How to reconstruct yourself

"When I am writing a story, I use words to transform the surrounding scene into something more natural for me. In other words, I reconstruct it. That way, I can confirm without a doubt that this person known as 'me' exists in the world. This is a totally different process from steeping myself in the world of math."
1Q84, Haruki Murakami

All along the tower

The rough lyrics to the song go like this:

There is a way to get out of here
To close the past, try and reach the stars

There is a way to free the mind
Still being here

Time passes by as I stand aside
No more conversations with ghostly recollection

There must be a server error
I don't receive any invitations
It's hopeless, please someone take care of it

My status is updated: attractive single, knight-awaiting mistress
I already got over 9K likes
but nowadays men are like mice

Facebook Cinderella.

Persinette

I've been locked in my mind with an idea to write a song to the piece on guitar that I composed some time ago.
The idea evolves around a woman locked in a tower, just like in the German fairy tale of Rapunzel. I wondered how contemporary Rapunzel's life would look like. So, I imagined her nowadays sitting in her chamber alone but instead of constantly combing her hair and indulging in changing her make-ups I thought about connecting her entire life with what people do almost every day - being present in virtual reality, connect her to social network applications, like the popular facebook.

However, I want to propose another interpretation to the old fairy tale.
It is not the case that Rapunzel is kept hostage in a locked tower anymore. It is rather her free will to stay connected with the world through virtual reality as the real world doesn't offer her that many possibilities to meet people in real life. However, her will is weakened by constant playing and updating her status on the internet. In a way she is kept imprisoned by facebook, constant blogging, watching videos on youtube, etc. She does it having on mind only one thing: through social, virtual life she expects that one day her beloved, long-awaiting knight will reply back on gmail and come to save her from the lonely tower.

Imae Tal

The stories from the cellar will be from now on written in picturesque style and continued on

http://imaetal.blogspot.nl/

You are welcome to visit the blog and make comments!

SEEING IN THE LIGHT AND DARK

Jeff Spirer Praxis




This paper is an analysis of the photograph that was quite recently taken by Jeff Spirer. The photo is entitled ‘Praxis’ and comes from the author’s web site. It is only there that one can find series of black and white pictures taken by Spirer between 1997 and 2002. He called his snapshot cycle Seeing in the Light & Dark. Thus, his interest in the world is perceived through black and white veil of colours. The paper will try to interpret the photo from the 19 century perspective as well as from contemporary view.

This is black and white picture, evidently taken without a flashlight, probably not to spoil the overall darkness of the place. In case of this photo, the film must have been that of a very sensitive type. This means that the objects shown in the picture had to stay motionless else the contours would not be sharp. It might be the photographer intention to expose the picture within a shorter period of time than it is generally needed for proper rendering. The effect of such a technique results in making well-lit room a dark place. Therefore, the photo might appear to be underexposed but there lies a purpose in doing so.

Shadow and light play main role in this picture. On the right side of the picture, there is a figure, which stands hidden in the dark. Though the spotlight is directed in close vicinity of the person, the figure remains intact by the shaft of light. The whereabouts can be described as spacious, capable of gathering crowds of people. There are two spotlights, which provide some light in this place. In the background a broad white square can be seen. It may be a window or wide television screen. The dark figure corresponds with the paleness of the white square, which make up a background. This place might bring reminisces of a theatre stage or perhaps the workroom or atelier of a painter or sculptor. This could be also a place for instruction or experimentation in one of the performing arts, such as a dance studio. The mysterious figure is of tender build and delicate shape. The shape such as only females can have. Therefore one can assume it is she who stands or maybe poses for a picture in the photographer’s atelier. This unnamed person from the picture can be interpreted in various ways, now that it is specified.

Referring to Romanticism and the paintings of that time, one can find some features that appear similar with the photograph taken by Jeff Spirer. First, let us concentrate on the general mood of the picture. Darkness of the picture is what strikes the observer at the first glance. This picture inevitably causes sense of mystery and invites the viewer to use his imagination. The author seems not to have used elaborated techniques in creating this image. One might presume that the intention was to make the picture simple and without redundant endeavours. Beauty, as Romantics would say, comes from simplicity and reduction of what is unnecessary. There is no need of producing any ornamentation in order to beautify the picture. The simple leaves more freedom of thought for imagination. Fancy is let loose, so that person is able to interpret the picture in his own way. Leaving the picture almost empty and vacant (there is no one in it, except for the tall figure on the right), the author allows the viewer to get involved. He invites to step through the picture and join the dark figure, together with the overall silence that accompanies the photo.

If we were to assume that the mysterious character on the right existed, then its sex would be preferably described as feminine. The figure in itself is beautiful. She is dressed very simple and scantily. The dark covers her with its gloomy mask. This must be sufficient enough for the viewer to imagine the rest. She manifests pure nature of female body. She stands lightly winged, in such a way only female can do. Her perfect pose reveals her delicacy and a tinge of daintiness. This picture shows a woman as a delicate instrument to be dealt with. The instrument, which is given all heart when creating and later handling it, such delicate as guitar or violin can be. On the other hand, it might be as well a piece of wood shaped in the figure of a girl. Whether it is life form or imitation of a person, the demiurge did celestial work – he pointed at the true delicacy and tenderness of the female side. This dark figure can represent an image of an ideal person one can fall in love with. The mythological story of Pygmalion immediately comes to mind.

Another question might be raised here: is not ‘love’ this kind of feeling that demands compromise between what a human being expects and what he eventually gets from life? The dark lady here stands for the ideal pattern to which many faces can be attached. The pattern that every human is endowed with. Once he has it, he struggles to find the right person who would comfort his expectations. Consequently, he finishes with very similar or not similar at all person with whom he feels ‘only’ good. Thus, it is not the person with whom one might fall in love with but the mere apparition, an image in head that distorts preys and subdues them to our mind. Humans are slaves of their own desires.

Although the dark lady does not stand in the middle of the picture, she is the centre of attention. It is partly her who creates the mood of the picture. She is the mysterious one and the enigma left to solve through the imagination of watchers. Her evanescence dominates here and perseveres the darkness. It is her figure in the shade, which illuminates on the enlightened spot. She might be considered as the light in the tunnel. She is the heart of the darkness, the mystery waiting forlorn. Such might be the Romantic aspect of mysteriousness of the woman figure.

