Paula's diary 02 - Zoo

I woke up early today.  

I fell asleep at my mother's bed. She was still sleeping when I came to the kitchen to get some milk from the fridge. Then I went to my room and there was someone sleeping in my bed. I was angry because it was my bed! And he slept there with all his dirty clothes on, and all around him was my Zoo. There was my tiger, my monkey, my sheep, my turtle, my giraffe, my elephant and my big dog lying around him on the bed. 

'Get your dirty clothes off my bed!' I started shouting at the stranger and tried to wake him up. But he didn't say anything, turned his back on me and continued sleeping. His trousers were covered in dust and mud. He smelled, had uncombed hair and was unshaven. I started to remember how he could have come here and take a long nap in my bed. 

Last night when I was still sleeping I heard someone coming into the house. It must have been really late. Mommy allowed me to sleep in her bed and I remember that she laid down with me and cuddled me. Then someone started knocking at the door and I guess that man came in. They must have been talking in the kitchen for a long time, because I fell asleep tired of waiting for my mom to come to bed.

And now I find this stinky, dirty duffer in my bed. Probably he is drunk as well. I returned to my mom and tried to wake her up.

'Mommy, there is someone in my bed!'

'Yes, I know', she answered my half-asleep.

'Get him out of there. Now!'

'Go to sleep. It's too early.'

'I want him out of my bed!'

'And I want you to go to sleep.'

'Mommy!'

'I am counting to three. One...two...'

There was no point in arguing with her. I jumped into the warm bed and pretended I was sleeping. But I was thinking who the man was. He was the first man since my father's death that mommy allowed him to sleep in our house. I wondered who he was. He didn't look like my father, he was very different. Didn't he have a house to sleep in? Maybe he needs help? Maybe he doesn't have a place to live or maybe he wants to live with us? No, I won't allow for this. I don't want anyone to live with us. The house is enough for me and mommy. And I have my Zoo. So, we don't need any beggars here. No one, except my mother, me, and my tiger, my lion, my monkey, my elephant, my snake, my turtle, my monkey, and my lion, and my another monkey, and my giraffe, and my tiger, yes, my tiger, and my sheep, my cute sheep, and my mother, she must stay, my dog, my big doggy, and my cat as well.

