04.09.2018. These Notes, and this is a strangely – for a generic name ON THE INTERNET – fitting term for what is not intended for writing, point to sound and light variations more than to what is made of words and what, allegedly, carries meanings. Notes are not blogs, slogs or frogs. Notes do not jump on you. They are indeed points that aim to fix. They also are what one whispers in awe or frustration, they are those hostages of emotion that are not at all about expression; yet, they are to be expressed, if only under the breath in the ear of THE lover, these intimations, imitations, incidentals.

Born out of a long and by now more complicated life than the author has ever desired, these Notes are nonetheless too fleeting to carry any wisdom, to connote in general. They are beyond and aside of a directed gaze, or any direction to that matter. They are not directionals that blink (blinkers). Too soft, too weak, too… ah, occasional and too soon to matter. They are written, yes, still written, but for no particular audience in mind and without any particular purpose. Just so.

06.09.2018. The beginning of a story. It always comes after the light is off and the eyes are firmly closed and not aching any more from too much seeing during the day. Like in when staring outside shifts to staring inside and the inner space gets illuminated. What a show! A pity it is missed by all but the Self and Another Self, a presence on stage and a presence offstage, sitting leisurely in the first row directing the incoming dreams. The title of the story is A Man Who Burnt Hitler. His name is Antoine Swartz. He likes his name. It makes him think that it matches his SS uniform and his darker skin to a ‘T’ (no, of course, he is still very Arian, he passed all the checks, but he comes from the North Eastern German stock (G. Grass’ geography of Flounder comes to mind); hence, his thick black hair, merry freckles around the eyes, and a long lanky figure, you know, the one that is so good for goosestepping – alas, another trite allusion). His parents named him after obscure French politician Antoine Plissart. Like many Germans, they were in love with France. Well, perhaps, but, certainly, not for long. When meeting women, he would introduce himself by saying ‘an-tu-ann,’ stressing the last syllable, only to watch one more fair-haired Fräulein melt and become one less.

Speaking of the Nazis, the daughter of a friend from Boston I used to know years ago (most of the people I used to know qualify nowadays to be called ‘used to know,’ ‘some time,’ ‘former this or that,’ or just ‘ex,’ them being somehow gone as if pushed out of circulation by some relational expiration date), well, this young woman called BMW cars ‘fascist.’ There is something to it if you place the front of the car, its (in)famous two eyed grid, underneath the vanity curl of Antoine’s SS hat in the very spot where the Totenkopf emblem would shine with unambiguous menace. Speaking of which, me digressing again (no wonder my students in the European Far North where I taught the Russian language, gave me the nickname ‘digressor’), I am quite in awe with the collectors of Nazi symbolics: uniforms, war decorations, documents, domestic objects. Why anyone wishes to find, pay, and keep all this morbidity, and in secret mostly? I can see how an otherwise decent person caresses this stuff when alone, daring not to show it to strangers. An acquaintance in Russia I am thinking defined his gruesome interest in ‘all that’ in terms of ‘aesthetics.’ ‘The aesthetics of death,’ I added then. He did not accept. ‘The aesthetics of history,’ he said. ‘Too general,’ I said, and we left it at that, but I still wonder looking at all the books translated and written on the subject in so very many languages occupying (yes, a very proper word for the occasion) two whole shelves at my late father’s dacha (he too was bewitched). I keep the books, but I don’t want to see the titles, and so I turn these books around in such a way as have them face the walls when I am there. In this way I have collection blend into a single discourse, a discourse that still begs the question.

09.09.2018. My partner, who is German, got somewhat perturbed by me starting the Notes with a story about a Nazi. ‘Why do you want to write on this topic?,’ she asked. ‘Why indeed?’ Well, the reasons are several. On the one hand, my protagonist is a generic type of person: quiet, patient, differential, his lookalike exists in every culture, he speaks dozens of different languages and is still recognizable as Antoine. His demeanor – self-assured but unimposing – attracts people, especially people like myself, people who have little patience and run ahead of the train on most personal and formal occasions, quite an unattractive sight, I keep on reminding myself. As a German, I would have been a neurotic German, a German, who wanders looking hunted down, painfully sensitive, unable to deal, faltering under fire. The type is much more pervasive, but much less interesting (I too am much less interesting to myself, but that is also a property of being unable to assume an outside perspective on oneself past the first order of separation – I cannot experience my experience of myself, only that of the Other is available for any in-depth scrutiny, like it always takes me by surprise to be hearing my own voice in a recording).

On the other hand, Antoine is decidedly a cultural subject. He is friendly and open as many young German men I used to know during my almost eight years of living in that country. He is thoughtful and efficient. He does not complain. He stands his ground, but he is not forceful. And not violent. And this is the reason he was noticed by Hitler and was chosen to serve him. Antoine is a person one can rely on. Not in terms of loyalty – no public figure should expect loyalty – but on an everyday level. He would not judge and even his vanity is of a subdued kind. ‘Is he earnest then?,’ my partner asked. ‘I think so.’ I conjure up his image. I am surprised to see that, again, Antoine is very handsome, like Falco is handsome, all these cheek dimples, sleek long hair (I am thinking the younger Falco before drugs and alcohol got under his skin, making him pear-shaped and bedraggled – still a pity, a PITY!) and long seeking fingers of a striptease dancer (Oops, a ‘no’ here: Antoine is sleek, but not seedy; he is a stage presence all right, but only as a second – that is why Hitler chose him from the line of his SS piers; it especially appealed to the Führer that Antoine was not eager to be chosen. Does it mean that he did not care? I don’t know. The story has just begun. He isn’t vain, right. Let’s just wait and see). ‘Is he ambitious?’ ‘No. I don’t think so.’ My favorite Hannah Arendt’s work is ‘Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil.’ Like his master, Antoine was banal but he was not evil. He was just there, the right man at the wrong turn of his country’s history. Consider this: He discharged his gun at a human being only once, and that human being was Hitler.

I have come to realize that dating my entries is redundant because I edit what has already been written all the time (‘Revisator!’) building on the earlier bits by way of footnoting them internally, like in the continuous act of inserting loose change in the premade slot in order to give the whole thing more weight which does not mean more substance. Gambling is never about winning. Sex is never about making children. Revising is a habit, a gesture. Do you think that laws of physics apply to writing?

It has been a long time, writing here: moving between countries helps collect  impressions, no doubt, but they are as fleeting as the distances overcame, left behind, forgotten. It is a bit ironic, for most of all my notes belong to small genre; they are not much different than a piece of paper you have just put yourself into by scribbling a few ineligible words. Subsequently, I have tons of constantly disappearing ‘wrotes,’ as I wish to call them. Somewhat derogatory, for organizing my texts happens only on the macro level, they are folk fictions. I cannot go deeper: the foreign language stops me. I should be writing in Russian as well. At home, with my partner and my children, we speak English. Each child knows 5-6 Russian words used perfunctorily in their ‘Okay, I will say something’ manner when I put them on the phone with my mother, who they call ‘babushka’, stressing the middle syllable, and that is all my native tongue means to them. When heard some stranger speak Russian, they say – Hungarian. I don’t mind the association – often, when someone eager for communication here in England would ask me where I am from, I used to say – Hungarian to avoid unnecessary complications, trying to make it easy for myself and for my native interlocutors, but now when England has a fair bit of Hungarians, I decided to switch for a more complex and perhaps confusing identity: Kyrgyz. What? What? Where is it? Is it a language even? Sounds like something that belongs to carpentry: After you are done with Kyrgyz, you can do the first paint of the wall.

As it always happens to digressors, they tend to digress in multiple directions. For example, I would like to present a haiku, the first one I have written since 1994. Moreover, and perhaps a bigger digression deals with the language. The analytic order of the English language makes it easier to write a haiku, but the synthetic Russian cannot be capped when thinking or translating it: the free word order spells out semantic flexibility as well. This is to say, the English translation of haiku has less ability to express its nuances. Without further ado: Oops, – WordPress does not seem to let its publications to appear in other languages.

Then: The sun of March is bright, and the road is mud. The little girl and the old woman, holding hands, venturing out into the unknown. Will they make it?

Sounds like it has no heart, this haiku, in English,. Well, I should try better next time. This little piece comes from Vasiljev’s painting ‘On the Road.’ It reminds me me of my mother who is a lonely soul and who would like to take the road as an opportunity to become the little girl, a favorite grand-daughter for a big family. Now, she is more like the mother of Grendel from John Gardner’s novel. She is trying hard to DO something, anything, for her children, but all she needs to do is to try and UNDERSTAND them in all their difference. Alas!

Speaking of children, I have three of them. The middle one looks just like myself. But I understand him the least. He is an astoundingly handsome boy (here: not necessarily like me), but, like myself, he is strangely detached, a ‘thing of his own,’ as my former friend said about me when I was in my twenties. He is an enigma, reminding of Fowls and his ‘Enigma,’ a story about a strange disappearance of a well-to-do businessman, who, already in his fifties, didn’t come home one day. Gone for good in a flash. I read the story thirty years ago, but it still resonates with me.

When one is living through their fifties, he often has to face one or another existential crisis, which reminds me the character of Otto-the-postman from Tarkovsky’s ‘Nostalgia’ speaks about waiting for something to happen in the opening scene. Waiting for something. When it doesn’t come, this something, this event, warrants a disappearance, and myself, one of many of that age, who cannot help but wait for an event that would justify their entire life, their living, to be more exact, when tired of waiting, go some place. I yearn to know about this place. I imagine it to be deeply covered in snow, a remote place. I see a dog, a big German shephard, an old Russian hut in need of much repair, but most of all, it has to be so remote, so lonely, that that the very idea of loneliness would dissipate at the moment of the inability to stand up and proceed.

There is no duty, no hardship, even love in this place. It is entirely white, empty of human presence, and even a dog is more of a decoration.

When you old, and at 55 I feel old, decorations, more precisely things, become burdensome as if all you want is an colorless expanse that will eventually devour you, making you one with them. The question that leads to this imaginary place is the fundamental one: Why should or rather ought to continue living? Or, more technically, how can one turn into snow, wind, earth? How can one become an elemental?

This digression does not mean that I forgot about my character and his short but dutiful life. After all, it is him, at not so advanced age, set fire on the most hated man on earth. But these notes will not reveal the reasons – there are none – for that deed. He too disappeared like a  dark angle whose only purpose was to eliminate a monster. In the meantime, he polishing his beautiful long boots, ready to assume his duty as Hitler’s adjutant, just appointed in the lowest rank, whistling, as was his habit, Polka, and looking forward to appear in all his orderly immpecable self. As I wrote before, he had no fear, no morals of the usual kind. A blank slate, one could see him already gone, as he will be very soon.

When I tam thinking of Antoine, and I am doing it fairly often, I wonder if he traveled a lot, or even some. I am sure he was confined to Germany, to Berlin throughout most of his life. I also think he was not particularly unhappy about it, given how he was in the world. Myself, I consider myself a seasoned traveler, but I am still excited at the prospect of taking a journey. Journey is movement and movement makes me think. Shukshin’s story ‘Nedoteupa’ comes to mind. I always take a book with me, but I rarely engross myself in reading when I travel: the print serves as a distraction a way to channel my thoughts which tend to run amok against the perceptual overload of smells, sights, and people. Flight 2583 London Heathrow to Moscow Sheremetyevo. I have flown to Moscow hundreds of times from the United States and Europe. I am travelling from Brighton, a ‘relaxed’ place, a place, where people wear shorts and sandals to departmental meetings, and where everyone, who is not gay, looks like gay, and gays sport their looks to the extreme. The weather (Oh, no, I am talking about the weather again, but how can one not talk about the weather if it is so very dismal that you either bitch about it all the time, a legitimate topic to complain about is a country, where people think it is bad taste to complain to begin with, or pretend that it is not there: wearing nothing but a T-short is an expected sight at all times, – rain, storm, and slit, tornado and Tsunamis included) is a mix of the sun and strong cold wind coming from the English Channel. I arrive early and have to stand for a while at the bus stop, slowly freezing my extremities. The stop consists of a single pole with a picture a bus and a few glass panels thrown together in a manner which does not really protect travellers from the elements but creates an impression of doing so. A thoughtfully designed – so as to dissuade the homeless – narrow, very narrow and uncomfortable to sit on bench is sticking out in the middle. They call it Pull Valley Coach Station, but there is no food stand or coffee machine or any of the usual amenities that a station would presuppose. An elderly English couple is standing next to me, apparently freezing as well, trying to smile, mumbling about their discomfort through their bad teeth. Their complaints are barely audible; they are not meant for others (unless they are already in a conversation – then, it is legit). The bus to Heathrow is already there. It is sitting at the station saying Out of Service. The bus driver is inside. We all, about ten of twelve of us, know it, but patience is a virtue in the UK. We are waiting. Five minutes before the departure time, I move back and start pacing. As a foreigner, I am allowed not to be patient. At some point I line up with a short black man who sees my impatience and start talking to me. He speaks with a strong Nigerian accent, – another foreigner. I tone down my artificial English and start speaking with a generic American accent. He gladly responds. In a fast and irritated voice he tells me about him having to stand where he is standing, in ‘the dumm carner,’ while the bus-driver is sitting comfortably in the bus and so on and so forth. I give him the usual, trying not to cross the invisible boundary of criticizing the native, using the generic ‘these people,’ ‘the guy’, etc. ‘These people burn me up,’ I say. From a stock of set responses, this one works very well, giving the other person an opportunity to blast ‘these people’ out of their comfort zone. I purse my lips the Obama style and nod and nod and nod. We are revelling in our ‘alien’ togetherness. We are ranting at will, happily ignoring the rules of appropriateness, forgetting about ‘good manners’ and stock behavioural patterns in the country which used to set the highest standards of politeness and good will for all. We are having a ball, the Nigerian, who is by now speaking so fast that I can barely understand him and myself, the Russian, who has happily given up on pretending that he participates by taking his turn. It is enough for me to attend to him, and, in this way, to share the comradership of bitching, that commonness that only the natural born outsiders know. A fat girl and a nerd boy, back in school. Remember? Finally, on the dot of the departure time, the driver walks out. He smiles and tells us in a pretend apology that he arrived late (too much traffic) and had only 20 minutes to rest instead of 45 minutes that he is entitled to take, but he is ready to go and will not compromise the schedule. He says all that as he is taking our luggage, checking our tickets, chatting about Swansea, greeting the familiars. The Nigerian guy and myself are standing aside when we hear all that, and as we do, a transformation occurs in both of us. Our embarrassment is such that it immediately divides us. We are no longer looking at each other and instead of playing out a distinct possibility of sitting together, we go our separate ways: he rushes into the bus and I linger to let him settle. Then I walk in, passing by him without saying a word. Every alien for himself, I am thinking. Once on the bus, I buckle up to show my good will to driver and remain buckled for the two hour plus trip, feeling like I am making amends for my hasty judgement of a nice English man.

