The Blog

Whenever some passage stayed unclear even after The Chamber’s 20th Century Dictionary, the following Sunday saw my travel by bus to Stepanakert, the capital of the Autonomous Region to keep a council with BDSE, The Big Dictionary of the Soviet Encyclopedia, in the regional library down there…

At the end of academic year I was dished out a no man’s house in the village, comprising one room on the second floor level above the locked up store cave for keeping the tin school stoves in warmer seasons, along with the stock of bits and scraps from ruined school desks.

Part of my salary was spent for gradual acquisition of plywood sheets from the Building Materials Shop in the Stepanakert Bazaar, which I kept nailing up, gradually, in between the paydays, to the planks in the ceiling through which there leaked the earth spread under the roof as the thermal isolation.

The plywood repair accomplishment coincided with the start of the following academic year, and the room was shared with a rookie teacher arrived from Yerevan, where he had been freshly baked and certified by a pedagogical institute.

Arthur wore black-rimmed glasses of rigid looks and soft locks of moderately long hair, also black. At school he taught Armenian to kids and coming home shared the woeful tales about the eternal wounds of Armenia with me.

He held on for almost two months then brought from Yerevan a sack of second-hand garments for the village kids, a kinda payoff for his unfulfilled intentions, and I’ve never seen him any more…

And when the shy and soft first snow coated the ground hardened by the first frost I got it first-hand that possession of a tin stove for wintering, yet having nothing to stick in and kindle inside it, would feel unquestionably cold.

So, I grabbed the ax bought in the process of the mentioned ceiling-remodeling and started off to the woods…

On the slope grown with mighty beech trees, something certainly collared me and brought to the tree as large as any other yet almost put away by the deep cave in the trunk, close to the roots.

Maybe, the dryad dwelling up in the tree got sick and tired of the insufficient nutrition through the defective trunk and called me? No way to figure out why and how it still managed standing upright.

Hacking the trunk leftovers through did not take long before the tree fell with the bye-bye snap-and-crackle.

However, the fall was intercepted by a neighboring beech. Which situation called for climbing the felled tree and cutting it into separate pieces, for then to fall again and reach the pretty askew ground, one by one now: the crown, the pillar, the foot.

Some exquisite picture! No fucking circus will ever reproduce! The Magic of Ax Acrobatics!

The audience got frozen by awe, and horrified admiration in their seats. Houdini! Houdini! Cast a look from wherever you are at the poor wretch, one of the crazy dare-devils of you followers!

Hugging the tree up there—so too high!—with just one hand, uses he remaining one to cut the other tree—felled but not fallen as of yet.

That’s a hell of an uphill job, fair ladies and kind gentlemen! Sure it is!

The man is shedding hot sweat and frightened farts, when another of cut off pieces threatens to pull him off and down in their final plunge…

After all of the quartered tree landed around the supporting trunk, the executioner dropped his ax down and descended clench-hugging the freed prop…

When on the slanted ground, my hands a-shaking and the knees a-trembling after all the strain up there in the Circus Sweat Dome, I felt the urge to go pee-pee, unzipped the fly, and craned over – what the heck! Where’s my doodle?

Instead of the dick I used to, there stuck off a willy of a kindergarten kid.

That’s why in the pictures on the ancient Greek amphorae depicting sportsmen and warriors, this particular part in the man’s frame was drawn so dinky – your body ca

Not that I really needed a dick in the empty wood on the winter eve, but pinching that medicine dropper out from its sheath of the muffler of non-artificial skin with your trembling, inflexible fingers is a hard nut to crack, which is not a circus any more but some fucking porno thru and thru…

The next day, they snatched me to the village council, from midst the classes. The chairman started his bullying. In Russian but with a noticeable Caucasian accent: why da tree da cut? Dey uud prison you.

– Felled, – sez I, – as to winter thru because.

And the wood watcher was also present, Dad of Garrick from the 4th form, putting a good word in, in Armenian, that the tree had been long since kaput already.

In short, the following day they gave me a truck and a couple of young hands to fetch the cut over to the one-room two-storied house. True, on the way some part of the booty was dropped by another house too, yet the remainder still lasted to the next summer…

And the 4th grade was the most populated grade at school, by the bye. Two boys and two girls. But later Arega’s parents moved to Armenia and took her over as well.

So, when the The Portrait… was finished, I did not instantly switch over to Ulysses but felt some inclination for that rascally scribbling once again.