Kozlowsky's notes 08 - banya

I hate bathhouses.
And I had a meeting with professor Vsevolod in one of the traditional banyas in the city. Everytime I come to a bathhouse I feel I will stop breathing and my heart will explode in a second. After a minute I pray to let me out from that vapours. I cannot breathe and feel myself trapped in a steam cage. I just hope that professor Vsevolod will be finishing his banya habit and we can sit somewhere for a glass of stolichnaya.
The professor was already sitting and sweating in the banya when I came in.
'You have to leave your towel on the peg in the predbannik,' professor Vsevolod greeted me having instructed  quickly to bathhouse customs. 'But don't worry, we will still have some time. I have just come here.' Professor smiled.
I hung my towel in the entrance room and returned to the steam compartment. Standing naked I shook hands with the professor. Banya was a spacious wooden bathhouse with few people sitting on the benches. You could hardly see visitors who drowned in thick steam of eucalyptus scent.
The professor stood up, took bunch of twigs and started hitting me on my back.
'This will improve your blood circulation.'
I had to bite the bullet and endure this banya visit. First they send me to Altay then I get this beating from this miserable professor. I knew Altay country is different but sitting here and getting beaten by the professor like as if he were scolding me in a school was too much for me.
'Professor Vsevolod, let just sit...'
'Don't move, young man. I am doing it for sake of your pores. They need to open up properly.' Professor interrupted me, evidently imposing a patronizing tone on me. I felt like in school once again. 'I remember old Pietrov, a kamarad of mine who once withheld such a twig beating for 20 minutes! His was all bleeding like a slaughtered pig and then managed to stay in banya for the next hour. Of course we had to carry him out of the steam room but anyway he demonstrated his resolution. Old Pietrov, he was the one from staraja shkola.' Finally professor Vsevolod stopped the beating, sat down and started to talk.
'This must be someone well-educated.'
'How can you be sure about it?'
'From the small messages that he leaves with his victims. I didn't have this opportunity to study them closely, of course, but from what I have read in the newspapers I gather that the murderer wants inevitably to leave traces behind him. I cannot tell whether he wants to tell us something or he masochistically enjoys being chased after. One is certain, the signs he has been leaving underline definitely the death of the victims. And here is how I would explain it.'
Here we go professor. We are sitting and sweating in the banya, I am almost dying here and professor Vsevolod starts to lecture me with his academic theories.
'There is a connection between the concept of trace and the concept of death based on the whole murder case. The relationship with murdering, that is leading someone to die, manifests itself in killing a man in the present but, on the other hand, leading him or her from that present state into a future or undefined space which is death. Now, the murderer wants only to achieve the effect of the past. But how can he do it? This is where the dead dog lies! He introduces the system of traces. He leaves them with each victim.'
'Why?'
'Don't you understand?! He is not satisfied enough solely with the killing, with taking life. He wants the disappearance of the person, but done totally! And here is how he can achieve it. The total disappearance must be experienced by removing the presence, because only the present state and time keeps us from thinking of a person as living. He wants to get rid of that thinking. He wants us to stop considering a dead body even as dead but in now. in thinking of victims from our perspective, that is in this second, this minute, this time that we are constantly experiencing. He wants to erase the structure of the present from our lives, from our false thinking. He tries to cut the present and bring the victims to the forgotten past where nothing happens and everything is silently dead! Isn't it great? The murderer must be a genius to have come up with that idea!'
'But how he can do this?'
'Removing the sign from the dead body means a total death for the corpse. For us, the dead body is really a dead body. But in the metaphysical sense, by removing the left messages that act as murderer's signatures and signs for victims signify the death of the person in its totality.'
'Professor, please... what does it mean for us, for the investigation, for the public?'
'Well, I have several interpretations of it. One of these can be represented in the graphical form. Let me show it to you.'
Professor stood up, took from somewhere a pen and started to draw a diagram on the wooden wall. I was on the verge of fainting, dizziness was the only feeling now and I couldn't concentrate at all on what professor had said to me. I lowered my head and watched sweat pouring from my forehead. Then suddenly I saw naked body of professor on banya's floor. When I lifted my head I saw a tattooed, naked man coming from the corner of the banya and punching me straight into the face.

'His name is Ivanov Illicz Morotny, aslo known as Zelazny Ivan,' said officer Briacheslav who served as my guide in Altay. I was sitting in the entrance room of banya with police officers around the place.
'Zelazny Ivan killed the professor. You were lucky you got a simple punch and came out of it with a broken nose. He could have easily killed you as well.' Briacheslav knew how to cheer me up. 'You got orders to immediately come back to Stavrospol. Apparently they want to terminate the investigation.'

Kozlowsky's notes 07 - Altai

I don't know why they are sending me over there. 
And why the hell Altai Mountains? Kronberg told me they suspect the killings has something to do with one, just one man who lives there. What a bullshit. They are sending me to Altaysky Kray only to divert the attention of the public from Stavrospol's crimes. The furthest than that forsaken mountains they couldn't have sent me. If I am to meet that professor with whom I have a meeting, I will be lucky. 
Something is not going in good direction. Kronberg seemed strange to me. Usually he is arrogant and pissed off on everyone. This time, on my briefing, he was showing me respect and patting me on shoulder all the time, saying how good I was helping with the investigation, and how I will solve every riddle. Fucking bastard. His behaviour didn't match him, like taking two socks from two different pairs. He was too pleasant, too sweet. Anyway, it's good I left the city. I will take a breath from it, from the people, from the crime, and from her. Not seeing her helps a lot but won't make her disappear. I still remember the last dream, I still feel her... I have to keep my mind busy with the task. There is always more than meets the eye.