A bad taste still in my mouth, I walk inside the airport only to feel that my irritation thermometer begins to climb. The English may not be xenophobic, but they are decidedly not interested in a cultural other. They go on their five week-long vacations a year to have the sun and the sea and almost never a culture, a museum, a trip to the opera. Food (being so very palate numbed after a life-long diet of fish and chips and god knows what other deep fried shit that they eat, the English care less about food than any other nation I personally know – the Russians, the Belgians, the French, the Italians, the Americans, and the whole East European schmogarsboard), but mostly pubs where they guzzle pints of bear on regular days and weekends alike, arranging their entire life and work schedules around a pint. Occasionally, they ask you about your accent, but they are not taking the info you give them anywhere. Unlike the Americans (I know, I know, – I am dangerously stereotypical, but I do believe and I did argue for cultural stereotypes to be inalienable from one’s everyday existence), the English do not pick up on what you give them, not even with ‘I was in Russia in 1971,’ or ‘What do you think about Putin?’ as would be an expected response from an American. They do not pretend to try and affiliate with you. ‘Oh, Russian. That’s all right’ is the most common response I have heard in my five years of living in that country. ‘Of course it is all right,’ I want to say, but say nothing. Silence is the foreigner’s best friend. Yet, I am not irritated by the English. I am irritated by the sheer diversity without diversity that I see. The English are just the background

On the plane, which is surprisingly empty (long live the Russian-English collapse of mutual good will!), I start looking forward to my entitlement, my miniature dinner. ‘What is it going to be?,’ I am musing to myself. ‘Lamb? Chicken? Fish?’ Whatever it is, I know I deserved it. After I washed down my entire take-in (a hard-boiled egg, half of banana and a free apple from a posh restaurant I took my family for my oldest son’s 12 year birthday) at the Indian-run Nero) before going through the gate, I am ready, baby ,for my tiny white bun and a slice of Russian black bread with cheese and butter and a mystery entre. The joys of miniaturism…(oh, well, later about that and ‘no’, it is not going to something straight from The Fight Club). So, I am thinking about my meal, I do have a distinct difficulty concentrating. Right behind me, two clever Moscow ‘boys’ (for my age; in fact they are well in their twenties) are conducting that very familiar kind of banter that would often make me feel lost in college. I am neither fast nor clever. I tend to fall hopelessly behind. That is why I do not do banter, I say to myself. I write banter. It is not what they say to each other however, but how they do it that is getting to me, making my skin crawl in irritation.

I also wonder, to move to a different subject matter concerning Antoine, if my character was a quiet child. Yes, in fact, he was. Not just quiet but introspective, focusing on small things, on the things at hand. It is for that reason that he did not have many friends and none imaginary ones. He was entirely self-sufficient in his observing mode: neither good nor bad but precisely self-sufficient as in being independent from others. This does not mean however that he was independent from everything. As I have said, he was dependent on his environment to an extent that made him appear detached as he was but only from his socium. I was also detached as a child and also was attached to my environment, but, unlike Antoine, I loved my little toys, especially Playmobil figurines, which came into my life just at the right time. These figurines were not imaginary but their lives were that. Miniature worlds became me. Even when I walked, I walked with my head down, looking the ground, seeking out tiny little things that I would collect and use for my worlds. None of this was happening to my sons who, if anything, are very outword-bound and totally uninterested in anything miniature, including collections.

Telephone for Speaking with God

There is a certain awe one experiences when he sees a red phone on the table of a head of state. A direct line to another head of state, which I presume not any state but the one whose head has the red button and a bunch of nuclear arms in his possession. What can possibly surpass the power of this kind of communication. Well, my son Luka has recently found himself a relic. Of course, nobody could expect a relic to be a pice of wood of approximately size of a small brick: 10x3x4 cm. It was peculiar: it looked like a piece of an old ship that got shipwrecked centuries ago: well-polished by the elements, it was both smooth and porous. Its original purpose was unknown. Against our rule – no stones, sticks, seagull feathers–to be brought in the house, we felt differently about this object. It appeared to be harmless and hygienwise—passable, so it was all right for Luka to bring it home. It was a mysterious object nonetheless, and we wondered about its use, talked about it; yet, we quickly forgot about it until one day, a week or so later, we caught Luka upstairs in his big brother’s bedroom talking to someone holding the piece of wood next to his ear, just like a cellphone. It was at this point that we realized that he indeed uses it as a phone, talking, as the title of this note has already given away, to–God. We did not know at first, thinking an imaginary friend, but Luka’s confidence and his continuation of talking despite our presence, made us ask after he was done with the common phone talk closure, as in Okay. Buy buy. Who it was that was on the other end of the phone, Luka, we asked, expecting a response pointing to a Marvel hero or another such character. It was not such a character, however. As soon as we found out, we became flabbergasted. Neither one of us is religious and neither one of us likes to discuss God unless it is for academic purposes. Two things stood out immediately: God is not an imaginary friend, therefore how come? Second, Luka’s confidence and his sense of privacy were of the level we have been unfamiliar with before. Our investigation yielded the following: God was Luka’s personal friend. So, our original suggestion that God cannot be such was simply overthrown. Second, as for the content of Luka’s conversations, Luka simply said that it was his business. Even more flabbergasted, we suggested that perhaps we can improve his phone: I thought that panting buttons and a screen would be god, and maybe a soft plastic antenna could be also good. To this, Luka esponded that the phone must remain as is, throwing us back in another wondering spin, but nothing much happened since then. A year later, Luka still talks to God and the ‘phone’ is still there, resting on his shelf in the little ones’ bedroom.

Why Tarkovsky? Why is it that I am laboring so much over a book that is doomed to be complicated and hardly unique. Perhaps the reason for this is the same reason that made me cry when I watched ‘Mirror’ for the first time at the age of fifty five. My childhood, my family, my life passed before my eyes zeroing in on the last scene: the field, the twilight, the cross, the passing. Now that I am looking back, I remember how I encountered Tarkovsky for the first time in 1980 at a closed viewing of his Stalker in the House of Cinema in Moscow. The film produced a strong and lasting impression on myself, a young adult, who was in a continuous search for new sources of self-betterment. Tarkovsky’s cinema appeared to offer such a source. My preliminary research thirty years ago (confined mostly to Soviet journal Iskusstvo Kino [Cinema Art]) yielded only several publications by Tarkovsky and about him. The latter were largely negative, creating a strong dissonance to my experience. I saw Solaris in 1985, in the early days of ‘perestrojka,’ when many ‘shelved’ films started making it out from film archives into the open. I found Solaris as captivating; moreover, I found it deeply ‘philosophical,’ although then I understood the term in the mundane sense.

A new rubric for these notes. I have abstained from using it, for it is a diaries rubric: I have it in all my little notebooks, some of which were purchased and others – given to me as gifts. I will try and move those proper diary notes in here, with much editing of course. In the meantime, the new rubric is better be called ‘projects.’ There are so many. And this is one thing that differs me from Antoine. He hardly had projects. He was certainly clever and pensive, a good observer in a primitive, that is, more advanced than an intellectual could ever be, way. Yet, he harbored no projects. Hitler felt it and chose him intuitively, as a doer, an actor without a role. Babylon Berlin is a German series whose lead actor (name) is precisely like Antoine. Oh, yeah, the project I need to put down here is a linguistic one. It is inspire by W. Saphire’s rubric on language (more). This one is about the marketing diminution of those names that came to associate not just with a particular product but because of their uniqueness at the time – with a whole of products – Xerox, Hoover, WhatsApp. Now that WhatsApp is rethinking its name, it became clear that none cares the company that begot the name. Moreover, it became less than it ‘should’ be. How come? Well, this is what the project is about. There are also words that sound ‘yeam’ and thus they travel into the other’s tongue. For example, foreignisms ‘komponent’ or ‘platforma.’ Put’ is an endemic Russian word that is also one way of putting it, but the foreignisms somehow make a difference in the vocal or phonetic quality as to stay within a foreign language as a host.

Another rubric. This one deals with the intercultural component of my being. This time the most present foreign culture for me, my immediate xenos,  the English (mind you – Antoine, despite all their efforts, his frankophilic parents did not make him international, that is, he remained essentially a German, a local. TA deficit turned proficit: there was some purity about him, some innocence), and so I will now and then throw in my observations of this very alien culture. I would like to begin however with a strange similarity between the Russians and the English (the Anglo-Saxons) – their interest in the existential question. They are essentially, and the Germans join in here, existential cultures. One does not have to go too far to find non-existential ones in contrast. I shall explain.

Thinking of a friend of mine who built her entire life on someone else’s privilege. How can one possibly do that and remain a good human being at the same time?

The British journalism has not changed its key modality (tonality, stylistics), so much laughed at and mimicked by Monty Python, in the last fifty years.

Antoine was enjoying his bath. Hot and fluffy from the French soap the water gave him immense pleasure. it also covered him fully. He felt dressed. He liked to be dressed at all times. A man of pleasure is a man of good measure, repeated Antoine. Who was that man, that philosopher who said that? Khm. Difficult to tell if you had only a secondary school education and even that of a highly reductive kind.

14.12.19

Antoine’s best friend was a woman. This shall not be surprising given that barely perceptible effeminate trait about him. Less surprising was that his friend, Christina, was slightly older and somewhat crude. If she lived in this day and age, she would have been wearing unlaced boots under a long heavy skirt over wide hips. Short legged, flat chested with long thin disheveled brown hair, she looked like a poor fit to Antoine’s smooth and gaunt demeanor, his blue eyes (hers were light hazel). When Antoine’s colleague saw for the first time in a small cafe in Steglitz, he mistook her for a cheap prostitute who came up to their table looking for some action.  Worn out shoes, unfresh nylons, and even her smell (strawberry soap) would easily explain his mistake. He was so stunned, that poor chap, when he found out that she was Antoine’s ‘woman friend’ that he forgot to fake embarassment but kept on staring at her in sheer disbelief.

She was out of place in that café as she would be out of place everywhere. Antoine’s friend snickered. Yes, he was one of those ‘staring,’ ‘snickering’ Germans. It was not until Kristina sat down – on the edge of the chair – and started speaking that the friend (Gerhard – for the sake of variety) underwent a complete transformation. One should have seen his gaping mouth and raised eyebrows and something entire new about his attitude: reverence. It was her voice. Molassy, flowing slowly into your ears like honey. Exactly like honey. Antoine pulled a whimsical look. He knew what he was showing. He was proud of his find. He was a collector not of things but of oddities. Kristina stood high up on his rather diverse list. A stoic in his everyday routine, Antoine was a grand collector of people’s character traits. If Kristina’s vice were of opera quality, it would have not produced the same impression as it did now – it mesmerized Gerhard into submission. “A simple mind,” thought Antoine about him. Actually, what he thought was: “An idiot.” His friend did not pass the test of encountering wonder. Poor chap, said Antoine, as he probably said before on similar occasions many times, snap out of it. Kristina stopped speaking as if Antoine’s remark literary turned her off. Gerhard snapped out of it. With a sound – a long laborious outbreath – Oooph. Indeed, – it was hard work listening to Kristina. Attending to her had something physical about it. Like sex. Only Antoine would not know: He made sure there was no hanky-panky with his exhibits. It would be dangerous.

I keep on thinking about wrong things. As in ‘wrong-wrong.’ This kind of thinking-circular, viscous, miniscule-is domesticating my brain. It prevents me from seeing far or deep, keeps me on the surface level, and it is very frustrating to live that kind of life. I am trying to battle it with reading poetry or Dostoyevsky. Oh, man, that curse of every literate Russian–Dostoyevsky! So disturbing, so very addictive. One does not read him, one gets poisoned by him. Nabokov has a beautiful poem dedicated to Feudor Mikhajlovich: “As Christ was walking in the Garden..” But was Dostoyevsky really able to see Beauty in a pile of filth? I cannot sleep if I read The Idiot at bed time. Same with Tsvetayeva. My mind cannot process the complexity of her images in that state. I feel totally screwed.

11.01.2020. One of the effects of losing a loved one, when the loss is entirely unexpected and not justified by age or illness, or other leading circumstances are sand dreams. Dreams still happen, but they are not just interrupted as would be expected. They are given in such low resolution that one can perceive nothing in the foreground, not figures, but only the distant and undefined background, with indistinct shapes moving against this porridge of the horizon. The sandy taste in the mouth contributes to the sensation of being inside the sand pit.

I wonder if writing in English does not defy the purpose of these Notes. It is like telling about what’s important to the wind. Laborious…

12.01.2020. Reading Brodsky. I dislike listening to him read his poems. The singing element in his voice is annoying. I’d rather listen to Frolova sing him. Going through old letters. Some are impossible to throw away. Out of many lives lived by me, no one life can claim some of their authors. They transcend all these lives. Brodsky was wrong when he said/wrote that in order to forget a life, one has to live through another. I don’t remember myself at 30 any longer. I recognize myself in the pictures, but I don’t remember how I was. A swash-buckler? Really? That guy? Brodsky wrote about aging at 32. I properly felt it at 50. However, he died at 55. Does it mean I will live to 70? Funny it is – the mathematics of age.

13.01.2020. It is Old New Year in Russia. How very depressing, this combination – ‘old new year’, certainly worse then another one. The one that is gone was the hardest…I just discovered (when re-reading old letters) that I had friends who were my friends only so that they would watch me fall. Standing there while I was balancing my way out of a fall, watching for it to happen. What would they have done if I really fell? I did not live to find out. At some point all of them drifted away – to watch someone else, no doubt.