A second point needs to be made when talking about Romantics - the eternal question of ‘who am I?’. The dark figure is a symbol of a human being asking the question of existence. The purpose of human existence and the inability to answer this question makes the viewer puzzled and helpless in front of the picture, thus in front of himself. The figure is merely shown by the author; it is only signaled that it exists in the picture. In this way the observer may question the visibility and reality of the figure. Is the character real or is it my imagination playing tricks on me? Am I living in this world or am I only a projection that wanders blindly, perceived only by a few onlookers? Together with these questions goes the belief in humanity. The object of the picture is a human or a shape that resembles human origin of which one cannot tell. The Gothic element once again appears: this figure cowers in darkness as if trying to hide the true visage. The body is beautiful but the true character might be detestable, horrible, and shameful. Or might it be the body deformed and twisted in paroxysm of pain but with perfect shapes of body.

Praxis is not a dynamic picture; it does not show any action. It is static and indicates stagnation, lack of movement. The dark figure is rigid as if she were posing for a picture. The author seems to put an emphasis on the light or the lack of it. Thus, this picture could be an attempt to show darkness by introducing a diagonal spotlight, which emits from the wall and falls spread on the ground. There is light in the middle of the picture. For most people it is obvious that in the centre of the spotlight there should be someone standing. But in this picture there is no one in the centre. The middle lacks the body, which is actually moved on the right. In this way one can suspect the figure to shun being shown in the view. The figure prefers to stay in the dark rather than to be recognized and put in the centre of attention.

One more possible interpretation can be drawn here. The picture mirrors underground atmosphere like the one during a concert or artistic performance. This picture is entitled Praxis, such as the name given to one of the musical projects created by a musician and producer Bill Laswell. What might be seen, as a parallel line between Spirer’s photographs and Laswell projects is that the first one created web site for the Laswell’s label Axiom. Together with his musical groups Bill Laswell has been playing on the so-called ‘avant-garde’ scene for decades. His projects were in many respects considered by critics as impossible to be listened to. Many regarded his projects as unsuccessful attempts to unite ethnic musicians with Western ones. His musical collages of tribal music plus electronic ambient, dub or improvised music left his temporal groups in the niche. Therefore, he might be perceived as the musician who chose to create new sounds and remain unknown to pop-culture rather than copy popular songs and be a musical celebrity. Praxis is one of his projects that trailblazes in seeking new sounds and joins apparently different genres of music. It is Laswell choice to stay as a well-known figure to a certain group of people rather than be recognized as a worldwide ‘pop-artist.’ He remains in the shade like the figure from the picture. The fame is close to him, within the reach of the hand, like the light that falls in the vicinity of his person. Many of his projects are mysteries to many and still it is not certain what genres of music Laswell will stick to next.

A close look at the dark figure may reveal that it is only a play of light that one can see a standing person. The white shape that comes together with the shadow figure is almost as real to the observer as the dark being, previously described as a woman. Looking at this picture, with the musical background in mind and knowing what kind of music Praxis plays, one can assume that the white figure is one of the disc jockeys scratching on the turntables. His presence in the picture might be justified not only by the title of the picture Praxis. What explains his existence is the fact that he is on stage. Caught in the process of mixing and playing with the sound, he leaves the rest of the band aside to perform his solo. The dark woman here is on the huge screen in the pose of the lifeless form. Now, it is she who is in the background and it is the disc jockey that scratches in front of the audience. But why his shapes are white that is hard to say not knowing photographic processes, which might have deformed and altered the picture. Therefore, the curiosity of his whiteness remains unsolved.

The light is directed nearby the figure, which seems to lose its shapes; it almost melts into darkness. Being absorbed by blackness, the figure loses its clarity. The effect of fogginess and dimness encompasses the whole stature and makes it almost invisible. This picture bares some significant elements with impressionism and has features, which William Turner would be interested in. Though Praxis is far from Turner’s abstract visions, the picture focuses on the change of the object when influenced by light. It gives also the clue how to paint darkness (spotlight) and make the place look mysterious (dark figure). It is a confrontation of light and darkness. The question that might be asked is: how these two influence watcher’s perception while affecting objects?

This picture has one more Romantic feature. It is truly puzzling. It can be interpret in many ways, thus it is ambiguous. It is not certain what darkness hides – whether it is human figure in the corner or just a mannequin, tailor’s dummy. John Keats would say that it is ‘semantic darkness’, vagueness and uncertainty that join the mysterious and ambiguity. Praxis puzzles and waits to be explained but in the moment of the explanation one can find the picture not interesting, no more mysterious. Therefore, it is better to enjoy the ambiguity and leave the picture unexplained. It is far better to see a picture that strikes with questions and remember it as puzzling than to see a picture and immediately forget it because one understands it. Imaged created in mind, which provokes and asks questions is hard to erase from memory. Pictures that are open for questions and thoughts demand knowledge and provide us with further experience; it is the path open for broader thinking, which flee conventional thinking.

Grain Girl

(the story is told by a 14 year old girl from Bikini Atoll)

I always imagined people as grains of sand scattered on the beach.

Each grain of sand is like one human being.

Once we were together in the sea and were water particles. United as One. But one day we became crystalized and water decided to throw us on the land. And we became separated, left alone dispersed.

Once separated we felt incomplete and were pushed from our inside to find a reason to live. Scattered on the beach we started to meet different people in our life. We crashed with one another-exchanging thoughts, ideas and feelings.

And either we continued to stick together or we got separated and followed another sandy dune. But always we were forced to encounter foreign grains.

But we are still here, beside the great water. We are sometimes flushed by salty ocean and feel bitterness, sometimes a huge foot crushes us and a heavy burden lands in our heart. But sometimes there is warmness coming from the Sun. In this moment we feel motivated to live, have our aims put forward clearly and then we know which path to follow. On these days everything is so simple, so beautiful. We are willing to live.

