The Blog

However, let’s drop the subject for some other guy to blow up the Net with, because this morning, by the try and error check, it was detected that you can stuff no more than five A4 sheets into a bottle.

Which is not a cinch, by the bye. And do not forget leaving some room for them (A4s) to piggyback because of oceanic dampness. Some booked, so to say, volume.

As for bottles it’s not a crunch on Island since that maverick wreck of galleon got stranded by the storm last week. No crew, no nothing but the screwed-up vessel driven into the bay by the northern cape of Island, however, the chest in the Captain’s cabin stayed intact with all the stuff inside. Jamaican gin, bottled, follow me?

Well, one of those had to be emptied for the experimentation tries’ sake to see the bottle’s capacity, when you start stuffing it with A4 rolls. No more than five, as it was mentioned. Exactly where I plan to shove this here part of my blog up.

The uninhabited environs have since long streamlined me into a thoughtful expert in practicality because not every day a fried dove flies to you, assisted by the favorable breeze as an addition to a freebie galleon, you know what I mean, huh?

* * *

Bottle #3: ~ Prince Kurbsky Too Was Not Ashamed Of Taking To The Hills ~

What was it all kicked off with? No way to find out. As in anything at all.

When thinking deep enough, you do behold that any point in your grab will readily become the start.

How about the point, when the gray-covered notebook was handed in for the City Psychiatrist to check the sanity percentage in the person and/or how dangerous would the doodler of such stuff be for i

Or take that pivotal moment, marked by the ample pocketbook with perceptible sepia tinge in the pages seen through the press in 1968, which my Teacher’s hands offered (no pathetic blah-blah attached) for mine, all full of awe and greedy gratitude? Does it draw a shorter straw to be the start?

The invitation for the thick gray notebook to pop up was provided by the weighty parcel in the coarse mustard-hued paper for postal deliveries, corded about and sealed up with chocolate-like blobs of stamped wax which I hadn’t broken. Ever.

What’s the use of breaking if you knew what’s inside? Translations were there, that’s what. Translations from English, 35 stories, 472 pages typewritten in Ukrainian.

These, like, randomly collected figures do not repeat each other in their summing up of 6 years’ work—gee! and this one also does not coincide with a single one of them!

Six years deftly wrapped in the mustard-hued paper, bound-sealed up by skillful hands of a post office service-lady: shrrsh-frisst-trunt-slamp – next, please!

The undeniably non-uniform figures do contain certain meaning, albeit not graspable with a fleeting glimpse, because socialism is, first and foremost, inventory, to cite the aphoristic definition by Lenin at the sitting of All-Russia Central Executive Committee on p.57, vol. 35, Complete Collection Of Works in 55 Volumes…

In the Publishing House they also did not bother to open the translations, toe-kicked them on the fly instead. A one-touch shot.

Yet why multiplying them? The half-back was seated all alone at his desk in the second office to the left down the corridor. Sedentary way of life made of that Sitting Bull a blob of blubber. Unhealthy obesity, not fitting a soccer player.

Let him thank me for the humanitarian aid offered—no excruciating push ups, just taking to the post office 472 pages plus their cover—to throw away a sliver of his fat in the exercise, and the Publishing House would reimburse the expenditure confirmed by the post office bill slip.

Not a chance. A courier was sent by the fucking slackmaster…

The long and short of it, the translations returned to where they had initially started from and stilled there, like a mustard-hued tombstone, to crown 6 years of mental toil marked by the contemplation wrinkles in the thoughtful forehead.

And why not to lie still enjoying such a sound prop? The DIY book-shelves coated with translucent shellac—tranquil and soft environs for a peaceful slumber.

Yet the pages in the package upon the homemade shelf not only weighed down the interior’s item but also were drip-dripping onto my brains even through the coarse paper, the pages. Their comatose presence made still acuter the inertia amassed in 6 years of communing with them those antlike-black-critters-in-the-white-field, so obstinate at first but getting tamer, bit by bit, until they finally hooked me up too. The situation-conditioned addiction. But after the Game over, in the stiff stillness, there remained nothing to waste myself away. Plodding donkey and circus horses are incurable…

Fucking Sir Isaac Newton and that First Law of his, although the inertia thing was cabbaged from Galileo.

The evenings noticeably lengthened. To find a shim for filling them up with turned out not a trivial task.

Like, not any quick fix but go and learn playing melodeon squeezebox so that, in the dark, to stroll about the hood lanes outpouring some hot air or another, in a flash pair of black high boots, and a fluffy flower (Portulaca oleracea) stuck in the visor-cap so that the girls would tag along and fall over themselves to treat the musician to the black seeds they’re snacking non-stop…

Sad pity but the idea about a squeezebox failed to hook me up effectively, you know, and I bypassed buying high boots.

As for the girls, cute and saucy, they’ll always find who to give their seeds to in this or that, or any other feasible way in the current environment.

Squeezing all the above-said together, instead of a two-row A-major/D-minor melodeon there, by the intact heap of paper within the stiff cask-like shell of wrapping (somewhat grown already with the softer layer of the virginal pollen of dust), yes, right next to it, possibly too nigh to, stretched out a notebook, rather thick and of a certain hint at brazen boldness in its pale-gray leatherette cover.

The purpose of the stationery bad ass, at first, had rather fuzzy outlines, however, definitely slanted to the ant-like-signs-and-so-on-and-forth private games (because no computer games existed yet and computers themselves were named Machine-Computer Engineering Tools that necessitated construction of reinforced concrete foundation to mount them (the Tools) upon and on that solid basis they thundered like locomotives spi

Yeah, buddy, be kind to patiently endure the games of my mind spilt in your grid-ruled pages where the well-schooled ant cohorts would crawl on bringing up the grim story of how I could possibly get to so morbid life style. Yet, those crossed-out lines do not count…

At that exactly moment came to me the radiant clearance as to how slippery was this question: where to start from?

However, the notebook did not give an eff about the complicated nature of the issue and with the arrogant gusto, and the nonchalance of bro-to-bro-talk revved forth about i