Watched pretty boy Aussi’s Neil Robertson lose to Stephen McGuire in snooker at the this year’s Masters. So sad. I rarely go for a pretty boy in competition. I like the underdog. As in Smila’s Sense of Snow: I celebrate the fat girl. Here, too. At first. But Neil was vulnerable. McGuire was fat and bold and altogether not friendly-looking. But what a character! Neil was a bit cocky tho. He was leading 5 to 1 and needed the last one to win, but then one awkward ball and the match went to hell. I don’t watch sports. I watch snooker. Something about the activity of rolling balls on a table. And the human element of course. Got hooked up when alone in Belgium. Also Masters. And UK Championship. So dramatic and so .. stupid, in a way. Like this style of writing notes – indulgent and ..stupid. Rolling, rolling, rolling balls.

23.01.2020. When my niece died, I thought that if the world would stop now it would be because of her. Imagine a novel written about a huge disaster, a world crisis, an apocalypse, all that because of one person who had to part the world that way, with billions of other lives.

16.01.2020. These notes are turning into a cease pool for unprocessed emotions. You dump – you feel better. Automatically. They are also becoming more and more like diary entries. Not that I am forgetting about Antoine. He is very much on my mind. Especially recently. Actually, with all this reading of literature that I do these days I cannot help but wonder about the presence of literature in the everyday. For example. The recent death of a loved one has spawned all sorts of estrangements. I have already mentioned dreams. In general, it is about an new reality. Not surreal, as in the underlining of reality, but a new reality that a trauma brings about. The everyday is no longer there to provide a cushion. So, you have visions and other phenomena caused by the perceptual deficit. But then literature kicks in so strongly and unexpectedly. And there is plenty venue: death, formalities of it, funeral, wake, second wake. New people. The people who know how to grieve and the people who don’t. Exposed people and characters. Yourself, if you care to do self-analysis on the spot, or in situ as anal-retentive conversation analysts love to call it. So, literature. Poetry starts coming to mind. From the recesses of memory you get visitations by bits and pieces of poetry learnt ages ago. Old folks have it anyway, but here it it much more vivid. Then comes prose. The Russian literature fits this mode very well. It is character literature. So, Tolstoy, Chekhov and Dostoyevsky. The Triad of Big Psychologists. A Russian person is stuck between them, and the choices are both vastly fulfilling and limiting.

15.04.2020. After I have read one of Franzen’s biographical essays (on Peanuts), I got excited and ordered a Peanuts desk calendar only to find out that if one is to examine Schulz’s humour closely, he could quickly see that his is a lack of humour, confirming that essentially children are not funny. They are before comism and before morality. However, what can be made funny is their relationality is grotesque and their use of the adult language in children’s situation is funny. My children did not like Peanuts: boring.

16.04.2020. I must say, Corona does affect writing. In the situation when future is suspended in so many ways, time slows down to a halt, and space shrinks to a room or apartment, writing suffers from a lack of purpose and inspiration. Even academic writing boils down to inserting quotes. The Corona malaise colours all other writing activities in the shades of the mud. Dreams are coloured in equally somber tones. They are also very inwardly set: labyrinths, abandoned hotels, repetitive action, faceless characters. A deep sigh of relief signifies the end of Corona dreams in the morning.

20.04.2020. Tarkovsky would not have been able to make a film based on Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita (he wished). The director had a remarkable lack of irony. He was mythopoetic through and through.

19.04.2020. Atologist, who studies characters, and ethnologist, who studies peoples, justify examination of stereotypes about national character if morality is not evoked in conclusion. For example, the tiptoeing of the English before attributing blame to its own. doing things on their own terms  sometimes overrides the politeness imperative. The hands-off approach to child rearing is often linked to politeness as a desirable trait to learn. Here, – for the sake of the parents.

21.04.2020. Playmobil has just launched Playmobil face masks (it proudly announced – Not a Toy!). 1£ from the sale of each mask goes to emergency services (Red Cross). They look cute. Mask a fashion statement and mass product. No heroes, one face.

24.04.2020. Corona is an event which I have not known before. A different kind of plague. has not been imagined. Not by sci-fi writers. Not in Outbreak, 12 Monkeys, the X-Files. It is an unfathomable event. It can be interpreted only by our reactions to it, which are inevitably self-contradictory. A unity (nation, city, family, relationship) is juxtaposed to a disunity (self- and other-isolation), proximity versus distance. Anecdotally – the Vietnamese suggest to fight Corona by using the blood of black cats. Logically correct – Corona comes from bats. A cat catches mice (bats). The cat is the destroyer of bats; therefore, a part of it should function as a token, a pharmakon. The semiotics of Corona.

29.04.2020. The amount of inspirational, mediational, motivational blog-blah-logy about Corona is astounding. Why does one feel the need to inspire the other during hard times? Corona is a problem. It is not a cause for grieving en ensemble. It needs to be solved. No wonder one leader of one country refused to let more whaling nurses during video conferences to pontificate on their suffering, which is so common that I cannot help but wonder about another need: to mythologize those ‘in the frontlines’ (curious term – essential worker). A person who does their job, who is professionally obligated, and as is the case with medical workers, obligated by oath (like the military), does not have to be admired just for doing their job. And all that amidst recommendations by another leader of another country to drink or inject dysinfectant. In the meantime, the third leader watches Home Alone during his convalescence and, as it is common for the country, eats chips with tea.

30.04.2020. In Azerbajdzhan they closed fitting rooms but not shops. Speakign of half-measures (another pandemia term).

01.05.2020. In English schools, distant learning offers meditational classes, replacing intercorporeal sociality with inner corporeal retreat. Only 70 per cent of students do distant learning as in sending schools homework. A cool world of distant learning it was described by a Russian mom is a severe misconception from the pedagogical standpoint. As much as blogging is not literature, online learning is not education. Internet pornography is not sex. A part of it, but never it. Apocalyptic scenarios of a more than severe lockdown kind may teach us that. No Internet – no distant learning. Do you really want you child’s education be dependent of the mode this education is given?

02.05.2020. An eminent virosologist from Germany found out that children eject as much capillary liquid as adults, yet they do not infect others as much. Well, a phenomenologist who knows much about corporeality would immediately note – children are small. Their height does not allow them to spread at the infectionable height. Actually, a correction is in order (07.05.2020). This very virologist was highly critiqued for the  blind spots in his study, to which, he rightfully responded, I admit, that Media reported on his inconclusive findings as conclusive, – something that Media seems to do more than ever in the time of pandemic uncertainty and lack of precedent.

03.05.2020. Performing the everyday in an highly attentive manner is a way of normalizing it toward a new ordinary.

06.05.2020. In the context of Corona, one sees many lives as meaningless, many people as selfish, many communities, nations as sham-ful. Nothing good will ever come out of these revelations.

08.05.2020. A friend of mine is heavily engaged in esoterics and pre-philosophical mysticism, especially on the issue of reincarnation and life after death. i am sympathetic, but with a caveat. I have a sense (experienceable) that we are already living other lives, as in others, as in parallel lives, but not as doubles, although those are also possible, but as in fragments, parts, angles, features, sides, detail, etc. It is somehow soothening to know that there is community or generation of you.

09.05.2020. Adjacently – to the above – I feel surrounded by the same kind of person who likes me and who dislikes me. Different countries, different ages, different contexts, but the type is the same. Now, with parallel lives of your own, it would make sense to assuem there are also parallel contexts, would it not?

10.05.2020. In writing the most important for me is not lexics but syntax.

11.05.2020. Corona is not a tragic event. It has an entirely different sense about it. It has created a genre which knows no precedent. If one wants to enact the event in its own genre, one will be lost. One can get to it somewhat by analyzing the emotional response it evokes. For myself, this response is largely disappointment: in myself, my people, my country, the world I live in, mass media, food, friends, relations, communication. This kind of disappointment is beyond complaint. It is not a kin of depression either. It is just there as a beaten up flag hanging limp from a bent rusty pole in front of what used to be a castle, a fortress, a home. We have not won yet, but we have already been beaten.

13.05.2020. Been watching The Walking Dead a lot. On Amazon Prime. It is a very disturbing series, but I am drawn to it: must be bad taste. On a different level: the set-up f the series allows for an immense variety of dramatic action. I very much commend the script-writing team and the director. Still – my dreams after an evening episode are guaranteed to be horrifying. I had these dreams before but never with zombies. The zombies are actually less scary than the characters like the Governor. Good acting too.

16.05.2020. My sister’s adopted daughter Vasilisa got a real play house (sleeps two) for a birthday gift (she turned 7). The house came preassembled and required a crane for it to be put over the fence. Vasilisa was disappointed. She wanted a pony. When I was 7 I received 3 matchbox cars and a set of plastic toy Indians. I was delirious from happiness. I have always been into miniature things.

17.05.2020. I have realized what my book on Tarkovsky is missing the most. My Tarkovsky is two-dimensional. I am yet to flesh him out. My bio about him is as bland as okroshka. All that kvas.

18.05.2020. The setup for The Walking Dead (WD) allows the director to introduce new characters pretty much every season, while keeping the core group only marginally altered. Bad actors can be killed off and new actors can be tried on the site. With all this, the set can remain unchanged in principle and therefore perfected: abandoned, semi-destroyed, desolate. The same can be said about zombies. Their makeup is getting better and better with every season. There is also some constancy introduced, some rules as to how they move, what they eat, how they bite. Killing a zombie becomes as much of a televisual martial art as karate used to be. I am very impressed with the cinematic potential of the series. On a more intelligent note, it is painful to watch WD already because the Corona crisis has the traces of what could have come in a real apocalyptic event in terms of the human behavior basics. As in being selfish versus altruistic, as in waking up the seven deadly sins and let them rule.

19.05.2020. Strangely, and since everything is strange and outwordly these days, I began to think about the mental health of pets, that is, those happy pets that are used to be alone at home, waiting at the door or on the couch, pining after their absent masters, the pets with an established routine, that is, well-adjusted pets. So comes the lockdown and turns the balanced worlds of these good obedient creatures upside down, making them want attention where they did not have any, making them want to be taken care of immediately and all the time, becoming spoiled in the course of a week. And then, if such heightened attention got bestowed on them lose it all two months later, and, with it, their sanity. So sad. A good day for pet therapists tho. Just like a good day for human therapists. The latter already have their hands full no doubt with all the on-lining whining a trained mind can stomach.

20.05.2020. My son Nik is arbitrarily competitive. In a competition he tends to move away, not toward. He is a congenial character: has much of his father in him. Makes it both easy to see but difficult to interpret and impossible to predict.

21.05.2020. Classification of sexuality depending on the ‘relational’ body.

22.05.2020. Small genre project should include conversational genres: stories (scary stories), set responses, other devices. Translatability of certain personalities: ‘I am not able to gauge him.’ The cats (Lulu and Myshkin) are not translatable but can be easily laughed at. Quid pro quo in myths and fairy-tales.

25.05.2020. A new historical consciousness is being born out of having whole nations locked down. On the one hand, this consciousness should enhance the sense of national belonging. On the other hand, it unites us all in the face of the common – for the world crisis. A new cosmopolitan is being born. This – what I have just said – is not at all interesting.

26.05.2020. More interesting are observations of the English who are emerging quite weary of the stereotypical attitude of SCACO as it has been applied to comply and apply it not to comply. However in order to justify the transition they have to pretend that the pandemic is no longer. The current government understands it – what good would a politician be if he didn’t? – and plays along: lifting quarantine in a gradual, or not so gradual, fashion.

27.05.2020. Antoine has to wait. Should not be hard: he is currently in training. His teacher, title-rank-title Herr Max (solid name, people like it, as it connotes fundamentality) Krowitz (not so good, but passable for the pure blood line minded agency in Berlin) is good at what he does. And what he does is to turn a superiority attitude into skill.

28.05.2020. When I asked my youngest child why it is in his mind that a wolf would not care about a squirrel, he said it would be “unreasonable” to do so.

29.05.2020. Communications between Snoopy and the little yellow bird are enveloped in frustration. Their interactions make for the worst humour in the series. Humour cannot be pushed – pardon the pun – here goes the little yellow bird. Writing good instructions is quite an art. I just saved one for assembly and one for preparing food (duck). Not just sequence but emphasis and allowables are essential. The colour in fashion these days is ‘tired silver.’ Go figure. My mom keeps on asking: Who could profit from COVID-19? After hearing her question for the 220th time, I volunteered: The same people who profited from AIDS. She got very upset. She wanted to hear names, even if the names of countries, organizations, races.

30.05.2020. My youngest is going through the making of potions stage. His favorite is ‘it makes your teeth yellow’ potion and ‘you smell like fish and cannot get the smell out’ potion. Well, he is barely seven. I should make a desktop calendar. A small genre calendar. That last taxi driver, that Uzbek taxi driver in Moscow, the one whose wife is an invalid – he was administered both potions by a wizard. I wonder what it was that he did. Must be ‘misdirection’… Khi-khi. Tanja has made a nice observation about Corona sides, such as not shaking hands. She said that it feels weird a lot of times to shake a hand with a thick wedding ring. Even holding such a hand, as for example, my mother’s is a shareable experience to me. Corona should have a theme song. And a dance. Better a cheer dance. With those…girls. Khi-khi. How about writing an article on Tarkovsky, nabokov and Shemyakin (this WP editor is good – he recognized all three names and corrected my Shemyakin). No, not because they were all dissidents (immigrants), but because they exercised mythopopetic literality. YOU know what I mean. The Cheshire cat, the Simpsons ‘stray’ cat, and Garfield have much in common: they don’t give a damn, just like Myshkin who even when he gets shoved out of the way, does not seem to mind or change his attitude toward you. Unlike myself, he is truly cool.

01.05.2020. The American literature of the 20th century does not know character. It is all about context. It is close to film because of that. To the American film, I must add. To their own genre. The superhero is the American character par excellance. It tries to be a character, to have a character. Corona awakened the spirit. Hegel. Marx. Derrida.

02.05.2020. Rosali which was celebrated by the Romans between May and July in commemoration of the dead was a proper season in a country which does not know a hard season turnover.

03.06.2020. “Why are you saying this?” “I am expressing a doubt.” This is a good example of going meta on a common question.