But the time on the beach runs out and one day we have to say farewell to our grain colleagues. We become so attached to them that we are happy to have them beside us, sometimes we become so unattached from them that we are sad and wish to have more time to meet more human grains.

Both ways we start to cry and crying we again unite. The tears are salty and one drop merges with another, going slowly down the land, and falling into the sea.

We are again united and we feel complete.

Kozlowsky 18 - Desolate

There is always a day in your life when you have a premonition of something to happen. 
And you know that it will be a huge change in your life. After this day you will be reborn completely different. A new person with new goals, totally purified from previous experiences.
Well, it wasn't this day. 
I wanted it to be as a huge difference in my life. For better or for worse but a change, finally. I needed it and was determined to have it, like a slap in my face-sudden and painful. I wanted it to crush me, and either I live or it will drag me to the extremities where logic has no place. 
These feelings were only possible with women. They are unpredictable when it comes to a relationship. They are torn by contradictions, you never trust what they say, you never take for granted what they really feel. And either you hang around them and develop yourself as a slave, a maggot fearing of being crushed under a high heel shoe or you can be a son-of-a-bitch and treat them as whores, abuse them sexually and discard as objects. There is also a third attitude towards women but it remains in the sphere of ideal towards which few men reach. And once they reach it they learn that it is not so interesting and rather boring to stay at the ideal level, so they fall from the ideal cloud down to the "fallen angel pit." Eventually, they lose in their female game. They can pretend to be powerful and keeping themselves under control but in the end when faced with her they collapse, break in two and make themselves volatile. They become feeble and a woman can sculpture him in her way. 
So I had two riddles to solve. The first concerned the murders, and was less important. The second investigation was my own, private. I wanted to know the truth about her. Being a man, full of simplicity and devoted to the search for the one correct answer, I pursued to learn what I thought will release all my minds hinges in opening all her secrets. And being a man, I imagined more than there actually was and which conceived monsters who kept me awake at night. 
The time spent with her was more like knocking to gates made of lead that never open or looking down the well and getting a selfless feedback from your screaming. What I knew was that after her husband's death she was just concentrated on raising her daughter and keeping all her admirers on distance. She was still absorbed with the past life, idealizing it and looking only on the bright side of past life with her now dead husband. She rejected any alternative to live with someone else. Her daughter was enough for her to gave her most of her time. 
Once she said to me: 'There won't be any other man so close to me as my husband was in my life. And I don't want any other man to replace him because there will never be so strong bond between me and someone else that I can fully engage in. And if I cannot engage in that kind of relationship, I won't be fully myself. I will be just a mere shadow for him, always thinking about my previous man.'
'You are living in a dream,' I remember saying to her. 'Let it be a dream then,' she answered and left me standing in the desolate street at 3 in the morning. 
On her own wish she closed herself in a capsule which I wanted to open and let her breathe again. Breathe like before but with a fresh air, not choking with stifling odours of beautiful but already obsolete and blind image of the past. And I promised myself to do this even if I would be digging my own grave.

Kozlowsky 17 - closing the case

The day began with a cold and bright sunrise.
I put on more clothes and ran down the stairs. Two sovnarkom officers were waiting outside the building and smoking cigarettes. We went to the nearest diner Europa, set down and ordered three shots and czaj. One of them opened today's newspaper and started to read diligently all the time smoking. The other officer was staring at me, not even winking.
'We are putting you out from the case,' said a sad-looking 40-year-old officer.
I didn't know these guys. They must have worked in another section, probably they came from political security department. The guy reading newspaper looked like taken from a silent film. He had a thin moustache, wore a rather spring than winter coat and had a thick scarf woven around his neck like a loop from a gallows pole. Since the time we sat down he had been scrutinizing the news not even looking in my or his colleague direction.
The other sovnarkom officer had a convict hair cut and five o'clock shadow. He just sat there at the table putting the bitter news to me in a rough package.
'You will return to your previous, abandoned tasks and never again come to the case. Not even close to it. You are no longer needed. From this week we are taking control of the case. Thank you for your input to the case. We appreciate it.'
The officer stopped talking and went out together with his colleague who folded the newspaper and left it on the table.
'Three cups of tea?' an ugly-looking female waiter asked me.
'Here,' I took all of them although the officers left. 'And another shot of vodka, and something to eat.'
'What?'
'I don't know. Something hot.'
'We have scrambled eggs, kielbasa...'
'Scrambled eggs should be fine.'
'How many?'
'Two and bread to it. And fry it on butter, not oil.'
She looked at me strangly and left with an order without saying anything. I handed for a cup of tea and reached for the newspaper left by silent officer. Krasnaja Gazeta wrote about the further steps in the our murder case. She still wrote the articles. I wonder whether she had similar problems to mine and whether they wanted her to be silent rather than keep on writing.
She wrote about the suspect, our Diedushka Moroz. The headline shouted 'Siernozyj Moroz is back!' She described his previous murders in the city and how militia were unable to catch him. 'Right now they have another chance' concluded the article.
I needed to see her and pass her all the information I had managed to collect. If I am no longer in the case let her finish the work and help protect others from that madness. It is going too far. And I doubt someone can stop the murderer. This case stinks. It turns into the politics. Someone so strong as Iron Felix must be pulling strings behind all this.
I turned another page and saw a big writing: 'We are watching you'.
They knew I knew and will keep me tailing till the case will be solved or someone will silence it. I need to watch my back.
And her back as well.

The unnam3d - 7y-g 01

.... as I promised I return to my notes and continue writing, my only testimony of what has been happening.  
According to my counting the next sign should have 7 years old and be a girl this time. It should have something in common with the published articles in Krasnaja Gazeta. But I don't know what exactly and why? It irritates me, vexes my mind...
I have to begin from the very beginning. All these murdered children build a certain concept which has a meaning. Every child constitutes to the overall murder case behind which lies Beziehung. They play an important role individually as well as a unity. I fear what could happen if we deciphered wrongly one of them! It would be a disaster! I cannot let it happen. It must be controlled and each sign interpretation should be monitored and double checked for possible false conjectures! 
I always repeat that when thinking upon a thing, it is always a thought that comes from a person directed to an object of thinking. When, for example, I see a thing, it is not only a colour or shape I observe but I also consider myself as a participant n this action. When people feel sadness because they lack something, they realize that hey are sad because they need a thing desperately. It is also in other instances of desire that man is aware of his feeling because of a thing that stuck in his mind. 
I have somewhere more notes about that...where are they?! I cannot find anything in this shit-hole...
But when will I hear of the next sign? Where will it be? I cannot tell...
 I am certain the girl will match the profile.

