked for some time, and here i am, all the same. so, i had this … encounter with snow-covered ice and concrete on sunday.

the taste of home

Vera Polozkova writes голова полна детского неба, розовеющего едва. наблюдаешь, как боль, утратив свои права, вынимается прочь из тела, словно из тесного рукава. хорошо через сто лет вернуться домой с войны, обнаружить, что море слушается луны, травы зелены, и что как ты ни бился с миром, всё устояло, кроме разве что сердца матери, выцветшего от…

communication protocols

doubt. some say it is the driving force of progress. or the middle way between faith and taking offence. or the mother of whatever it is doubt could be the mother of. tonight i just do not know. i do not even know if i doubt… i doubt even this.

a song for the end

the little courageous blue-tit unfreezing the hoary branch by his song, melodious beyond the city noises. i forget to watch my step upon slippery salted streets and i fall deeper, further into the snowdrifts, outside the range of thaw.

january 3, 2013 – or the good, the bad and the hobbit in 3d

there comes a time in everyone’s life, when one has to admit that their brain cannot parse the achievements of technology. that moment in our progress-obsessed society is designated as the point when a preson becomes ‘old’. or ‘oldschool’. or ‘obsolete’. well, since i accidentally went to see the hobbit by peter jackson, in 3d, hfr…

nineteen – reverence

like that first moment of truth, when the eyes of lovers meet never to be repeated, never lived again, but ever remembered as the foundation of all that was and will be  – that first breath in you extends over all my days and unslept hours. in you all colours are bright, and all the…

four – mute love

when love does not want  to interfere, it becomes mute. it exists, yet is unpronounced, unfulfilled an unfinished, as love can find its fullness only in the unity with the other it is directed at. such love dies  – as a plant that has been cut in two. or sprouts into strange and bizarre things…

the urban myth about comparison

so, here is the myth: if one gets a headache, then the best cure is to break a finger: the headache will stop immediately. or be forgotten. or something like that. well, i have to say, from empiric, personal experience data – this does not work. i got the headache today in the morning. the…

proportions

the fewer of us, the more of family graves we inherit. the more of graves, the less time to our life. the less time, the more of running. the more of running, the more graves.

it can get crazy (another epic story)

so, i decide to make that buckwheat pie with a bit of mincemeat, loads of onions, some garlic and tomatoes. the buckwheat is boiling happily, most onions are fried up, now i have the last onion and tomatoes to fry, and i am i the process of cutting them. little wolfie has been doing stuff…

when all else fails

pain remains. in its incapacitating, insane clarity, pain remains. and suddenly, there is no space for questions of why and what for, because there is only that which is. pain. it will pass, at some point, i know, this is only a bout, a fit, incomplete and unfinished, searing the edges of what i thought…

layered non-sleep with elements of transcendence

the scarce clouds obscuring the moon bleed the finest grade snow. and the sleepless eye watches diamond dust settle over a nightly world of asphalt, brick and fallen leaves. the golden and the white become confused, and the silvery light cuts wide shafts against the rising mist; the dead walk through the present, carrying their…

of poison, insanity, balance* and void

‘you may say, this is my poison,’ she said. ‘i think, you already know mine,’ i said. ‘…?’ she said. ‘pain.’ i said. pain is boring. and the knowledge that it will not go away, ever, is boring, too. pain bores through my bones, and head, and creates this everlasting background of… well, pain. from…

the night

and so i was standing there, in the darkness, and listening. to the bat song, and to the trees talking to the wind. to the smell of almost fallen leaves, and raw earth from the fresh fields. and how the stars move and the clouds stand still. so simple. so irreversible. life moves from a…

the madness of pain

the madness of pain consists not in one’s own experience. even if it might be quite terrific. the madness of pain consists in the seeing of the pain of those one loves, and being quite unable to alleviate it, or do anything about it. not because of the lack of compassion, or capacity. just because…