04.06.2020. When I die I would like to become a bench in a park. One of those name tagged ones.  Shall make arrangements. What park shall it be?

05.06.2020. A foreigner has the unbridled desire of belonging. Earning it is a job specific to immigrants and new settlers. Sometimes I wish to be in Africa. Not to visit, but to be there, as in waking up in Africa all of a sudden. Another wish is to acquire a specialized, highly specialized knowledge of making something. Like a toy. Like a playmobil toy. Materials, processes, marketing. Quite boring perhaps in the long run. Just as Africa.

07.06.2020. An atick view of the world. A basement view of the world. In The Walking Dead and The Game of Thrones the actors work on different quality planes. A good director notices it and eliminates the bad ones. Yet, he or she will keep some bad ones for a good measure. I caught my middle son in front of the mirror looking at himself and making faces. When I asked what it was that he was doing, he said, “I practice looking at people.” I liked it. When I was a child I would stand in front of the mirror practicing being looked at. In that he was an improvement to myself. Vanity made practical. Snoopy is getting really annoying as a character. I need to fire him. He does not perform on the same quality plane as Charlie Brown.

13.06.2020. Cummings, Yefremov, Bean, – these examples of social deviance…Khm, not that, not quite. Why do I follow up on these f..ups? Is my own smallness that is at stake here? Damn, it is hard to express myself this Sunday morning. A lazy Sunday. Calling for a pancake breakfast and Sunday Boston Globe with Mother Goose and Grimm snippets. A bowl of cereal and Internet rubbish instead. Franzen in his The DZ establishes a certain kind of nostalgia.

14.06.2020. At the risk of quoting a really bad film – The new Pink Panther with Steve Martin – I keep on remembering ‘not every death is a tragedy.’ Well educated boys and girls from posh unis who migrate to California to make their little fortunes as ghostwriters and scripters (as both D.F. Wallace and J. Franzen described it) read enough good literature to produce such one-liners. The Game of Thrones has a plethora of those, confirming that high art does trickle down to the masses. Gingle is a small genre art. And so is blog and review.

15.06.2020. One thing that can disappear during the pandemia is a way of attending to things, as in ‘hands-on.’ Social distancing is a new way of dealing with things. Its arrival killed off the ‘hands-on.’ Lego miniature arts set can go in the EofSG. The American is a ‘bastard’ culture. If one is to believe that God is implicated in the appearance of COVID, there should be an expectation that worse is coming, for that is how it works with apocalypse, isn’t it? First, a taste, then the actual disaster. The numbers never tell anything. One cannot judge by them, but aren’t they scary to look at?

16.06.2020. My older son ‘forgot’ how to deal/communicate with a paper book. He lost the sensation of reading a paper book. Book has become a ‘strange’ medium to him. He does not even know how to hold it well. Bizarre.

17.06.2020. My youngest son Luka was at the beach during the low tide. He and his brother went far into the ocean. It was too shallow for them to swim. When they came back Luka said: It was good that they made the ocean go away. I don’t know how I could have done social distancing otherwise.

19.2020. The BLM (Black Lives Matter) movement angers me by its downgrading a worthy cause to the absurd. Monuments? Chess? Queen’s highest order? Unilever’s packaging – ‘white’ and ‘light’ removed, the remastered ‘Gone with the Wind’. The revision of history is the purview of weak minds.

20.20.20. Just the combination…

24.06.20. On this day that marks 75 years since the victory of the USSR over fascism, when watching the parade the Germans called pompous (of course they would), I remembered the footage that made me cry as a child. Not the original victory parade of 1945, which was also tremendously touching, but the column of the German soldiers escorted through Moscow in 1943 after the surrender in Stalingrad. For me that has always been the actual victory parade. The new uniforms are horrible.

26.06.20. Luka plays playmobil in the mode of monological parallelism. He plays next to you but aside from you making a storyline which does not include you, his counterpart, interactively, only passively, as a spectator.

27.06.2020. Shame on the producers of the Simpsons who will redo the voices of the black characters which are not being dubbed by black actors.

29.06.20. Sergey Chilikov, age 67, died today. He was a photographer who specialized in showing tits of the young girls in Oshkar-Ola with the post-Soviet slums serving as the background. He was known as a provocateur. In fact, he was simply a bad photographer who benefited, one of many artists, on both the Soviet deficit of eroticism and hence a poor knowledge of what it actually implied and the collapse of morality. He wanted to be romantic but turned out to be sleazy and tasteless. Rest in peace, Sereuzha..

07.07.2020. The most fundamental difference between the Germans and the English as it has transpired during this pandemia is that while the Germans were actively discussing the materials and design of the masks for the doctors and common folk, the English simply did not care to obtain or wear them. Their problem solving is global, not local. They are used to, as an island nation, to manage with locally limited resources; hence the 500 years of exploiting the outside. The English mentality is centrifugal, as opposed to the German one, which is centripetal. The Russian falls in-between. It is a not very well functioning synthesis.

09.07.2020. The autocratic power in Russia has a distinct tinge of the prison culture that dates back to the 17th century. On the throne sits avtoritet. During the best of times, he is benevolent. Consider Okudzhava’s Len’ka Koroleuv. During the worst times, he is sadistic and unconcerned. The protests in Khabarovsk in support of Furgal are clearly directed at the image of the benevolent thief-in-law. Sad. Very sad.

10.07.2020. I love this type of news that are preceded by the headline like ‘A Dietologist Suggests, or Tells,’ where suggests stands for the mundane and banal opposite of the scientific notion of proof. Not proved, but told. Cinologists have the same a-scientific approach. A reevaluation of science via profession yields results.

11.07.2020. The English do not need to try hard to do social distancing. They are already sufficiently socially distanced. Not so the French, and even less so the Italians, as it has turned out. The huggle-friendly Americans suffer as well. However, in itself, social distancing has a level of sophistication with the English that is unreachable to other peoples. To be distanced has tremendous skills and centuries of cultural selection.

12.07.2020. Luka: “Coronavirus is the word that has all the swear words put together!”

14.07.2020. The more Russian news I read the more I remember Brodsky’s Travelling in Asia: “Don’t respond to Hey, man…”

20.07.2020. Too hot to write. I don’t how Marques ever did it. Or Delibes. Sweltering hot. Now that it has cooled down, I tried to find appropriate art for the pandemic. I remembered Estes’s Cafe Express (1975) from the Art Institute in Chicago. One of his people-less paintings. Hyper-realism – very good for Corona. As a thing one hides behind.

29.07.2020. The news these days are making me so sick, I cannot write or think without wanting to throw up. It feels like we are sliding into the Middle Ages: witch hunts, racial and religious fanatics, financial crooks, respectable idiots, new weapons made and used, massive coverups. How selfish and idiotic can one be to come out to protest against a disease claiming that summer is for sex so screw the lockdown just days after that one’s grandma died from corona.  I am disgusted and appalled. The division between rational responsibility and irrational responsibility is the widest ever. I feel old, bedraggled and useless. The pandemia is a harrowing test of one’s sanity.

01.08.2020. Magic realism is the call of the day. In demand. Visiting places. A hobby? What about the beach. Fantasy land. Being there always makes me wish to be younger. Some other things as well.

02.08.2020. A. Bitov has not been translated much, if at all. Still worth reading. For style. Once I vowed to develop a system of marking books. You know. Like Lenin’s Nota Bene! NB! Astersisks, underlines, vertical notes, on top of the font notes. Notes are a reaction. They are therapeutic. Tarkovsky’s Diary is a self-therapy. Was it recommended to him? Most things were recommended to him. Yusov wrote that he was very influenceable. How come he became such a unique filmmaker, a visionary? The power of associative thinking.

04.08.2020. A project: dis-estranging a piece of literature to pure plot. Borges could be good to work with. Another project, which is a whiff of the past – making bookmarks with print-art: colored background, border ornamentals, central figure and an inscription in Latin. A punched hole and a piece of a woolen string.

05.08.2020. I an sold to the proposition that my mother, as a mother, did not always mean well to me.

08.08.2020. Putin’s personal – Peter the Great’s – ambitions will be his downfall. He failed to use an opportunity to act as a moral leader with the situation in Belarus’, continuing to forward his agenda for the restoration of Russia as a super-power in Eurasia. Schade… He has begun to think of himself in terms of his destiny while using non-magical pragmatic thinking to have it fulfilled. He will not last long in this kind of jam. On top, being a gray cardinal Putin is too cautious, too much into chess as a politician. he does not have either scale or panache. 

10.08.2020. Evelyn Waugh: Grimes, ‘in the soup.’ Think not Judgement Day but Celebration – Tarkovsky’s Andrey Rubleuv.

11.08.2020. As in the Russian Magical Fairy-Tale, = we are all frogs. Some are before miracle touches them and others – after.

13.08.2020. A communication competence manual should teach us styles as in conversational styles, including non-verbals, such as head tilts and half-smiles. Any good TV series may even teach a style or two.

14.08.2020. There are cycles of healing. For different non-mechanical ailment, there is also a cycle: mental disease, addictions, skin conditions have a specific time frame for healing. No more and no less. More means degradation, less means prolongation.

15.08.2020. Quote: ‘I drink and I know things. This is what I do’ (Tyrian Lannister, Game of Thrones).

17.08.2020. Pina Bausch. She knew that she was dying, but refused to stop. One however would not be able to do so without somehow being in some kind of show, on stage and not be debilitated. A professor refusing to stop and still teaching his students to the end is different from a soldier who, frail and ill, should not continue to serve.

18.08.2020. All strong nations have a propensity to brutality. Brutality is the measuring stick for how far one would be able to go. Prison mentality. Putin learned a lot during his reign. One thing he learnt on the scale of a personae is how to be a tsar.

19.08.2020. Make a list of most memorable corners, roads, turns..

28.08.2020. Am amazing superfluity of the West in the case of Lukashenko. Lukashenko’s absolute disregard of the norms of relating to other people; communicating with them clearly, but most importantly – transparently and accountably.

01.09.2020.

02.09.2020. A circularity of thinking can be resolved only toponymically: by way relay stations and redirects that branch mental processes out and into some orderly web-like structure that allows for a variety of options: a rail, a grid. As in Where to Travel? and How I an get there? Shall it be fast, or shall I take the scenic route. Landscape is as important for common thinking as it is for dreaming. Too cluttered means – difficult to move. Movement and direction of thought are the crucial operations here. Metaphor endows them a mode of expression – metaphor is not just a figure of speech, but a figure of thought. Ivan’s Childhood can be one such point of destination; another – Lukashenko. What a spectacle the latter is!

11.09.2020. Infantility in past and current relationships. Self, Other, Interns.

13.09.2020. Lukashenko is managing. It is on this plane that the conflict should be positioned for consideration: describe the plane.

14.09.2020. Rebranding Corona beer for the sun rather than the crown.

15.09.2020. A coinage: profiteurka. Youtube is an example of the natural attitude. A foreigner does not make ‘common’ – for the native – spelling erros.

16.09.2020. Sick with PAS – proficit anxiety syndrome. I am the only one in my family who has associative thinking.

17.09.2020. An academic thrives in the shadow. Decorative literature – Borges.

18.09.2020. Project: The Annals of the Russian Province. Herranium. Reznyje nalichniki. Provincialism in literature, other arts. Provincial aesthetics. Different than kitsch.

19.09.2020. Listening to our Bulgarian cleaning lady telling stories in her broken English. Emphasis on ‘because’ and ‘and.’ A general difficulty to finish a story. I remember that with myself. Also the need to give as much context: the foreigner has little clue. Me and my partner have a sweet tooth for the ‘cheesy.’ ABBA.

20.09.2020. Dostoyevsky’s The Demons. Just finished it. Tarkovksy is very much in debt before this text. That is clear. Especially when it comes to his endings. Special Corona police units in a small ‘proud’ country. My father: A Sarcofagus of Knowledge. Never cared to share.

22.09.2020. The Russian language is not afraid of borrowings; it is always eager to learn. The same can be said about the culture. The Russian is reflective learning however. At times one experiences consternation at the realization of not moral but philosophical implications of his actions. Salvation is the enemy of progress.

01.11.2020. Recently things come to a standstill. I feel like I am in the eye of the storm, and the storm is not the pandemic. Reading Dostoyevsky only adds to the sense of being forlorn. Yap, that lofty is the sense. In Dostoyevsky there is a remarkable lack of action, or rather action only leads to inaction, to an impasse of some kind. Reading The Adolescent took out all my oomph, and, with it, the need to express myself in writing. In the face of an absent audience, writing has long become a pleasurable activity of trying to find the best way to express myself in the language which is not my native. No, not as a challenge and more as a language game (in the most mundane sense of the word).

The problem with Dostoyevsky is that he presents a set of challenges which are not meant to be overcome. In that, he is as deceptive as he is straightforward, and his suffering is as ridiculous as it is enlightening. The writer is Versilov: he is ill, and he embodies his ills; hence the need for him being sick. I would like to continue my notes for a while by giving soem examples. Their purpose is dual. It is material for future projects (e.g., Tarkovsky research) as well as some gentle soul searching on the level of memorizing and discussing most memorable passages.

11.11.2020. Tarkovsky’s borrowings from Dostoyevsky are quite limited; they do not go as far as Brothers Karamazovs, but rise from smaller novels, especially The Adolescent. Thus, the idea of mystery that lives in every drop of water and that is commonly thought to be Japanese can be found in the conversation between Arkady and starets (wise man) (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 164). In the same novel, there are numerous descriptions of the ‘ordinary’ characters, such the young doctor, who spoke and behaved with such an attitude as if “he just yesterday found out something special, a mystery of sorts, although everyone knows that nothing special happened yesterday, and that it was all ulitsa (street), seredina (middle)” (ibid: 158). The problem is that all these ordinary characters are still somewhat ‘sick.’

13.11.2020. It is strange and somewhat disturbing (not clear why) to think of it, but it is indeed a fact that in the 19th century a Russian woman could propose to a man, although only if he was older than she. Dostoyevsky describes this situation in The Adolescent (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 108).

15.11.2020. From a conversation between Versilov and Arkady: “that cannot judge who did not suffer through to this right” (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 68).