Kozlowsky's notes 16 - Killings that burn hearts

Legends circled around the killings of Ded Moroz.
It was more than 10 years that the first killing saw the daylight. But only after the three successive murders we realized that a series of non-stop killings is ahead of us. 
The nickname Diedushka Moroz was pretty simple to grasp by the press. The murders happened during the Christmas time, in severe winter. Everyone expects nice atmosphere and awaits presents, and Christmas cards but that winter was slightly different. On the same day Ded Moroz was about to kill his prey he sent to them Christmas cards. But don't expect Christmas wishes, instead of it he wrote three simple words in Russian: 'Пришло время умирать' - it's time to die. No signature, no date, just these words on a nice Christmas card. At first everyone thought the cards were chosen at random.  But Ded Moroz made his own selection. 
I was sitting at the militias' archive, browsing through the catalogues of the past investigation and reports on Diedushka. The first murder was that of a banker. The picture of the Christmas card showed plentiful of gifts under the Christmas tree. In the picture a merry family sat around the father who started to hand in presents. In the left corner of the picture, gazing through the window,  however there was a figure of a man, Father Frost, who looked on the happy family with satisfaction. He must have probably given the presents to the father and now he was smiling with delight to see cheerful family together. Though he appeared pleased he also had a sad look in the eyes.
Diedushka killed three bankers, two rich entrepreneurs and an actress. The methods were very sadistic, painful and providing slow death to the victim. The very famous actress Maria Afanasjewna died really terribly. I remember reading it in the news. He stripped her down, tied to the chair and put a metal tube against her belly. One end of the pipe was closed whereas the other was tied close to the stomach. Inside the pipe Diedushka put a rat whose only escape from starving to death was to bite his way through the stomach. In this way her insides were slowly eaten by the rat. I cannot image her torture. She must have begged heavens for a quick death. 
One victim survived, and that is why we have some information about the killer. The survivor was a city council clerk Vasylij Siergiejew. He described his oppressor as a tall man, in his late forties, with white beard. Dressed like a beggar Diedushka didn't catch anyone's attention. He walked with a stick and had a long shattered robe. He had simply all the attributes of Father Frost.
Vasylij hadn't lived long after the unsuccessful hit on him. He chocked with an aspirin pill and smothered himself. Thanks to Vasylij Ded Moroz was soon identified as Kazys Wasylich Aidas of Lithuanian origin. At that time the profile picture and drawing of his face appeared in local newspapers.
I remember one more thing about that murders. The best informed journalist and probably the most engaged in the case pseudo-detective was her husband, Piotr Piotrowicz. The militia consulted with him many aspects of the investigation and even offered him an open position for an investigative researcher. He refused telling them that he cherished more being with his wife than digging the cold graves left by Diedushka. After Piotrowicz abandoned the series of writing about Ded Moroz the militia fell in cul-de-sac of their own. They left the investigation, Diedushka apparently disappeared from the city and everyone forgot about the dead bodies and grief of the families. It was also very interesting that first the press abandoned the subject and then Ded Moroz ceased to exist. It is usually vice versa. 
Now it appears that Ded Moroz has returned to Stavrospol again, years after his last killings. And again in wintertime, seems the coldest ever, now new killings will burn our hearts. 
That old investigation was closed, the case never solved. What Diedushka is doing here again? Is he really the one we are looking for?

Kozlowsky's notes 15 - At the barber's

The barber was on the opposite side of the street and was open from 7 in the morning.
I went straight to him after spending night at her place, sat down on the chair and let him take care of me.
'You rarely come nowadays,' said Anatol, the owner.
'It's becasue my hair fell out from work,' I replied. Anatol started preparing the tools and turned the radio on. The folklore music which I hated sounded from the old wooden radio.
'Any surprising turnovers in the case?' Anatol, like a good barber started the conversation and went straight to the core of it.
'I was expecting you tell me something since I came here and you don't have anything to cut on my head,' I looked at Anatol whose reflection I could see in the mirror.
'Then we can finally shave that beard of yours.' Anatol put some cream on my beard and neck and started to sharpen the metal razor.
'People are not very calm these days,' he continued.
'No, really?' I mocked him.
'Not to say they are very disturbed by these child murders.'
'Tell me something I don't know'.
'People keep talking and talking, wondering about the possible murderer.'
"Can it be my boss?' I kept mocking Anatol while he started to shave my beard with the sharp razor.
'There are many thugs who could kill for a bunch of pocketmoney. There are several suspects, however, who could kill with such an elegance...'.
'What do you know?'
'Do you remember my brother?'
'I do.'
'Will you help him out of the troubles?'
'He's a trotzki. It will be hard... but not that hard once I got the murderer.'
Anatol pondered for a while and continued talking.
'A few days ago there came a petty thief, you know the one who usually hasn't gotten to a fortune and never will but has daily money from stealing or robbing old grandmas. That disgusting pezzo di novanta started to boast how lucky he was not to have robbed a peculiar person. The youngster almost thank God for that, as if he had omitted death.'
'And...'
'He recognized the guy as the old school assassin who returned to the city for bounty killings. It must have been the legend and I can only presume it was...'
'Ded Moroz?'
Anatol stood still as if old memories came back to him.
'The thief didn't tell the name but from his description it must have been Ded Moroz.'
'Did he tell you where he saw Diedushka?'
'No, but I know where that pezzo di novanta usually meets with his son-of-a-bitch-colleagues.' Anatol was using Biely Jelen after shave on my freshly shaven beard.
'Good. Now, where we can find that pezzo di novanta?' I asked slowly standing up from the chair also starting to remember the cruelty of the so called Ded Moroz.