Paula's diary 01 - big Santa

I have this one place where I like to go to, but alone.
This is the only place where I go on my own. In the late evening, when the city is quiet, being tired of a relentless flow of people, I fancy going to the old church. It is hidden in the nearby forest where mould and fungus prevail. The church has been closed for a long time but I know a small passage where I can sneak in. There, inside I can feel alone with my thoughts, not being disturbed by people and machines around me. In the church the time stays still and no one asks stupid questions. Sometimes I light a candle, just to feel warmth coming from it. But looking at it I imagine how many candles where already lit over there. How many people were buried, how many funerals where given and how many tears were spilt here. 
The benches are rotten, they crack when I try to sit on them. So I don't sit on them. I choose cold floor or I put a plank under my bottom and stare at the candle.
There is the light also coming from the stained glass window when I come before the evening. The image shows a figure of a man with white beard... but I don't think that it is Santa Claus. Whenever I see him it reminds me that I am really small, but once I grow up I will try to do my best to be as big as that man. I like to tell him what has happened around me, whom I like and why, but also I tell him about my mother. She is bigger then me and has bigger problems. So I try to explain him what my mother feels because I know her very well and the big Santa doesn't know everything. So I explain him that my mother is doing even better than before, after my father died, and that she continues working in the newspaper, writing some stuff that she doesn't want to share with me. But it is all right because I know where she keeps her notes. Though I don't read so fast I manage to get some of her writing. She writes really awful. She makes a lot of mistakes. Every time I read her notes I want to correct them, but then she could notice it and would of course rebuke me, as she says. And will hide her notes in some other place. But of course I will find them but it will take me some more time.  
Big Santa also tells me when I should go. If his face becomes darker and darker, and he frowns I know that it is getting late and he doesn't want me to stay longer inside the church. Then it is time to go home. So my mother won't be worried about me. And I go.

Kozlowsky's notes 05 - Nausea

You will never get her...
I had to find a cooler place.
It was too much this time. My dreams provoked me to wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and to shake the unwanted sentiment, to try to fall asleep anew but this time with a nicer thought. A smooth, gentle and tranquil dream that my mind and the whole organism needed. Still the pain was unbearable. I woke up long before the sunrise.
You're leaving me now...
The night was behind me.
Spasms of stomach woke me up. Again I was catching a breath like a fish taken from water. I couldn't sleep no longer. I was still thinking about the dream that woke me up. The thought that she might be with someone else drove me into a restless state, leaving me with only that thought. I couldn't make any move, I couldn't ask anyone for help, I couldn't meet with anyone. Check and mate.
Let me cry...
I was left in my room alone, fighting with my mind, fighting with my organism that contorted itself in the spasms of nausea, fighting not to puke. the organism reacted with nervousness. and nervousness brought nausea. Anxiety and worry dominated being driven by a recurrent thought.
I tried to harness my mind.
I looked outside the window. There was -25 degrees. Outside, it snowed. Snowflakes danced around the street-lamps, and only looking at the light I could see that it was snowing. The whirlwind of flakes had a calming effect. But then again...
Sometimes I wish I could cry...
And again the spasms of pain came with heavier attack this time. I was sweating and curled up in the corner of the room, beside the wall. My eyes covered tears, my stomach wanted to vomit but found nothing inside. I shivered and waited the killer-thought to pass by. I wanted to stop it but found it too strong, too overpowering for me to handle it. I was too weak, too weak to stand upon it and to dominate it.
I felt jealousy in its purest form.

Kozlowsky's notes 04 - citizens

Stavrostopol was the carrier of unnamed illness.
Citizens were fungus that grew up on the streets. You could tell from their faces who was addicted to suspicious substances produced by medical corporations. The addicts were easily noticed. They were morbidly pale, suffering from exhaustion that the drug influenced their organism. At night their faces shone lit by the moon. And it was at night that they especially looked for another doze of the substance. They were eager to buy it from anyone who offered the lowest price. The substance was sold at the chemistries but those who had taken the drug for longer time searched for even stronger pills. Their faces were covered in paroxysm of pain, it was hard to understand their talking, and even if you understood their words you could tell that they carried no meaning at all. 
The worst of all was that they had once dreams of getting somewhere, reaching their point of destination, having a goal in life. However, once grasped in the routine of thoughtlessness they could not get out of it. They moved pointless, caught in a loop from which they couldn't exit. Thousands of ghostly faces wandered around the city, looking for their regular chemical feed, driven by a singular desire to satisfy their now basic need. 