17.11.2020. Nabokov, who considers Dostoyevsky a mediocre writer, a writer who is too much in a hurry to write and thus not as nearly as refined as Tolstoy, Gogol and Chekhov (in that order), has a point. For example, he claims that Dostoyevsky could have been a great dramaturgist: his novels consist almost entirely of dialogues (quite true); descriptions of nature or human domiciles are scarce; his characters are caricatures despite all the psychology that goes into them. Nabokov thinks Dostoyevsky is boring. I think that Nabokov was too peevish to appreciate Dostyevsky’s filth. He was refined and elitist to think of Dostoyevksy as his equal. Yet, his ‘equal’ – Ivan Bunin – was also unappealing to Nabokov, although we know of no reasons. No wonder, Bunin was just like Nabokov: peevish elitist with a panache for arrogance.

18.11.2020. Nabokov thinks of Dostoyevsky’s The Poor People as his best novel because it was ‘normal.’ A strange criterion for a proponent of ‘estrangement’ and an imagist.

20.11.2020. Tarkovsky was not ahead, but like many geniuses before him, he went backwards and was indeed behind in the sense of being old-fashioned, all his novelty and experimentation notwithstanding.

25.11.2020. In winter Brighton is the most beautiful: the sun makes it such: saturated white at the core it creates buttery background for thing, it is longing for you.

01.12.2020. Like my smallest son I have God for an imaginary friend. My God is not mischievous however but behaves more like a grandmother: he admonishes me before I even manage to finish my problem.

07.12.2020. There were two pieces of news about Russia that arrived back to back on Tass: someone stole some parts from the Judgment Plane and they discovered at the Pentagon Russian internet ‘moles.’ This is so us – stealing and being allowed to steal from the country’s most important piece of the post apocalyptic hardware and stealing from the most protected foreign resource. Unbelievable.

08.12.2020. John Gardner is a very simple writer. He writes like someone does sports – so well, one barely notices an effort. His The Resurrection also begins simply. It imitates or rather gives an American take of Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich, but as it is common with Gardner, there is no death at the end but a miracle. His James Chandler however is not a very distinct character. Perhaps it is because he speaks so little. There is very little dialogue in the novel, and the one that is there is delivered mostly by the third person speech. Delivering a character by way of dialogue gives the character more depth, as speech does, if well rendered, of course. Dostoyevsky, contrary to what Nabokov said, could do both exceptionally well.

09.12.2020. In The Resurrection, J. Gardner has a scene where James and his children are watching a group of boys from the local school for the blind play baseball. The ball has a bell in it, and the base players run after it holding onto a string. At some point in the game, they lose the ball and keep on searching for it in the grass on their knees and elbows bumping into each other unable to locate the ball that got silent. James’s oldest daughter sees the ball, as it lays about not even a foot away, and wants to help them but James screams at her telling her to stay away from the blind. The question that Gardner does not answer is why. Why does James not want to intervene? Is it about the blind children’s pride, or is it about their privacy, or is it his own condition, that of a man left two weeks to live?

11.12.2020. In the Resurrection there is a description of the common – for the Americans in the 1960-1970s prejudice against the Italians, who, among other things, did not speak very good English and irritated the natives by not caring to learn it properly and be understood. Yet, equally annoying were the German immigrants who tried their best to learn the language and speak it perfectly. Yet, the effect was the same: it was as laborious to listen to a German speaking slowly and correctly as it was listening to the gibberish an Italian produced. It appeared that in the mind of the native neither had any care for the interlocutor.

12.12.2020. One way to entertain myself when walking around the Green (St Helens Park) during the pandemic was thinking about fancy ways to express most simple situations. For example, for the situation that deals with an approaching end, I found J. Gardner’s ‘With this news the limits of his identity were set’ a very enticing one.

14.12.2020. When I travel from my Moscow apartment (located in the city’s North East) to the dacha (about 50 miles away from the city limits), I try to take an earlier commuter train. Called ‘elektrichka’ (essentially an electrical train), these sturdy, long and spacious trains (built in the olden times in East Germany at first and then replicated in Russia) are usually packed after 4pm and, unlike Metro, are unpleasant to travel long distances. Yet, earlier trains tend to gather more shoddy characters: the homeless, the unemployed, the freaks. I like to travel in their company and often look forward to sitting myself not too far (although granted – not too close) from them. I make an effort not to stare, just observe. For that I select a place for those who travel with bulky luggage, wheelchairs, prams, and bicycles. The designated passengers rarely occupy these spaces: most stations outside of the city are not wheelchair friendly, and mothers with small children rarely travel. Bicyclists too prefer the interim space. In short, watching the destitute is never (tbc)

25.12.2020. Luka was building the Chinese Lego knock-off I brought him from Russia. It was a better Lego Potter look alike called (not so well, I thought) “Magical Hands.” Perhaps it meant something for the Chinese in Mandarin. I hoped to pass the fake successfully, but the boy noted straight away that the characters depicted in the corner were dressed up like Harry Potter and his friends but did not look like them (European although, I thought). The rest was an exact copy, including the picture on the front and the back of the box. Still, for Luka, little inconsistencies as well as Chinese characters in place of the Lego logo meant that it was not ‘real,’ and so he pouted a bit and took time to warm up to the set. Finally, he began to build it. It is while building it that his sense of being given the ‘wrong thing’ manifested itself again. Every time he ran into a problem (not an actual one, but, say looking for a piece that ‘crawled away,’ he would swear under breath: “Damn French, can they even make anything right?!” And so, the Chinese fake contributed to the family discourse. Now, every time some shoddy item made in China fails our expectations, we say: “Damn French, can they even make anything right?!”

16.01.2021. Someone called Mask’s electrical pick-up ‘made of fence.’ Loved it. Iz zabora.

18.01.2021. Watching The Good Place and Motherland. What fun! Too embarrassing to write about them but at some point it would be cool to remember the experience. So just a reminder (Ted Danson is my absolute favorite). And Motherland – so very English. I watch it while exercising and as much as I want to finish quickly (hate exercising at home), I pause and just watch. Tanja and the kids love it as well. Reading Thornton Wilder’s Heaven is My Destination. Not as good as The Bridge…but the character of George Brush is quite familiar from many years of living in Illinois. Nostalgic already.

20.01.2021. Belatedly, perhaps due to the Covid situation, I have realized that some relationships are diseased like, that is, they are latent and run with no symptoms until they hit you hard at you weakest.

22.01.2021. On the same note: Luka’s pearl of the day was when he said on the walk at the downs that he does not want to kiss girls because he is afraid of ‘rubies.’ Nik, as a part of the same conversation, said that he does not like the girls who are ‘cupids’ meaning ‘stupids.’

23.01.2021. Thee English accent – that cultivated slowly rolling from the bottom of the chest, open mouthed pursed lips accent is absolutely perfect in expressing fake (controlled) disbelief with a dallop of sympathy, as in Ohh, de::a:.

30.01.2021. Luka, Nik and myself have been playing Lego pretty much every day. Two mixed (duplo plus standard) Lego palaces were built in my room and a large Hogwarts set was added to a bunch of square houses which are Luka’s specialty. We play with a mix of characters tending to superheroes. It is with this context in mind that I attended to Luka’s question: Who is powerfuller Larry or Thanos? Well, I knew about Thanos – we watched all the Avengers, including the End Game together not long time ago but Larry? Who the hell is Larry? Oh, I remembered. When playing Playmobil Luka liked to pick the most random insignificant guy (cook, pizza man, taxi driver) who would get a destiny and superpowers from Luka. Just so. He would always be powerfuller, using Luka’s word, than any magical creature or a king. Powerfuller but not any more interesting. And this is how Luka plays all his games. His ultimate scenario is the rise of a random figure who would come and kill everybody else. This is what he means every time and regardless of how we discuss how we would like to play our next game. Sometimes it takes him hours to do so. When we go on walks he jabbers non-stop, explaining his ‘vision’ of the game. Then we come home, settle in my room, his character jumps on a dragon or on some flying stick and kills everybody.

31.01.2021. In a country that excels in flat ass, a flat ass is nonetheless an insult when it comes from a woman, as Motherland (BBC series) made me acutely aware.

01.02.2021. I like this number combination. I wish I could turn it into music. “A gift should surprise and not impress” – from a strange man with a shaggy dog who walked past me at the downs the other day.

02.02.2021. Luka wants to name a new Royal Navy Aircraft Carrier ‘Harry Potter.’ I am with him. The world would be safer if instead of Tiger, a tank would be called Pickachoo or Bambie.

05.02.2021. The Corona times do have their advantages. The biggest is naval gazing tuned into an obsession with the most minute detail and your most immediate surroundings. I am talking about the Downs. Yes, that very boring, highly congested muddy narrow trail made on the site of the local stretch of the railroad thatused to connect the village of Hove, known as Hnagleton, where I live, with the farms up the hill. Well, both are still there – this is England, baby, as Tanja likes to say – but the railroad is not. Instead there is M21 that connects Hove to London which cuts the village off two fancy golf courses: one up and one down the hill, so actually you end up walking between the two.  

After daily trips to the downs for several months you do come to know every loll and title of the way, every patch of dirt and every tree that stands out. You know where to pee unnoticed (children mostly) and where the road gets so narrow that incoming bicyclists endanger either you or yourself while passing by downhill. You learn you regulars: shaggy dog owners (shaggy refers to both) and young and chirpy mamas with free running kids, your weirdos and your gay couples, your teenage groups and nature lovers in long wellies and tourist backpacks roaming around where no pair of shoes of yours would allow you to go.

This when the landscape starts growing on you. It separates itself from the walkers and begins to call to itself not for any of its pretty spots: there none but for the changes in the folds and set-up. The sheep on the right up the hill moving around is one such ‘change.’ An occasional deer with a fawn is another. More pleasant though is the element-induced atmosphere: fog, which can be so dense that once I lost Luka in it after he walked ten yards into this porridge. Heavy rain is pretty but so is bright sun. The prettiest however are various intermediary states: twilight and afterlight, when the sunlight is buttery and heavy.

Up on the hill, all the way up one sees the ocean and the Brighton marina, but, sadly, wind mills stuck about a kilometer into the water defile an otherwise beautiful combination of two horizons (tbc).

06.02.2021. I was sorry to part with George Brush from Thornton Wilder’s Heaven’s My Destination. It was a fun character to know–albeit only as a fictional one–and follow. Could be a great character for a TV show.

07.02.20221. Especially pleasant to the sight the downs have been during the last few days when snow slightly, ever so slightly – this is England, baby – fell on surface, selectively, mostly on the bushes and the trees, plain uncovered earth simply swallowed the powdery substance. The kids got so excited and spent hours trying to scrape enough of that unfriendly material to build a snowman. I taunted them with stories about great Russian snow, but they preferred the actual toils to my parental reverie. But it is indeed the folds that are so varied despite their invariable structure. A change of weather, a change of season, a change of mood, they are all capable to bring about something new about the downs, which have become properly ‘own.’

08.02.2021. There is something very Japanese in the Hungarians…but not the other way round.

10.02.2021. A Covid story: the oldest woman in Europe, a 117 year-old nun, got Covid, and not only she had mild symptoms. Once she found out about the infection, she got disappointed–she really hoped to die; she has been looking forward to it for a very long time. What a bummer! But, as a nun, she cannot complain. God must have plans for her.

11.02.2021. Pikachu is my word for everything, and that pretty much makes it the first word of God.

12.02.2021. The downs are like a museum space, where, depending on the weather, it is possible to see, in the folds and crevices, a modern, postmodern, impressionist, Barbisonite and ancient painting. The colors, the topography, the atmosphere, even the perspective, change as periods and schools rather than weather conditions.

13.02.2021. Dostoyevsky writes most poetically about death. Savouring it.

14.02.2021. In October Light John Gardner overdoes it somehow. The two novels, the two contexts, run apart more than intended, it feels.

16.02.2021. Still, I am amazed at the skill of that very person I used to know who, born in a Ukranian shithole, trained in a vocation school as a film mechanic, hit it large in the 1980s by becoming a civil wife of a second rate oligarch. That was not as important however as her transition from a perpetual lumpen to a socialite. Guess where she has got that skill? By watching movies. Yeap. Good and bad Western movies. Over and over again she was watching and enacting them. She made it not by her marriage of convenience and the money that allowed her to settle in London, but by passing as what she has seen and coveted every day, as Hannibal Lecter put it in The Silence of the Lambs. She had the habituals, she worked out the walk and the talk to perfection. She was an ethnomethodological miracle. Agnes No2.

21.02.2021. Another numerological peculiarity. What does it mean tho? I shall return to the number later.

22.02.2021. I remember that as a child I thought that all adults have bad teeth by definition. Although there was a great deal of children with bad teeth as well. When I went to the States for the first time, I was astounded to see so much good and great white even teeth. Now that I live in England I am back to my childhood as an adult with bad teeth. ‘You should not smile so much,’ my youngest said the other day. ‘Your teeth are yellow and crooked.’ I should have stayed in the States.

24.02.2021. The downs surprised me again. Not only it became more, for we went to the other side of the hill, it became properly erotic, as its folds and crevices and nooks and corners and holes and dimples became to connote not a painting but a body, an erotic body, to be exact. There is sense of communion I have when I go there. Not coitus but communion. Intercorporeality of the mythopoetic kind.

25.02.2021. I built a Lego Duplo Small Lego city for Luka, but he does not want to live there (his character does not). As it has become common, he refers to play on the outskirts in his own space. So, he built himself a border town, where his character rules. It is as tough as the actual street life for a kid, not that he knows any of it. It is also as rugged: bricks poorly attached, holes and incompletes everywhere. But he can roam there freely and most importantly aimlessly. In my city, one can only drink tea, play the guitar, dance with Vampira and Mystic, keep money in the safe and hold an occasional business meeting. Booooring.

28.02.2021. John Gardner’s October Light is not treating me well. Somehow I have as much difficulty associating with the imaginary ‘pulp fiction’ characters as I have with the realistic ones. James and Sally are too old for me, while Peter and the Captain are too grotesque. I did not have that problem when I read the book at 27. So, thirty years later, it does not sit well with me any more. Sadski.