picture was taken from:
http://brzoza77.deviantart.com/art/Ded-Moroz-190902149

Kozlowsky's notes 14 - Sirjoznyj Kolhoz

I rememeber when I met Gonczarov at Sirjoznyj Kolhoz. It was during my night shift, ordinary night made extraordinary by a sudden visit.
At 2AM I took a break and went from Sovnarkom hq to the militia-friendly pub Sirjoznyj Kolhoz. I wanted relax a bit and have a game of bar billiards. At this time, the pub was full of militiamen who kept returning from city's actions or preparing to go for the night patrol. I ordered double vodka, took the cue and started to arrange the billiard balls. I noticed someone approaching me. I wanted to play alone so I was prepared to get rid of the wanna-be billiards player.
It was Gonczarov who approached me. He came closer to me and for a while we looked each other face to face. Before he even opened his mouth and spoke to me I noticed something disturbing in his appearnace, a pinch of insanity in his eyes. His lunatic look reminded me of my Czech colleague, Bratislav, who finally finished at the mental asylum. I studied philosophy with Bratislav back to our university days. He prepared his master's thesis about the origins of madness in society. He became so involved in it that eventually they took him in a straitjacket to the mental hospital. Since then I saw him only once. His eyes were absent, he slept almost all the day, most of his time being on strong medicaments. His body was not responsive, he had no longer that struggle to live and was now only an empty shell thrown out on the ocean of sharks. He was lost to his friends, family, closed in his mind, hung in the abyss somewhere among the brain neurons. 
Gonczarov had similar look and it wasn't long for me to have realized that I have to take precautions speaking to him.
'Playing billiards?' He started the conversation, as if trying to gather accurate words.
'That's right, no better way to relax for a while.' I answered and hit the green ball into the left corner.
'So, what have you been doing lately?'
'This and that, nothing special...'
'...still working on that murder case, aren't you?'
'Still.' I tried to cut the conversation. 
'You are quiet good at developing it. Must have good informants in the city.' Gonczarov smiled and looked at me waiting to get his answer. I hit another ball but said nothing. 
'I wonder who helps you. Must be someone really close to you.'
'You know that I cannot tell anyone about my insidemen.' I told it and at the same time regretted telling it to him.
'So, you are not denying that you have someone?' Gonczarov was excited to learn something from me. I revealed something that I shouldn't have. It was like she said once. Involuntarily I can reveal some information just talking carelessly to people who can squeeze some important facts out of  me and use them against me. Whatever, I thought, I hit the black ball into the right corner.
'Hey, you hit the black ball as the last one, you still have some on the table. You just hit the wrong ball' Gonczarov all the time was supervising my game.
'No, Gonczarov, I hit the right one.' I replied. I lifted the black ball from the corner in my hand and put it into his hand. 'It is the right one.' I looked at his absent eyes and left Sirjoznyj Kolhoz.

Kozlowsky's notes - 13 Death and beyond

I have never realized that Death can be so sudden.
He creeps and lurkes in every corner of our life. He follows your shadow, sits down by your side when you drink coffe, jumps into the tram with you, when you rush and try to catch the wagon. He offers you the job position which takes away your life, it renumerates you with sorrow and tears once you settle down and let you build your family, only to allow you to see them dying in you hands.
Just for one moment I wanted to forget that thought. Forget that He will catch me someday. But more than this I was afraid of the fact that He will come first for my beloved ones. He will take them before me, He will destroy my earthly life by taking away the ones I have protected and cherished. And if he does it He will no longer have to wait to take me. My life without my love would be the contradiction of
my existence.
If someone told me how I died I wouldn't be at all surprised. The only thing that could have left me in anger would have been the fact of not finishing the things that I wanted to do. I reckon that almost all people die like this-not having finished their own work, their opus magnum or at least not seeing their children having their own children. On the other side, what can be more irritating than thinking what you have still to do and not finishing it? Well, this is how I ended. I got killed before I solved that mystery. 

Or maybe there wasn't any mystery only my mind wanted to find one? We all search for something like if that urge to find things were our modus operandi. We all want something, desire things or people. We hold to these cravings like idiots dancing among each other in the ballroom. I wanted to know the truth behind the investigation though the truth was something that I imagined to find in the place where there were no answers. I followed the white rabbit straight to the hole but the hole was fake. It all started to disappear once I entered it. It melted and vapoured away. It was like black magic-full of deceptive appearances. But man makes life complicated and tries to find solution where there are none. Or better said, there are solutions but they are not permanent, only temporary, they change and adapt according to the person and world we live in.
Tawarisz Gonczarov. It was Gonczarov who finally got me.
On Saturday's night I left Bielila Gviezda and headed towards my flat. I partied with my office colleagues which I shouldn't have done. They must have arranged my assassination. They informed the guys who waited in front of the bar to whack me. Drunk but still keeping my sense of control of things I strolled down Novosybirskaja ulica. 

Of course they chose a dark corner to attact me. Three rookies circled me and took out knives. 

'Let's have some fun, boys,' I dared to speak to them but knew I had no chance to get out from that alive. 4 knives against my feeble, unarmed body. They were young boys, in their twenties but agile to use the blade. The first wanted to stab me in the stomach. I jumped to the side, managed to take control of his right arm and directed the knife to his head. With a swift move, I slit his throat and a gush of blood dispersed on the street. The first assaulter was down. Right after this two boys simultaneously attacked me from both sides. I didn't manage to hold against one of them and saw how he reached me with his sharp blade right under my left rib. The blade went smoothly into the coat, pierced through it and entered into my body, like a knife slits into butter that my grandmother used to smear on sandwiches that once she had made especially for me. I still remembered the taste of fresh bread baked by her in the oven. Now, blood started to fill in my mouth. I smiled on that nice thought about the freshly baked bread. It is funny how a man remembers those tiny parts from life facing Him. 

The third hitman was few inches from me and already started to sting me with his pocketknife. One sting, secondandthirdandfourth and stopped to take a breath and again onetwothreefourfivesix stabs in my body. After the first three stabs I didn't even feel that strong pain. It just passed by. I was slowly losing consciousness. I didn't remember how but I broke one of the hitmen's arm. I remembered him screaming in pain. The third boy was really stubborn and wanted to make a Swiss cheese out of me. He kept stabbing me until I lost my patience, took the knife away and thrust it into his eyeball. Again scream and again pain and again blood. I fell to my knees bleeding. 