Parallax view

Never mind the bullets takes us into a western comic strip enriched by the effects of parallax. You can merge into the story by moving the mouse, so that the animation will unfold and you will be able to see the images from different perspectives. Take a try!

http://www.nevermindthebullets.com/strip.html#1-1

Kozlowsky's notes 03

It's closing to 5 in the morning. 
I feel that my eyes are heavy as a truck loaded with lead but my mind ran beserk tonight. I cannot sleep, I am still thinking about it. I fucking cannot sleep. I cannot sleep, fucking sleep ...
"The suspect ran away! You fucked it up! You are guilty of tonight's murders! You moron, who told you you can work with men, here? Go back to your office work, you white-collar idiot!" I could still hear the voice of Kronberg shouting at me when he learnt that that night I recognized the murderer but lost him on the street.
I turned on the radio. I tried to tune it to some music but instead a metallic voice of a radio speaker was annoucing that recently had been riots on the street in the Jewish quarter. They of course didn't provide what the source of the outbreak was. They knew it but maybe didn't want to escalate the problem. And the problem was between Jews and Poles or between those who know how to earn money and those who cannot stand that someone is better than them. Poles envied Jews that they are able to earn better money than the settled Polish community. What a pity. Poor, fucking Poles didn't prosper as good as the expats who were determined to work their way on the new land. People who appreciated every customer, knew how to handle them and even if they didn't want to purchase things they knew how to turn them on. Poles just complained about it between themselves and didn't do anything to change their attitude towards the customer. They were more stupid than a mule. Their foolish pride couldn't let them free from thinking other way.
But of course there were Jews who begged for money on the street. Only the elite ruled the Lovozero oblast. The Russian Jews knew how to handle authority among them. They grew stronger and more powerful but lacked humility. Their own greed lost them. They disregarded the fact that the sheer hostility of Poles can lead them to give up everything thy had earned. The most powerful argument for it was that they came here, they were expats on the foreign land. Not their land. It was enough for people to start talking behind their backs. Jews didn't react to it, so people went further and disrespected the newcomers. And with disrespect appeared hostility towards the Jews. In each case people need enemy, so they can unite in face of real danger, in face of one target. Beacuse alone they feel weak and unimportant but together they can show their teeth and feel powerful, feel they have the authority to oppress someone, to put shoes in someone's house, to barge in and take possessions, to feel better, more powerful, more important.
Take an example, backer Jozef Walidroga. He is a good backer, his pastries are famous among the people in the oblast. However, Jozef wanted more. He craved for something which his ego dictated him to do. He didn't want to bake bread all his life. His wife assured him he is a good husband, his children look up to him. He just wanted more. A small Józef, Józio, inside him woke him up suddenly and demaneded more. Józio demanded to be treated with even more dignity, with even more nobility. If Józef Walidroga went to the bank to make a money tranfer he didn't want the customer assistant to take care of him. Józio demanded Józef to be put through to the bank manager and to deal with the matters directly through "more important person". If Józef Walidroga had a fever Józio demanded to send for the hospital consultant in order to prescribe some medicine. From that moment Józio ruled Józef.
But what was I thinking of ? Ah yes, I've been searching for a good music on the radio. I turned the knob and was skipping the hum of the radio waves. Still searching, still looking for the right mood.  Finally I came across a tune that I remember from my childhood. It was Satie's Gnossienne 1.

Kozlowsky's notes 02

After the crime she decided not to talk to anyone. 

Talking to people made her tired to that extend that she decided to stop it. She remained silent and since that time she had never talked to anyone. This was the reason I confessed my most deepest thoughts to her, my secret missions, classified information that its knowledge bothered me to that extend that I couldn't think and act reasonably. Talking to her soothed my mind, undressed me before her. Once I poured out what lied on my liver I could rest assured that she would keep that knowledge to herself. She didn't speak nor she could write. Getting information from her was as difficult as to convince oneself to put a fresh underwear on unclean body. 

The phone rang. Once. Twice. There was no third time. And it wasn't meant to be. It was a sign to move. I put the bottle of vodka down and stood up. Took the gun from the kitchen table, grab my jacket and rushed down the stairs.