02.03.2021. Now that I have admitted to myself of the erotic nature of the downs, walking there has not become more exciting. On the contrary, I feel shy treading the all familiar paths. Even looking down at the folds makes me self-conscious. I remember in this regard a photo exhibit I attended in Berlin fifteen years ago. It was called Landscaping the Body and consisted of several series of photographs depicting female and male naked bodies with tiny figurines on them, the kind of figurines model train companies make for landscape. Like in a group of tourists climbing up a woman’s breast, or lumberjacks sawing off you know what. Actually, most photos were quite tasteful and the body indeed blended in with the figurines as if it was earth. Watching Mandalorian 2 with the kids. Grogu is adorable.

06.03.2021. ‘Doing nothing successfully’ was what she put as the title for her own project when the group got together for the first time. Unreflectively, or so self-assured and arrogant she was, she did not even for a second thought that with these words she was describing her own style of working with three other researchers in a comparative project for its entire duration. And, yes, the three researchers did use these words to mock her behind her back; for a long time it was our own consolation ad a way to deal with the impostor. It began on ‘the hard to reject’ continuum: using her children and health as an excuse to miss meetings and other group engagements, being late with bits, being tardy with her rare appearances, while networking on the side, taking time to contribute as little as possible to the group, preparing the ground for her next career step. In the course of four years, she wrote five publishable pages. She was a sham, but extremely savvy and strategically brilliant. Attending fully to potential donors and promoters, she managed to woo them on her side, building her academic career on fellowships and grants. We did not know where she got them, who recommended her, but she did get them despite that her only skill was careful attending. She was great at going with the wind. She positioned herself as different as that let her a chance to stand aside as if it was a stand. And she spoke little. Only then she would speak when she was absolutely sure she could do it to her advantage. She was great on paper. Two degrees from posh European Unis landed her first job in a jiffy. The project director was drooling at the prospect of working with her. She allowed for that. The other two researchers bought into that image as well. At first. I remember how…Acting down to earth helped her create an impression of accessibility, which, as it turned out later, had nothing to offer. She was extremely narrow and poorly educated. She came to academia from a profession and her lack of theoretical depth shined through. Her understanding of the project’s goals and methods was minimal; yet, she spoke little, avoiding at all costs of putting herself on the line, staying in the shadows. Now, almost seventeen years later, she speaks about discrimination of women in academia. Then she took three years off the project as maternity leave, planning to return to it when it would be effectively over so that she could collect her salary for two more years, working off the project’s agenda on her own stuff, contributing nothing to what she had been hired for in the first place. All this time she had an unemployed spouse at her side, who was taking care of the children (tbc).

07.03.2021. She was one of the most opportunistic academics I have ever met. Using politically correct trends, feminism, cultural pluralism, race, she quickly joined the community of the same kind: shallow critical thinkers with thoughtful faces. Her groupies were just like her, only not so successful, but certainly as ‘thoughtful.’ She was so good at doing nothing successfully that it took more than a year of my life to bring her down, to expose her. It was not my business to do so, but I couldn’t help myself. To me she was an abomination. It was worth fighting for her to be gone, but I was a wreck at the end. I was traumatized to the core by seeing something others did not see or did not care to see. They saw a thoughtful and pleasant woman who could maintain a polite conversation, small talk. It was I who was fuming and ill-meaning, impolite and harassing. When we occasionally, very occasionally, met in the coffee room she would hiss at me or glare with hatred unless. She was very careful about leaving no paper trail or any other evidence of her attitude however; after all, she was the cool one, and her previous profession taught her about the need to keep face and not get exposed. She even changed her telling name, the one that betrayed her nationality to a neutral English one (well, her vanity did get in the way, it belonged to a socialite actress), altho there was nothing English about her. Of course, there were accusations of male chauvinism and power mongering, there were third party interventions and threats. It was a hard battle to win. I was alone in it: I spoke to many people who cared about me and they listened, but none appreciated my investment in this conflict. They all emphasized the psychological underpinnings of the clash: my jealousy of her special status, my damaged ego. Only after her arrogance took the better of her, – being so detached from the community which she got paid to serve, she began to lose touch, she slipped. Hiding behind the veil of academic integrity, she harmed the project by willfully obstructing its outcomes. She was dismissed for the last stage and replaced by another participant. I felt like I did something important. Now, as I found out through a chance occurrence, she has risen again and although her accomplishments speak for themselves–same shallow critique spread thinly on top of big words–she continues matronly, positioning herself as a scholar with an edge. She is indeed an academic species. I have seen her kind in other contexts as well. Smart enough to adapt quickly and persistent enough to get what they want…I do not wish her well.

08.03.2021. Well, well, Alex. That was some March 8th rant! A perfect gift to women for the International Women’s Day. The timing is a good reminder that this dribble should not continue.

09.03.2021. Or perhaps it shall but in a different vein, as a memorium to those women in academia who shine as an example of true integrity, academic courage and imaginative force. One was my Master’s advisor, who was as nurturing of the difference as she was fierce in defending her beliefs. She was solid as a rock, but most importantly, by way of productive contrast, she was respectful and giving, transparent and at all times accountable. I sound like I am writing an obituary, somewhat exaggeratedly and overexcitedly for something that was meant to pass; yet, the memory of her kindness is still with me. It was the kindness of an equal; it directed me without any imposition. I do believe now, a quarter century later, that it was a woman in her that made me remember her in this way. This woman I wish only well.

10.03.2021. Well, that was a bit sentimental but hey, I am getting old. Memories flush over me like actual experiences used to do. On a different note: it was a bad machine day today. Two computers, a TV set, a window washer, and a vacuum cleaner all gave up to function properly in the same capricious way. Like it was the Revolution of Gadgets, the Wrath of Appliances. Yeap, like a bad hair day, only with household machines. Same happens with clothes, but that would be the subject of a separate entry.

11.03.2021. Nik missed the school the other day because he overate. This is capitalism for you, baby. When I was a kid and lived in a communist I missed school because I underate (well, not really). His performance of being sick was rather tedious: he did not have much to show but had to give us something, so gave us being agrieved. Like deeply saddened by his affliction. It was hard to play along, but I did not wish to burst his bubble. The boy is way too sensitive to criticism.

14.03.2021. Yesterday Luka and myself went to buy flowers for the Mother’s Day. As it has been common because of the pandemic our destination was Tesco Express, a small chain grocery store up the hill about twenty minutes away walking distance. I like going there with Luka: we discuss ‘serious’ business: Minecraft, God, school, my hair, cars. When in the store, I let Luka pick the flowers. The Brits tend to have nice flowers around here, mostly tulips and roses. Of course he went for the vile colored green and blue ones. I moved him toward a more traditional pink and white mix. At this point a man standing next to me said: “You are lucky you have your son helping you out. I have been here for twenty minutes and can’t make up my mind.” I smiled (perhaps even chuckled) said something, like “Right. Yeah” and moved away. It was embarrassing. I mean, my response was embarrassing to me. It was so blah incompetent, so delayed and other unfriendly. But it has been so common: I have such bad skills with spontaneous communication. I do not act on the spot and I do not, unable rather, engage in small talk as nearly as well as or as fast as the English do it. For that reason, the incident lingered, and, as is often the case, for a long time back home I replayed it in my head imagining saying things like “Yeap, it is good to have him around for these things. I can always blame him later” or simply “He knows mom better than I do” or “It is mother after all.” But “Right. Yeah.” I guess the earlier diagnosis is correct: I am a sociopath and a misantrope. A bit like cranky James in Gardner’s October Light.

17.03.2021. The world of Lego Luka and myself have built is crumbling. The news are not god. First, my character Prof. Dumbledore (I spell the name Dumble d’Ore)–and no, I do not pretend to be the wise one, I do acknowledge my age however, and Prof. was the oldest figurine after Yoda (like, there is a child who wants to be a Yoda?) we have—lost his hair (yes, just like in real life: it was stolen–go figure), then Thanos returned to capture the Ice World, then President Business (appropriately, Nik’s character) turned to the Dark Side. Luka (character also named appropriately for the boy who takes things literally) retired to his Border Town from which he observes the crumbling Union. The complexities of the game are stipulated not only an uncanny mix of characters and worlds, as well physical persona, but our personalities and playing strategies. Luka plays to win (when he looses he pouts), Nik plays to gain more stuff (he hates to give it away), while I play to be entertained or rather not bored.

18.03.2021. Working on Tarkovsky for five years put me in a pickle, in a quandry, in a state of uncertainty. I invested so much time in this research that I acquired a great deal of facility. I feel comfortable. I can go on milking my subject until I retire or die. There is so much stuff. At the same time, I am getting more and more bored and fidgety. I want out. So, it seems I am facing a stand-off: security versus adventure. Been there with translation and law already. Not an easy choice as you go on. New stuff is harder to learn and easier to loose. But the pressure of less and less time makes the opposite demands. What is it gonna be?

21.03.2021. Dumbledore turned out to be a Jedi knight (yes, we have been re-watching Star Wars). He found his hair and a Jedi attire. he has a lazer sable and that look in his eyes. His sweetie McGugligan dos not like the change. All he talks about is the Force. He even brings it into their intimate relationship: no she does not like to go on forever. She is a quickie kinda girl. In the meantime, Luka is building a retreat (watched an episode of Gadget Man about camping), while President Business (future Dar Vader) is gone. A rendez-vous with the Dark Side?

22.03.2021. It has been very impish around here.

23.03.2021. John Gardner wrote: I look forward to the world in crisis because crisis gives the world the best art. I am not sure how to take this. Jamaica is always in crisis as is Haiti. They do not give the world any art. On the other hand, Finland, the ‘happiest’ country four years in a row, or Sweden, give the world very decent art. He probably meant the Western world at its most artistic.

24.03.2021. Nik has his birthday today. H has turned out to be a very interesting boy. It was fun to watch him busying himself with the gifts: RC car, Karaoke, Lego. Luka took the shift of attention very well.

25.03.2021. Our playing Lego has deteriorated beyond sanity. While Luka is flying around, building as he does, Nik moved all his precious Lego in the interum (hallway), where he created a powerful protection field disallowing other players to enter. My character in the meantime would want to adjust which basically meant sitting between the boy who does not let other children to play with his toys and the boy who liked to play by himself. It would be impossible for poor Dumbledore to step out of the game for his presence was deemed indispensable. The plight of a parent. We need you but we don’t really need you.

27.03.2021. On Luka’s birthday today, during dinner, Nik all of a sudden announced that his house is hardly a ‘mansion.’ When we started mocking him, Luka joined in by saying that he, Luka definitely does not want a big house, just big enough not to get lost on the way to the Lego room. Lego room? Oh, the boy got it from all the older and wiser ones at the table. Aha, so you want a house small enough to be able to go trough the cat’s room, the football room, the TV room, the million zillion trinkets room safely without getting lost. You demands are modest, young Luka Room Walker. Let the Force guide through the galaxy of rooms. You will find the way… Although generally touchy, Luka was okay being the brunt of our jokes for – typically – it is Nikolai who has the privilege.

28.03.2021. Luka tried the bike today. Got self-conscious but showed promise.

29.03.2021. The bike is conquered. Although heavy and bit long, Luka got it. He will ride!

30.03.2021. I still hold in my mind those pics they have just shown in the news: Putin and Shojgu in Tuva dressed up like two cuddly bears from Star Wars, two Ewoks. Embarrassing and not just as a confirmation of the suspicion that Putin does not have a sense of style. Why would he? Look at his DDR pics – living across the border from FRG could allow a Soviet to throw in a decent wardrobe. No, here, it is always a miss, which is only appropriate for the grey cardinal. One shall be reminded however of the place the Ewoks had in Star Wars. Yeap. The primitives. So, why not nano-tech lab-engineered techno clothes? Just to show how advanced we are? Why full body shearling suits instead? To show that you are fluffy and cuddly? And who are these people who want to buy the same (apparently there is a queue at this local custom clothes maker) fashion scream? To go where?

31.03.2021. Sometimes, I feel an urge to invent a drink–must be the latent mixologist in me. Something vodka, gin, sparkling something, plus juice and sweet liqueur. Well, obviously it is not gonna happen soon.

01.04.2021. My father was an April’s fool junkie. All my childhood on April 1st, we would have been awakened to floods, fire, police, visitors, in other words, disturbing and not so funny events. Practical joking was his hobby.

02.04.2021. The children have become a bit too English: I barely understand them. Nik mumbles under his nose and Luka developed a high pitched voice like

03.04.2021. There are explicit indications of age with me: I speak very loudly and I repeat myself. Like, repeat myself. Yes, repeat myself. Perhaps it is also children who are responsible: screaming has never been so rampant and explaining usually implies saying things twice and then rephrasing them the third and the fourth. It is laborious for me. Tanja who does it for a living with her students seems to have an easier time.

04.04.2021. Cultivated slowness is the way of the English.

06.04.2021. At dinner Luka said to me: Dad, you have a six pack on your forehead. Nik added: Yeap, he has been training his head for 56 years.

08.04.2021. He was laying on the pavement. His face was a shade of spade.

09.04.2021. When I read October Light thirty years ago–I can establish the date precisely for I found an Amtrack ticket to New York in the book; it was dated April 9, 1991–I was more interested in the Smut Part. Now I cannot stand reading it, being entirely focused on Sally and James or The Good Fiction Part. At the time, the theme of Richard’s suicide did not strike me as depressing. Now, I had to skip all references to it. The word ‘vissisitude’ I cannot spell correctly. Ever.

10.04.2021. Luka’s most common conversational openings. 1) You know, dad, on Minecraft… 2) Okay, what shall we talk about with Lego? 3) Do you know what ‘skin’ is? Do you know what ‘avatar’ is?