I knew there were rickshaws' stand round the corner. If I got to one of them so it could take me to her. I wanted to go to her place, becasue it was hers and because I could feel good with her, because I wanted to die beside her. I knew they might wait for me at the hospital once I would manage to get out of that mess. But I wanted to see her and to be taken care of her. I knew she could help me. She was the only person I could rely on. I trusted her. 

If only I reached that rickshaw. I had to get out of that dark street and shout for the rickshaw boy. I could see the him waiting for the customer, smoking tobacco. I tried to shout but he couldn't hear me, I was too feeble to shout again. I stretched my hand as if trying to reach him, wanted him to help me, to see me bleeding in the street.
Then I saw the figure coming out from the pararell street. Gonczarov. I was too naive to have thought that I could manage to see her before I die. Too naive to think that I can get out of it like this. Survive? I laughed at my naivety. Gonczarov approached me and took out his pistol. He aimed at me and fired two shots in my head. Thank you Gonczarov, you relieved me from my naivety, but mostly you saved me from seeing my loved ones dying in front of me. On my hands, in my heart. I am too weak to see them dying and you Gonczarov, you made me happy this way. You killed me before noble Death took them. I appreciate it. Thank you.

Sisyphus

Sisyphus
est l'histoire d'un homme qui se met au travers d'une tempete de neige dans la veine tentative d'atteindre une destination qu'il n'a pas l'espoir de pouvoir jamais rejoindre, mais toujours il essaye...

He returned again. Tightly gripping a mug in his hand, he opened the door. There was a strong blizzard outside. His way led through the whirlwind of snow. And that cold. It was the lowest temperature ever. Frost could be smelled, for his nose hardly took icy air into the lungs. He was not warm dressed for the journey but he was good dressed. A long, black coat that is rather worn in autumn and a cap with ear-protectors, a Siberian type. The leather on his boots was cracking and he could feel that his feet were freezing. One would observe that his trousers looked as if made of fragile material. If touched, they would crumble and shatter into small pieces. Dry snow screech under the sole.

He put the cup on the fridge and reached for a bag of tea. Then he poured some boiling water into the cup (smiling Piglet was walking around the cup) and squeezed a lemon, just a bit. Just for the taste. When Piglet was steaming with hot tea, he lighted a Chesterton, took a deep breath inhaling the smoke and produced a puff with a sigh of relief. His face resembled an arctic iceberg, the one mountaineers have after having experienced hard routes on the Arctic Circle. Frost on his beard gave a tinge of nobility. His face was so rigid because of cold that the only facial expression he got was but a smile. He could not change it due to freezing wind he fought with outside.

When he was finished with the duality of his standard procedures, he uttered:

‘And I’m off!’

and a blast of icy wind got through the threshold as he opened the door. With the cup of tea and a lighted Chesterton, he set off on his journey toward the Nord. He knew that the less he inhaled, the farther point he would reach. He also bore in mind that the cup of tea had its finite content and the fewer gulps he took, the less he would have to inhale and the fewer puffs, the fewer gulps. And the fewer puffs and gulps, the nearer it is to the aim of the journey. And the aim was always at the hand. When the point was close, he would feel it. But the closer he was, the more he doubted. ‘Will I get to the point this time? Will my fuel suffice? How long do I still have to go?’

The wind was almost blowing off his face. The frozen drops of water hit his cheeks, puncturing and cutting his jubilant visage. Many miles have passed, his muscles began to get tired and the body suffered. His step slowed demanding a force he no longer possessed. But his bare hands still held Piglet cup and a glowing Chesterton. He watched out not to let the tea freeze in the cup and to keep his smouldering cigarette going.

When the place was within his reach (he could feel it), he suddenly enlivened himself. Though the blizzard was severe and it was hard to see anything, the power and energy filled his organic system. The goal was near, he could almost touch the place. A few steps and he’s there. Joy struck his heart. He was almost there!

But it was a short-term happiness. He looked at his cup and saw it empty. He wanted to take a puff but the Chesterton was now only a fag-end. He was smiling due to the incapability of changing his facial expression but in the heart he cried. Once again he failed. The way he had walked ended in a downfall. He held his expired Chesterton and could see the bottom of the cup. He had to go to the base. Once again.

On the way back, as usual, he reconsidered the plan. Fewer puffs, fewer gulps. One puff a minute, no, one puff per three minutes. He pondered about the ideal solution.

‘Three gulps per five minutes or maybe one and a half per six minutes?’ – he wondered being not sure whether this was his last decision or the fifth before the last one. The spirit of the challenge pushed him forward, so he headed for another cup of tea and a next Chesterton. And when he reached the base, once again he collected the two necessary items and tried again to finish his journey, though the journey was never to be finished.

‘This time I’m gonna make it. This time be my success’ – he repeated. ‘And I’m off!’

He closed the door and went off heading the Nord, heading the night.