Kozlowsky's notes 01 - Averbode

I made myself comfortable,
sat down on the old grandma's couch, took a bottle of wyborowa and injected a quick shot in my veins. I felt hungry so I took rye bread and ate it soaking it in vodka. This was a fast method to get drunk, eating rye bread soaked in alcohol. In the same time you felt you were eating something. The bread was already putrid, went bad couple of days ago but it didn't repel me. Anyway, eating rotten food is a matter of taste, like cannibalism. People may feel disgusted on the thought that someone may eat a man. However, once served on a plate they would devour human meat not even asking for its origin. I haven't eaten it but I guess it tastes like chicken. 
Again I had a night shift. Working undercover had some advantages though. I could stay at my place and wait for orders instead of sitting all the time in the office and drinking with Aleksiej, the stupid janitor. All I had to do was to stay vigil and wait for the phone to ring. I was privileged and had one at my place. They led a phone landline directly to my place which was not a bad idea but on the other hand I had plenty of neighbours suddenly dropping by to make a phone call. But till the moment I told one of them I worked in Sovnarkom. From that time I hadn't had pestering neighbours on my head. Rumours spread faster than scarlet fever. 
The elevator jammed again and made low, humming noises. The elevator's cogwheel was endlessly propelled by electric current that came from the basement's battery. I was thinking how to help the poor cogwheel from its suffering. My solution was to cut the wires, the Gordian knot but I wasn't electrician. Anyway, the elevator produced a sound that made me feel relaxed. Monotonous and repeating. Just the ideal music for my ears at this moment. 
The hum of the elevator was only a background to my deeper thoughts. I pondered about meeting her again. I lacked her presence and the stillness of things around me drove me mad. Whenever I met her she put things into motion. She wasn't a hurricane but rather a fresh breeze with a heartbreaker spiel. Approached by her a person could not stand but to feel natural in front of her, chat about daily life or turn the conversation into deeper matters, like describing human emotions, looking for their source in person's action, comparing people's reactions-all this psychological matters than recently become so popular in the world. Above this, however, there was a ubiquitous sense of feeling distance to her own self, not being very self-attached but taking criticism or arguments as a way of self-development rather than a word of une mauvais chose. 
Her sympathetic attitude was often interpreted as a carefree. People couldn't stand it because they didn't find this attitude to be normal. Everyone's got their own problems. People around her had their own but seeing her they didn't understand and didn't accept her frivolous behaviour, they desired her to be more martyr-like then jokerish. She was full of unspoken problems, fighting with her doubts and holding to her resolutions. And whenever she faced with sharp-tongued men she could easily retort them. Even more... she could push her now defenceless interlocutors who dared to start arguing with her to a dead end and squeeze them out of arguments, out of every possible straw that a drowning man could catch, until they are left helpless and give up all hope to win the argument. But even above all this her smile, yes it was her smile that was pervading the space of each room, of every street, of anything that she reached for or touched to.
She was one of the victims that we leave on their own once we take a new case for investigation. For us the investigation is crucial. Not the victim but the perpetrator. Of course we ask victims standard questions but let's not be deluded by its profundity. Only C. Auguste Dupine could deduce who the murder was by asking astute questions to the victim. 
What was her name? What is her name? These are questions that are hard to answer. Why? Once she was a different person. Or maybe the same person but her behaviour changed. As I said she was a victim. Something happened in her life that made her wordless. She absorbed a strong shock that led to her being reticent. 

The Killer

Gathering all universe forces to bring the project Old Man Willow into reality. A huge influence is The Killer. It is probably the first interactive motion comic ever made. Take a look.

http://killer.submarinechannel.com/

Old Man Willow

After some time I decided to take an old script from the drawer and ressurect it, to transform it into an interactive tale. This will combine a comic book with the interactivity of the internet. Thus, once finished the tale will be available on the net, floating in the digital form.
Old Man Willow tells the story of a murderer who, being chased after, hides in a cave. The story takes shape when the murderer encounters creatures living in the cave. We cannot tell what had happened to the protagonist until it is told by the characters whom the murderer meets in the cave. 
The story loosely alludes to an English fairy tale The Children in the Wood. In it the murderer has two children killed because of the inheritance he is likely to get after their death. In the story we observe how the creatures from the cave describe the children before their death (like Sheepdog) or relate to them (like Amanita), making the killer aware of different perspectives of the deed he has done. 
I will put more updates regarding the project once we have a nice storyboard.

Amused to death

... all that hassle, all everyday duties can close ourselves and lead to a dead end. We are amusing ourselves to death. If we don't stop and start asking questions we will lose a part of us, we will lose ability to think and from that moment we will stop deciding about ourselves, we will become only objects ... everyday objects ...

One among the schiavi ognor frementi

'Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!'

from Frankenstein

... till the strength doesn't leave me, till I catch my breath I will walk, I will run to you...  

mine to protect, love and cherish

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StBkqxeC1Hk