11.04.2021. I have to record this dream of mine. My dreams have not been beautiful for years, weird more like it, and bad weird to that, but this takes the cake. It is a paradigmatic early morning dream that I have. It begins with a place I know, I have the key to, but it is not a private place – a dorm of some kind, and I sit in the lobby. I have my my staff there. I am looking through it unable to find things to wear. There are suitcases and bags and hangers everywhere. All of a sudden lights go off and then people come. After they are gone, my things are gone as well. Including my wallet, my backpack, my phone, my jacket, my bags. I throw in someone’s jacket and attempt to find my things. I am anxious. I know that I am supposed to teach an English class. My boss is Thomas from Berlin. I see him from afar and wave to him. He pretends not to notice. My colleague Kati is with him. She looks away. In my mind I see students seating in the classroom waiting for me, but I am late. I will never make it. My anxiety shoots through the roof. There are people everywhere carrying others’ things, going through their luggage, etc. I see a familiar bag in the hands of a Chinese man. There are lots of them around. I take it away. He grins. I drop the bag. It is too heavy to carry. In a long corridor I see a woman who has twenty pairs of watches in her hands. One of them is mine. I reach out for it, but she throws them in the bin. I run. The lights are still off, only emergency lights are blinking. I walk outside and find myself on a university campus. It is a generic one, but the little voice inside me tells me that it is SUNY Albany (I was there as an exchange student in 1984). In any case, the campus is all being built. It is a huge construction site. I am totally disorientated. I am asking for directions and find myself on the scaffolding. I jump. People laugh. Two young girls jump on top of me. I run. One of them screams: Did you like it, grandpa? I see a zoo with a giraffe, lion, and panther. I come closer and see a snow leopard that looks like a man in a costume. It lays in shallow pit trying to get out. A stocky woman with huge arms is beating it. Now and then she slaps a person in a crowd of bystanders. It is getting dark. The campus is now lit by construction projectors. An older person passes by. I ask for directions, wondering why it is that I want to get to the center of the campus, its main square. What do I need there? He points in some random direction and quickly walks away. I am running around. I am getting tired. The campus is the size of a small city, and there are fresh pits and piles of garbage and construction materials everywhere. In my pockets I feel a bunch of keys and get excited. My car should be around some place. Maybe it is what I am looking for. But the keys and not mine. There are small and twisted. I also find a phone in my pocket. It looks like a fake phone we used to get in party bags at children’s birthdays. An adult professor-like type passes by. I ask for directions again. He explains in detail, but I cannot remember a single thing. I panic and wake up.

13.04.2021. Dumble D’Or was very naughty today. Not only did he speak all morning with a hideous Scottish accent (the influence of Staged no doubt), but he also built himself a gaudy little speed boat (ex-Indiana Jones Turkish thing), a gold Mercedes of boats type of thing which he equipped with numerous gadgets, including alien techno plates, Hobbit’s self-finding map, a kind of Tom-Tom of the Lord of the Rings, three Mandalorian guns, a Sponge Bob’s special ‘red phone,’ and a bunch of Toy Story explosive sticks, a siren and a very tall golden flag in the back (like you would not be able to notice this THING a mile away). Then, together with Maggy McGuggligan, his ‘partner,’ well, partner in crime at this point, he began to harass the inert and somewhat dull but otherwise harmless Darty (Darth Vader) and his friend, an ex-Jedi Luke (now Luke-the-ice cream-vendor) by demanding to sell him Grogu (baby Yoda) or ELSE! He went as far as firing at the TieFigher, Dart’s favorite space vehicle, making him cry like a baby, stealing Thanos’ hand (Luka’s treasure memo from the times he chopped it from the big doofus), and screaming obscenities (still with real bad Scottish accent) at the poor Uds who tried very hard to liven the atmosphere by playing Adele.

For the first time in his Lego-playing career, dad (plays Dumble D’Or) was pronounced unfit to play with Nik and Luka who subsequently voted him out and continued (to his secret delight: khi-khi) without him. It was very very sad (khi-khi), bot not much sadder than encountering Sherlock’s sister East Wind (Urus) in the last episode of Sherlock that we watched last night. Strange days!

15.04.2021. I am quite shocked at my complete lack of taste in music. Not only do I go for the worst cheese there is, I am enjoying such questionable characters as Dido, ABBA, Eruption, Chinghiz Khan (no idea how one spells it) tre-men-dously. It is particularly embarrassing to admit because I listen to all this schmalz on YouTube, meaning that I do not just listen to it, but see it, it being .. well .. plainly inadmissible in a palace of beauty. The costumes alone are so vulgar and cheap that it is literally painful to concentrate on the music. Yet, this sensory Bacchanalia continues to be very appealing. Moreover, it has got routinized via the list that YT created for me. I just press the button and it starts flowing into my ear, offending yet pleasing something deeply seeded inside me. Oj.

16.04.2021. Of course, it can be just a sign that I am aging, not wanting to move on, holding to the familiar, etc. Perhaps. In food – for sure. But why then such an aversion to the same YT videos where my favorites–The Boss, Led Zep, Jagger–are performing now, still carrying the tune at the venerable age of 70plus? Why this repulsion and mockery that I bestow on the much aged actors? Say, in Staged – Michael Palin, Woopy Goldberg, Sam Jackson, or Fisher and Ford in the latest Star Wars? Ah, I see, here it is about not wanting to age with them. I hate birthdays (you sound like Peanuts, Al).

23.04.2021. Was my birthday that memorable for me not to write for over a week? Well, actually it was and not only because Tanja made sure there was an unlimited flow of Champaign, and Danny’s stepped in to deliver a shmogarsboard (another spelling pathology) of Chinese yammies (no matter how I spell it, the word comes out wrong every single time, while it was pretty good, the food I mean), and the kids in by now a traditional manner gave me not surprise but target gifts, mostly clothes but also books and toys (yeap, toys: Lego, Playmobil – Tanja’s gifts, but stress balls/bouncy balls – Nik’s thing), but because it was not stressful in any way (well, why would it be stressful with a pack of stress balls around?). The celebration flowed seamlessly into our evening routine but had a quality of a festivity. What more can one desire in the Corona times?

24.04.2021. I did mention that special expertise that Nik has about stress balls. Well, it is not really expertise but more like obsession or rather an obsessive fad (it is subsiding). To give you a taste, for his birthday he asked all of us to give him a variety of stress balls – his choice. Well, I must say that it was pretty smart for the makers of sex toys to diversify and enter the children’s toy market. One stress ball that he ordered should be nominated as the all times winner: a blue giant ‘tit’ ball. It is so huge (yes, very much around) that it cannot be held by one hand (equivalent of size 36B, I reckon). I mean my hand. But when a child handles it, it becomes the sight I have seen in Illinois once or twice with a member of the ‘Let Your Child Drink from Mommy Until He Turns 20,’ and I don’t care to see it again. It was that kind of holding. Both hands, squeezing in and out, pulling sideways, stretching the edges. Remember GOT, the mad sister’s place, her demented son? Aha.

25.04.2021. Luka woke up with a body ache again. Poor thing, we thought. He must be sleeping wrong or there might be something wrong with his mattress, his pillow…in any case, it was worth investigating. We pulled the blanket and slowly like that slowly when in a horror film the hero is walking inside a monster’s lair, things began to emerge: twelve small, two big, and one humongous plush animals, one flash light, two cups, one Matreushka doll (six pieces), a brush, an RC car, two matchbox cars, one Playmobil animal, a handful of Lego pieces, a microphone, a bicycle bell, a shoe, four pairs of pants, a dozen of single socks, five shirts, including two baby ones, two pounds in change and ten pound note, a pen, another pen, a last year surprise egg, one small and one large book and finally, to cap it all – a brand new single cup Italian espresso maker I bought for my mom a year ago. Oh no, this is not the end of the story. The story ended with Luka’s arrival (after all these remains were properly and neatly tidied away) for his bedtime at 8:30 (yeap, our boys are on a relaxed schedule). Arrived Luka, climbed up (his is a bank bed) to his new and improved lair and started screaming: Where is my staff? Where is everything? We are, ah, like, Everything? What everything? He goes: Where is my Mad Hatter’s Hat? Indeed. Where is it?

27.04.2021. In his diary Tarkovsky writes about a beautiful dream that he saw, a dream about some angelic appearance (blagodat’, we say in Russian). I am jealous: all I saw last night was salad: ruccolla, spinach, iceberg. I was in it, trying to make my way out. The night before was a bit better: gnomes. Not the friendly kind of garden gnome, but the evil Hobbit kind of gnome type. And no, I don’t want to know what it means. Leave me alone, Carl!

28.04.2021. Nik is rehearsing for a role in Russian. It requires that he speak the language. Of course, he doesn’t. He sounds like he is in an American film where speaking highly accented Russian is a part of the alien aesthetics, like he is faking an accent. I don’t mind. It just reminds me that it has been a matter of principle for me not to burden the kids with my native tongue on account of its uselessness. Babushka has to deal: imposing a foreign language outside of its living environment, its context, is like having an aquarium for a lake. The fish tank is not nature: it is a hobby at best. A language can be a hobby all right, but not for a child. Not a popular view, granted, especially with foreign moms around here who speak Hungarian, Polish, mandarin, what not with their kids in public and no doubt in private. This ‘kitchen mother tongue’ does not know how to fly and wilts as soon as the kids move out. How about I teach my kids to spell ‘ruccolla’ correctly instead?

29.04.2021. To remind myself of my past transgressions and the ‘hard times’ my body underwent at some point, I put a photograph of my prune like face, slit like eyes and baggy cheeks (ironically, a photo for my new American passport) in my wallet, which reminded me of a real event that took place years ago with a female friend. Trying to wean herself of eating, she took a full body picture of herself naked, accentuating a huge belly and as sizable a butt. She taped the picture inside the fridge, so that every time she tried to sneak out yet another snack, she could see the abominable image and stop herself. One day in the summer, her apartment got flooded. She had to deal with a bunch of workers for an entire day. It was very hot. So she invited the workers to use the fridge and take whatever drinks they could find there to refresh themselves. You can imagine her shock when two of the three workers, independently of each other, showed up at her door that very evening armed with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of bubbly. The punchline? How about: They too wanted to help her shed a couple of pounds. Or, love and fridge do mix (oh, that is silly) or…What do I get if someone sees MY shame?

01.05.2021. The kids have been bickering all evening about the best Sherlock–R. Downey Jr. or Cumberbatch? And the best Watson: Jude Law or Martin Freeman? And the best Moriarty I cannot make my mind either. There are also two old BBC productions and I like the Russian Sherlock V. Livanov, but that is undoubtedly a cultural prejudice. We are watching Elementary now. I don’t like the Sherlock, but it is okay for a family evening.

02.05.2021. Sometimes, I need to rough up the edges in my writing by allowing a good share of colloquialisms. Science reflects as much as it explores. Science anticipates. It can be messianic. I saw lots of hay in my dream last night. Not like roll in the hay but hay as hay.

04.052021. There is person in my life who suffers from paedogolism. Well, she is obsessed with adopting children. It is indeed a pathology, a deviation. She does it ‘for herself.’ Yes, that explicitly. It is therefore not altruism but egoism that motivates her. Does she provide good living conditions? Yes, she does. Does she provide love and emotional support? Yes, she does. Does she perform the mother for the child? That too. Why am I suspicious then? because time passes and the fix wears off, and , as it is common with children who get puppies for Christmas, a few months later, years, in this case, and they grow up and become less cute and, in the case of humans, less dependent, more demanding. Then, the person starts looking for another fix, another cute little toddler or, in this case, an infant, bringing him or her into the nest where other no longer infants still desire to have what they used to have but do not have any longer. TBC.

05.05.2012 (right – wishful thinking of finger-tipping) 2021. Sereuzha Luneuv. The name jumped at me when I was reading an expert opinion on one of the Russian news portals about the European sanctions. The expert was one Sergei Luneuv, Professor of International Economics at the elite Moscow Institute of Foreign Affairs. Can’t be Sereuzha, I thought. Sereuzha was my classmate at the secondary school No 708 in Moscow. We studied together for seven years and sat at the same desk for two. Both of us were into arts. Well, he was. I was just tagging along. He was an immensely talented painter. Again, more like a graphics artist; his images of Roman soldiers attacking, Hannibal fleeing, Spartacus and Nero, and horses, especially those of horses were circulating in the school in the same manner other collectables did: beer caps, candy wrappers, comics. I, his friend, was the direct recipient of those. I will not be surprised to find a few in in the attick (sp?) in my Moscow apartment. Myself, I specialized in clay (plasticin) figurines, mostly soldiers. At the time, our history teacher was Vjacheslav Pjecukh, a ‘banned’ graduate student from the Moscow Institute of History (he became a famous writer during perestroika). He organized a history club where myself and Sergei enjoyed a full-time and privileged status (I because I was incredibly read-up and he because he was an artist and did ‘backgrounds’ for our games. We got together every week for two years after classes and enacted famous battles and other historical events (e.g., burning of Joan D’Arc) with plasticin figurines and what nots. We built kingdoms: landscape (trees and whole mountains), fortresses, troops, and some of us had huge armies in hundreds of cavalry and infantry but also ships. As a craftsman, I was Piecukh’s imitator. I imitated his neat detailed style, my shapes were accurate and meticulous. Sergei’s stuff on the contrary was wild. Like his painting, his world featured broad brave strokes. His soldiers were not at all realistic but extremely appealing. His images of horses, again, were astounding in their wild verve, so to speak. He was so free with his art that I felt jealous. Now I want to say that it was the hand of God that guided his. But he was also very damaged. His parents. I met them once or twice, were alcoholics. They were also extremely poor. Sergei would wear the same shirt and shoes for years. That is why I also remember him so vividly. They were also abusive. In those times, it was okay for a child to appear with a bruise, and he sported many. He claimed he got into street fight, but i knew they his dad beat him on a regular basis. He was a loner no doubt. We did not spend much time after school. We soon parted ways; he did not take his GCSEs and left school at the age of fifteen. My mother and I encouraged him to take the exams, and then apply to a polytech or something, something artistic, but he was stubborn. I completely lost track of him afterwards, expecting that life swallowed him whole. I thought of him though. With trepidation I googled up Professor Luneuv. I remembered Sereuzha as having a very Russian appearance: long nosed, horse-faced, small blue eyes. I did not recognize my friend in the professor, but God knows – I wished with all my heart that I would.