Supersandwich

A detail can describe more what a general opinion often fails to capture.
Now, let me tell you what the essence of being German is like. Here, I will use an example depicted by one scene, taken from life.
Wulf, a German friend of mine once paid me a visit, together with his girl-friend. They spent two days visiting the town. In the evening, before the day of their departure, Wulf started preparing some sandwiches for the journey. We sat beside the kitchen table: Wulf, his girl-friend, me and my friend. Wulf took a fresh roll, cut it in half and began what could be called 'a celebration of sandwich making'. He took a knife and carefully scrubbed butter from the plastic package. He smeared it on the roll, being very accurate to put enough butter on the edges. Once the layer was done, he reached for cheese and measured the exact proportion of it to fit the size of the roll. Again, once the ideal portion of cheese was laid on the roll, Wulf added a piece of ham, packing and resizing it to fit the small roll. He asked me, that is his assistant, for his recently favourite erős pista flavouring, which was basically a hot paprika spice. Wulf took a sound chunk of spicy erős, gracefully he smeared the flavouring with a knife and finally put the upper side of the roll on it. The perfect sandwich was done!
We all watched it silently, mesmerized by accurateness and precision of our sandwich maker. We sat in awe and admiration of Wulf's endeavours to strive for an ideal object to eat in the form of a small sandwich. His girl-friend watched him squeezing that poor sandwich which cried to be released from the grasp of German executioner. She watched him torturing the roll but I guess in the end she felt very obedient to her boy-friend, being her master and ultimate Übermensch. A German girl watched and admired his German boy who was executing his thought of perfection on an ordinary piece of bread which took the shape of supersandwich. And why actually she looked up to him? Because the perfection is something which German girls admire in German boys and need nothing else but the feeling of overpowering sensation of boy's dominance. Especially when giving vent to their sexual drive once they find themselves in bed with them.
But it wasn't over. Once the sandwich was ready Wulf asked me for the cellophane paper. I passed it to him  and now the best part was to come. Wulf unrolled the cello paper, measured the length of it with his precise eye, put the paper on the edge of the table and tore it. He placed the roll on the measured paper and wrapped it as if it were a present for Christmas. The finished roll in the cello paper looked nothing but marvellous. It was a specimen of utmost perfection of what one could call an ideal of a sandwich. If Plato had been still alive, visited us on that day, sat beside the kitchen table like us, and finally saw Wulf turning that piece of roll from an ordinary bread to a perfect sandwich, the great philosopher would have definitely cried in admiration and disbelief, seeing one of the ideals he used to talk about, the ideal of sandwich in reality.
Wulf, the expert in computer sciences employed in one of German's companies proved that being excellent as an employee and explaining computer algorithms is no other different to making a perfect sandwich.
However, as much as being very perfect and very precise Wulf showed us other side of being German, as well very important and not to be easily disregarded. All the time he was making the sandwich, all his endeavours and the struggle for the perfect form was nothing but fucking boring.

Kozlowsky 12 - Thick ice

The sun was setting down and people were catching last rays of sun in that cold winter's day.
Walking along the river I pondered about the recent turnovers that had occurred since I took over the murder case. Since the death of the first child the number of killed children increased to 9. The murderer hit almost as often as once per week. All that he was leaving behind was a piece of paper on child's body thrust inside. Kronberg pushed the hypothesis that the messages were supposed to decode the murderer but my nose led me to contact with my father's friend from the Altai university. He was an expert on deciphering such messages and finding a proper context around them. He was my hope to interpret these murders.
On the other hand, there was a problem with the press. Krasnaja Gazeta kept on publishing awkward for Sovnarkom articles that pissed off Kronberg. He started to suspect that I might work with her, the journalistic spy, as he called the best journalistic pen among the newspapers. Kronberg was a cunning fox and several times wanted to get information from me. Till now he hasn't managed to achieve it but I know he will. He is too good to let it go like this. Kronberg will sniff like a dog every false premise, every tiny lie and will turn it against me. I know I cannot even tell my old droog about my feelings towards her. It's not that I don't trust him, this information can be lethal to him. Kronberg knows how to direct the conversation to get information from rabbits like Pietia. I have to protect my circle of friends. 
Kozlowsky took out a pile of files, sat down on a wooden bank beside the river and with frozen fingers started to turn over pages. Although there was sun, the temperature dropped down to -20. Kozlowsky took out a hip-flask and took a good gulp of vodka from it.
Now, let's see what the professor wrote on these sheets. Let's hope there's something of some value for me...
Kozlowsky started to read the first page from time to time drinking from his flask. He didn't notice that a man near him sat down on the frozen river and started to dig a hole in the ice, evidently wanting to fish. Maybe too evidently.

Kozlowsky's notes 11 - Smoke gets in your eyes

Chasing the suspect made me feel really tired and old. 
I came home at around 4 in the morning. Running after that fat, Greek asshole reminded me that I have to return to my regular trainings. I used to run every second  day in the morning. After my superiors decided that I have too little duties they drowned me with paper work. This not only cancelled my early training regime but I also started to smoke again. Running in the Kekosenksi forest gave me loads of strength for the whole day but since I had that time to enjoy myself Kronberg obviously didn't like it and felt I needed to spend more time in the office. And now after two years of smoking that cheap Mongolian tobacco my lungs were that of a fifty year old deduszka.
I unlocked the entrance door and with my arm pushed them. I breathed in. Once, twice and for the third time. It was her perfume that made me more relaxed than a glass of stolichnaya. I sat on the armchair where once she sat and was calming down my breath. I turned on the radio and set the frequency on 104.87 AM - there was a radio station that was hardy audible, banned by governmental restrictions and transmission being successfully muted. A guy from black market, however, managed to unblock it constructing a small device that decoded the radio frequencies. Of course it wasn't legal but once I heard the black jazz music on 104.87 AM I couldn't resist and spent my monthly salary to get that decoder. Now my favourite jazz singer was performing live one of the best standards ever composed. I loved that song. Though I didn't understand English at all every time I heard the melody it grasped my heart. I rolled another cigarette and listened to the lyrics trying to imagine what they were about.


They asked me how I knew my true love was true,
I of course replied, something here inside cannot be denied.
They said someday you'll find all who love are blind,
When your heart's on fire, you must realize,
Smoke gets in your eyes.

4.20 AM and I still didn't want to go to the bed. I don't remember when last time I slept the whole eight hours. Every time I look at my bed it doesn't at all invites me to lie down. The recurrent dream of being chased is driving me crazy. In every single dream I struggle to survive in the warzone, fighting with the insurgents. I can see their masked with scarves faces revealing only eyes, sharp and persistent. I admire their courage, their dauntless perseverance to fight for their cause. But I have to fight back, shooting at randomly moving people, trying to avoid being shot and aiming at the white scarf men. We chase each other between the buildings, run after the prey like once we played hide and seek as children. The only reason is that now we don't do it for fun. Now is the fucking politics that makes us kill each other. Once friends from the neighbourhood we take sides and reach for the kalashnikov. The greed and stupidity of the government is something that will never stop to amaze me. I feel I belong to the revolutionaries. Sovnarkom is a bunch of dick-heads and rabbits who look after a warm hole to hide in. Kronberg, you are only an "ispudnyj zajec" postponing your hunters to kill you.