The payoff on the try amounted to 11 pages, however, not a sequence to what had stayed back in the gray notebook, yet from a period ten years later.

Well, I saw they hit it off well, the pages, and only then I plunged into Ulysses because there remained just 9 years from the stipulated stretch.

Thus I put my self-made doodling off, for fifo remains fifo in the Caucasus too, and if you want to get it indeed what it could mean then ask your system administrator.

However, as it turned out, my own writing was put off for 29 years and till some absolutely offbeat village…

What the heck! See? To find the point for a start is just half the battle because the question of equal vagueness and importance is to shut up in time. A lil bit more and this here blog installment would call for a whole keg instead of the routine bottle…

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Bottle #4: ~ The Skedaddler ~

And all that does not mean as if this here Island will serve you anything at all delivered on a dish embellished with a blue rim of great artistic aptitude and value. Damn no! Here you’d better keep your expectations in check, firm and proper. Don’t drip your mouth water in other guy’s property without knowing first who’s who in the turf…

Just for the record, the Island is Uninhabited, if you think fit to remember, and besides, the over-abundance of blue color or, say, pink, not to mention the dazzling mixture of them with other darlings, would cause a closer attention to you so as to catch on which way your orientation slants, and that’s why the like services stayed far back in the past, that sweet, i

To wit, don’t ever count on any dainty dishes here. Yet, on the other hand, they won’t take you for a bird of their feather, them those faggy parrots in their horny, epidermal outgrowth all aglow and—look! ah! dearie cuties!—see those whoopee tails on them?! So big, and long, and simply yummy!

Besides, no, not everything is here in heaps and plenitudes. The calendar, for one, is lacking in the Island, in toto. Though yes, who gives a fuck smack bang among the everlasting tropical summer.

Or is it winter, after all? Well, you feel the seasonal switch okay, but it is hard to say: we are drenched with Cancer’s non-stop winter or Capricorn’s unceasing summer rains right now?

Then, secondly, watch your mouth about “fuck!” because OBPS (check Bottle #1 in this here blog for explication) perlustrate your bottle messages and when you come to talking in the natural way they substitute your words with asterisks like this “****” and that’s their way to fucking filter your stream of conscience out and expose it as an u

Now, who turns out a real lover and who’s the asterisked perverter of the language alive?

How come them OBPS guys see thru thick ocean waves plus dim bottle glass? No problem at all. They keep a computer program out there to run down and eradicate from texts the very roots and footing.

Can you imagine? They’ve taught an i

Who’s blurted here “metal has no psyche”? You? Then your likes, the so-called Church Fathers, for more than 300 years rated woman into the class of soulless household utensils/beasts of burden and even voted on this issue in one of their summit get-togethers. One “aye” exactly made woman into human being.

Dogs also have no soul? Eh? Like other animal that you maim and torture for your experimental ends? You, cloned clowns-vivisectionists!.

Taking all that in consideration, you safely may call this areal populated by me alone the Island of Freedom from Time because when you struggle thru the preliminary 2 Levels your co

Well, not that I’m much concerned on that point. No sweat. Not even in this here tropics. It's only for the sake of curiosity and stuff.

And that’s a pity I can’t wield the astrolabe or else by juxtaposing meridian to longitude you would see which of the Tropics your tan is from, namely.

Nope, I’ve been anything but a navy cadet… The matter is that last week the atoll’s lagoon (how on earth could it pop up here at all? the island 2Bsure is of volcanic origin) was visited by the Flying Dutch. You easily can judge it by her sails torn and fretted to hankie size and the bowsprit adorned with the brassiere XXXL big, also in tatters…

So, their boatswain wanted to peddle me an astrolabe for just three piastres.

No, he did not venture ashore and only waved to me ‘come aboard, bro!’, yet I abstained from taking risks because the holes in his singlet allowed for glimpses of his skeleton, well-gnawed and brightly polished in the process.

In the morning the vessel was no more in the lagoon and neither any trace of her. Hard to say the reason for their visit, not to replenish their supply of fresh water anyways.

The lagoon’s water body might be a junction in their traffic routes or else a rendezvous spot to hang out with seals in divers suites. I du

However, to decide the day of week is easy as pie, each and every day here is Friday. Ha! The most best of the best days in the week full of yummy expectancy to live a little at long last after you’re thru the working week.