So I chaffed and then I gaily laughed,
To think that they could doubt my love,
Yet today, my love has flown away,
I am without my love.
Now laughing friends deride tears I cannot hide,
So I smile and say when a lovely flame dies,
Smoke gets in your eyes. 

One of the insurgents has her eyes. The white scarf covers her face but her eyes are looking at me. Our eyes meet for a second, just a second but it is long enough for me to realize that what she is fighting for is for her raison d'etre, "razumnyje osnowanje". The time stops, we still continue to look into the eyes and in this minute I realize that standing with my AK-47 and chasing after a group of insurgents is the most stupid thing I can do in life. I was aiming at her but in this second I lower the gun and amazed keep staring at her, mesmerized. I realize that only that girl who is so severely fighting for the lost cause, with such determination is the only person whom I could trust fully and sacrifice my time. The time gave to me from god I could give it to her, because nothing can be more worth than sacrificing your life to someone who is led by the truth. 

In this very moment she lifts her handgun Nagant, aims at me and shoots. Again, smoke gets into my eyes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iXa0lAJfgE

Contraries

Without Contraries is no progression.
Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence. From these contraries spring what the religions call Good and Evil. Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell.


William Blake

True Greatness

All men fear death. 

It's a natural fear that consumes us all. We fear death because we feel that we haven't loved well enough or loved at all, which ultimately are one and the same. However, when you make love with a truly great woman, one that deserves the utmost respect in this world and one that makes you feel truly powerful, that fear of death completely disappears.

Because when you are sharing your body and heart with a great woman the world fades away. 

You two are the only ones in the entire universe. You conquer what most lesser men have never conquered before, you have conquered a great woman's heart, the most vulnerable thing she can offer to another. Death no longer lingers in the mind. Fear no longer clouds your heart. Only passion for living, and for loving, become your sole reality. This is no easy task for it takes insurmountable courage. But remember this, for that moment when you are making love with a woman of true greatness you will feel immortal.

Ernest Hemingway

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9ZsVL1vGM0

Kozlowsky's notes 10 - Snowflake

It was too silent. 
Inside the Sovnarkom headquaters I could barley speak with someone. It was like if they had disappeared from the corridors and office rooms. I climbed the stairs and headed towards Kronberg's office. From the 3rd floor corridor I could hear Kronberg yelling at someone. At least the beast is inside, I thought and pushed the door to Kronberg's office. I saw two fresh guys and Kronberg standing in front of them, giving orders. When I came he turned to me immediately. 
'And you are out of this case', Kronberg was pointing his finger at me. 'We are closing this investigation. The order came from the Department.'
'I don't understand it.'
'They want us to deal with political cases and not murder ones. We have to take care of the revolutionaries now. This is Felix's decision.'
I stood and gazed at Kronberg. The two officers went out in the meantime.
'Don't ask further questions. You'll have the cancellation in written form. So, you can share it with the press.' Kronberg added and left the office. 
Shit, how did he know about the press? Does he suspect something? Or was it one of his tricks? If he knows that I contact her, for sure I will be interrogated.  
I picked up the phone and dialled the number to Stiepia.
'Let's meet downstairs in a minute', I wanted to see him and ask for a few things. 
 I went outside for a smoke and waited for Stiepia. He was my best mate and junior officer in Sovnarkom. We worked together in militia and since that time stick together. Stiepia was my informant, he had a good ear for the rumours. Plus he thought he own me a favour. A big one. 
Once I saved his ass. 
When we worked in militia we often went patrolling streets together. Suddenly I big guy came from the corner, just running on us and knocking me down. I fell on the street while Stiepia was paralized with fear in front of 2meter bearded Jew standing eye to eye with him. The guy lifted Stiepia with one hand and pressed the poor fellow to the wall, choking him. In a second Stiepia turned red slowly suffocating, with his legs dangling above the ground. I jumped to the guy and kicked him as strong as I could in the knee. The 2 meter high statue collapsed on its knees and released the grip with Stiepia. I was able to continue my silent conversation with the Jew. I hit him hard with my knee aiming at his jaw but touched his nose as well. A gush of blood sprang out of his face. He grabbed me with both hands and threw me on me on the ground. I hit the pavement with my head but didn't loose my consciousness. The Jew pressed me really hard to the ground and started to punch me in the face. He must have had above 100 kilos to mine humble 65. He smelled really bad, it was hard no to vomit. Though he squeezed me like a lemon I managed to turn my body on the side, grab one of his arm and threw him from my body. Still holding one of his hands, bleeding from my mouth and eyebrow I started to hit him back with my elbow and my free, right fist. Seeing that my punches don't make any big effects on him I proceeded with another alternative. Still holding his hand I wrapped it around his neck and held it in order he began to choke. He struggled for a while and then his organism gave up the fight. He passed out. Stiepia was still lying beside the wall, unconscious. 
'They are after you,' Stiepia always talked straightforwardly. 
'Who exactly?'
'I don't know. But they will suspend you, if you keep digging the case.'
'Kronberg has just terminated it.'
'Did he? So it seems they need you for something else.'
'Yeah. We have to become hunting dogs for the anti-government socialists. Felix is putting all his force to crush them, and he will use us to pick the most ferocious kamarad.'
'Everything turns political nowadays.'
'Was it different before?'
'So there will be no more murder hunting?'
'There will be no more Sovnarkom murder hunting.' I smiled.
'If they know you are sniffing around it, they won't like it.'
'I don't like the case either, but have to know where it leads.'
'I warned you, Kozel.'
'Yes, you did.'
Stiepia put out his cigarette and shook my hand. 'One more thing. They know you keep seeing with that woman journalist. They don't like it. To tell you the truth, I don't like it either.'
I was looking at the distant lamp and watched snowflakes falling on the empty street.
'Eto ne harasho. You know that what we do is classified and ...'
'Thanks for taking care of me, Stiepia. You can go now.'
'I am worried.'
I looked at him and took the last puff of cigarette.Then I turned my head to the street lamp. 'Snowflakes are very beautiful this winter. Really strong and pretty. They won't melt for months, that's for sure. They will survive and win the summer.'