06.05.2021. Returning to magical realism (Thornton Wilder’s The Bridge of San Lois Ray) is strange. I was fascinated with the Latin American literature and magical realism in my twenties. Reading this kinda stuff now is a bit boring and certainly not as nearly magical. At the same time, I am fully enjoying the style. The physical book itself adds to it. It is a 1927 edition (they called it ‘impression’ then) published nearby in Croydon. It is published on the kind of paper they sell in arts and crafts stores: thick cream-colored, rough at the edges. Reading this book reminded me of what an extent reading a book used to be a tactile experience, especially during my childhood (90 per cent of all boks were hard cover). Just touching the pages makes it magical. A few quotes from the book: “…missing the whole purport of literature, which the notation of the heart. Style is but the faintly contemptible vessel in which the bitter liquid is recommended to the world.”

08.05.2021. Luka, who likes to jabber, has a funky entry way into a conversation. It goes like this: You know, dad, in Lego… Or: You know, dad, in Minecraft… As a parent I felt like I had to play along and suffer as a result until I have realized that I can also start a conversation with him by using the same technique. You know, son, in Life. Or, You know, son, in Thornton Wilder. Khm.

09.05.2021. Of course, I watched the parade. It was not as magnificent, not as I used to remember it. Moreover, it was not as touching. I guess even the most sacred memory is wearing out. I noticed something desperate in it, and Putin appeared more lonely than ever, especially next to the President of the poorest Central Asian republic (state). The cries Long Live Putin! did more bad than good to the image of the ‘tired’ President. The designer who covered the Mausoleum with brightly colored boards should be fired: cheap and out of place. I liked the marching troops, but that is a given. The tanks and stuff were not much different than I remember them. In sum, the Parade needs a major rebranding.

On a personal side, I remembered and drank to both of my grandfathers, the one who died in the first week of the war and the one who started his sadly uneventful military service (he was in a heavy artillery unit, always staying in the back) in the Finnish war in 1939 and ended in Manchuria in 1946.

10.05.2021. Nik has a difficulty saying [r], so I have made a silly tongue twister for him: ‘Robocop Robert rode his red railcopter roughly and randomly.’ I am not sure the twister is going to fly (or ride to that matter).

11.05.2021. Actually, the English mute their ‘r’s at the end pf a word. Nik, who speaks with the English accent, although the German mom and the Russian dad, get into his accent to contaminate it with ‘z’s and flat consonants, has a problem only with ‘r’s in the beginning of a word. The tongue twister should emphasize those ‘r’s, as in Robocor Robert drove his red roomy Romeo (it is never roomy, a Romeo, it is Italian after all), no better Rover (so English too) rambunctiously.

12.05.2021. We have been inventing TV shows. I suggested a cooking show ‘Make her happy, bachelor!’ where single men would cook for their loved ones who too are a part of the show. Like behind the curtains or through a video link or in the audience or something. The environment could be competitive as in having several men cook for the same girl (there is an English date show like it, or do I not remember well?). She will taste the food blindly and name the winner. Another show could be a Russian Top Gear testing all kinds of Soviet made cars.

13.05.2021. There is some urgency in defining a nation’s raison d’etre. A suspicion is brewing, in the wake of the pandemic, that for the English it is the pub, a pint at 4-5pm. I will tread carefully thought with this assumption. Not just on account of its unfortunate allusion to alcoholism, but I don’t want to stereotype my ‘host’ nation too crudely. In other words, “I understand the implications of this ascription. I need more time,” as Sherlock likes to say in Elementary. It is getting late anyway. These notes do not write well in the morning though.

14.05.2021. Can one say that a certain language is better to measure man and things than another? Is something like fixed word order makes a particular language more insightful?

15.05.2021. Moskovich is a drink that has 1/2 cherry juice, 1/4 lime vodka and 1/4 Cointreau. A really nice Martini. Another personalized drink is Aleksasha. It has 1/3 milk, 1/3 coffee liqueur (better not cream based such as Amarulo) and 1/3 vodka. Kozi, Oh Yes is a pina colada variation. It has 1/4 coconut milk, 1/4 pineapple juice, 1/4 pina colada, and 1/4 vodka. A bit too accidity much for the stomach, a rough drink.

19.05.2021. Why is that I often see in my nightmares a middle-aged (well, my age, by now) woman who is supremely strict with me? In real life, this type of a woman would always find me objectionable, as a child, and as a teenager, as a young man, and as an adult. Objectionable and demeaning. Tonight, in a dream, this kind of woman did not want to sell me a ticket, making it impossible for me to return home. Earlier, the same kind of woman, heavy set and with high hair (perhaps, hair bun) would fire me or give me the worst mark or send for my parents or chew me out for burning something outside. An archetypal witch.

20.05.2021. “It was not of him, at all events, that the bitterest tongue in France had remarked only fifty years before: that many people would never have fallen in love if they had not heard about it” (T. Wilder). I was there as well…half time, anyway. There is also a great bit on twins (Esteban and Manuel) in the “Bridge.”

21.05.2021. As Tanja was making her book about pregnancy and birth ready for publication today we slid into sharing our experiences that dealt with the birth of our three sons. One experience of mine stuck to mind, but until then, I did not have a chance to reflect on it. I remember that during Luka’s birth which was home birth–it took place in the living room of our old place in Hove–I had to assist the midwife (it was not an emergency), who was struggling trying to free the newlyborn from the afterbirth. It was at that point that I realized that vagina had another unique and perhaps greater function, that it was not a sexual thing that meant entry but another thing that meant exit, that things other than come and pee could emerge from it. I realized it and was shocked. I even thought that it was the end of the vagina that I had known. Good lord, thank you! I was wrong.

22.05.2021. Another related topic was discussed the next day. I have a friend who had her second boy a few years ago. In the past, I would offer some of the clothes that our boys have grown out of but we still kept because they were cute and of high quality to friends and relatives. I would offer but the response, as in this case, would be lukewarm at best. It appeared, especially with younger people, that they did not want used clothes for their children. It also appeared that many of the refusniks did not want anything used in their lives. In grocery stores, these people would buy the freshest. In cars, they would only buy new ones. The same in appliances and furniture. After some deliberations, Tanja and myself came to the conclusion that this attitude had to do with being selfish, that it is egomania that prevented these people from accepting things that were not their own first. This assumption requires further examination of course, but the idea is exciting and refreshing. It is much better that a shot in the direction of peevishness or some clinical pathology. Personally, I am a scavenger, as is my sister. We would not hesitate to wash a hat we found in the street and wear it. When I walk into a grocery store I gravitate to the clearance shelf. In Berlin I would make trips to Ikea’s Fundgrube. The refusniks would go to a premiere, I would go to the Sunday boot sale at the racing tracks. A rat.

23.05.2021. My father was a handy man by the book. Literally so. He was a book worm. He did not have a father himself (died when my dad was five years old), but he wanted to be a handy man. With the hammer and nail. As in – handy – man. And so he would buy these do-it-yourself books. He forced me to go by the book as well. I on the other hand took after my grandfather who was a peasant and read maybe one book in his life. Nor was he handy. Everything he did was sloppy and just so. Needless to say I hated it when my dad would need my help. It could take him an hour to make a hole in the wall. It took me five seconds. Sadly, it still does.

24.05.2021. When you are young, you change your physical state by changing your environment. You go some place, you meet someone, and you feel different, better. When you are old, your physical state changes your environment, and since, in old age, you cannot rely on feeling good all the time, the world around you becomes changeable just because your faculties on any given day give a different interpretation of the same world around you. A good thing for the current times, but in the long perspective, – a wash.

25.05.2021. “He [Uncle Pio] possessed the six attributes for the adventurer–a memory for names and faces, with the aptitude of altering his own; the gift of tongues; inexhaustible invention; secrecy; the talent for falling into conversation with strangers; and that freedom from conscience that springs from a contempt for the dozing rich he prayed upon” (T. Wilder). Sadly, I possess none of these attributes. As an adventurer I suck!

26.05.2021. In light of the Lukashenko’s most recent act of …, I begin to understand my problem with Putin’s regime better. The problem is not the kind of regime it is – autocracy, but the wrong emphasis it exhibits. The emphasis is on ‘respectful’ relations ‘ensured by international law.’ This is the realm where Russia seeks superiority. This is what makes it compete with the United States. In fact, the American superiority would have been impossible, if it did not seek it in the realm of morality (democratic values) as well as economics and the military. Look at China. It could have claimed an economic and military superiority, but it would not be a sufficient condition for the overall superiority, for it is tied to the Communist ideology. When and only when Russia establishes itself as a moral leader, regardless of its economic status, it can enter the race for a ‘better’ nation. I shall write a letter to Putin. Dear Vlad, …

Actually, it is useless to write to him anything. Just as Wilder wrote, at some point an absolute ruler, feels like he is next to be God, and God you cannot persuade.

27.05.2021. There were some pictures taken from the meeting between Lukashenko and Putin. The Belorussian is standing behind (he is tall). Putin is at the front in white, white and blue jeans (that color combination looks horrible on him, perhaps more horrible than the Italian outfit he wore during his meeting with Berlusconi. Also, Sochi. The worst is the way he has his leg cocquetishly (sp?) raised, just like Maurice in the picture Holling took for the NASA wall of fame in Northern Exposure.

28.05.2021. Reading Wilder with his magical realism and the emphasis on mystical event reminded me that the most mystical in my life has been when one my mechanical watches would stop running and then when I put it away, thinking of replacing the battery, would start running again, showing correct time..me

29.05.2021. There should be only one head of the household. Otherwise, there will always be some chicken soup to throw away..

30.05.2021. I am truly bummed out,. Want to cry. After spending two hours yesterday reading and finishing The Bridge of San Lois Ray, I hoped for beautiful dreams that match a beautiful book. What do I see instead? Locks, dungeons, swamps, ruins, ripped pants, soiled underwear, screwdriver, broken bag, severed finger and a journey inside a well. What is it then that I SHALL be reading before going to sleep? A cookbook?

31.05.2021. May is over. It was very hot today. Unbearably so – the hottest day of the year. So far. Four showers could not make it more bearable. On such a day, I find it pleasant to just lay down and stare. It used to be that I could not rest that way. For that reason, I have also suffered during outings when my company wanted to just sit on the bench and stare. I wanted to read, to walk, to do something that is not staring. Now I can stare even in a closed space, for example, my room. I cannot say I am thinking about anything. I can say that I stare. I don’t have to lay down. I can sit just fine. Sit and stare. Weird. I presume that this new habit has something to do with my new sleeping pattern. Ultimately, when I cannot sleep, I stare inside myself. It is like staring inside the well which is filled with debris, garbage, broken things.

02.06.2021. I bought the diaries of John Cheever. I deem him an American classic and I loved his Falconer and short stories when I was young. It was of course a damper, that bit on him in Seinfeld, but still. Well, the first random page that I read had two moments: an ode to a beautiful man, a disparaging comment about the Italians, and a brief note about a 60 year old friend who was very proud that by the time she retired (her business has never been stated) she had slept with one thousand men. I cannot say that to be encouraging for the read.

04.06.2021. Northern Exposure has a funky character Adam. Quite unusual. By the way, I did remember how I came across this series: I interpreted it while working for WMNB-Boston in the early 1990s. It was not easy to render simultaneously. Fleishmann was the problem, but also Adam. Both spoke in a flowery and complicated way. Too correctly, too fancy was their discourse. Friends was a totally different matter, but my absolute favorite was Baywatch. My kind of challenge. The clients of WMNB were predominantly Jewish and old. On Baywatch they split into two camps. Old Jewish women used to call the station with the petition to remove Baywatch from the program. Old Jewish men could not have enough of it. It will not be correct to say ‘Go figure!’

05.06.2021. Luka has been very excited about his new purchase: a giant Lego batman. An abomination. He started his life in the Bordertown by tearing off Dumble D’Or’s leg. Now the poor man has to wear boring black pants to hide his wooden protrusion. The only good thing about it is that he can shoot from it. Laser bullets. Soon we will be relocating to the backyard to play Playmobil there. I need to make a ton of pics for the book. Nik will have to be excluded I am afraid. He is too colorful.

06.06.2021. I very much liked the faces of the Russian national hockey team: interesting faces. New faces. Few potato faces. I like the new generation of my people, although I only know Moscow, and Moscow has never been an etalon for the country.

07.06.2021. It was a gorgeous day: about 18 C, light breeze, not too sunny. it was so nice that Luka’s giant Lego Batman got undressed. He put on a sleeveless Eco shirt. Poor thing. Did he expect to be bullied by his friends Thanos and Hulk? Well, he was. They called him a bad name that indicated an non-traditional (what is traditional these days?) sexual orientation. Embarrassed, Batman caved in and put back on his bulletproof armor. Sad, really.

08.06.2021. We watch Elementary in the evening and Northern Exposure in the afternoon when we exercise with the kids. Interestingly, the two shows play off each other nicely. While NE has a slant toward a small place in the boonies and is essentially (culturally) Jewish American (lead), Elementary is all urban (NYC) and essentially British. The lead characters also offer a similar type of discourse: high flown. The kids do not differentiate. They would rather watch Modern Family or Superstore, but quality watching must be maintained. Khi-khi.

09.06.2021. The Downers screwed up royally: they went on a whim with measurements (yeap, exactly that-on a whim, deploying the rule of the thumb instead of deploying a ruler!) and overdid the wall by about thirty centimeters. Very upsetting. Doesn’t look like we are going to have a conservatory in the front any time soon.

10.06.2021. For the first time in my recent dreaming experience I fought my enemies with a light saber (no doubt some residue from playing Lego stuck in the subconscious). My light saber was red and when I, being sure of my weapon’s superiority, tried to butter through my opponents chest, the light got limp, bent and diminished as if the light saber’s battery was out of charge. Out of exasperation I pressed the remaining red flicker to my enemy’s head and, oh, a welcome miracle, it went straight in. I woke up triumphant (actually quite tired).

11.06.2021. I started translating John Gardner’s fairy tales collected under Dragon, Dragon. What fun! Translation is not an easy thing for me, but this time, so playful the text is, I found my voice straight away. As always, I embelish (waht is it with my spelling today? Am I losing my touch?), and often feel guilty but not this time. This time I felt as if John was standing behind my back snickering at my clever twists and turns. I wish I saw such lovely ghosts more often.

12.06.2021. My mom was in the hospital (routine pain management), so I did not speak with her for ten days. In a sense it was a relief (she is old and that means self-centered and long-winded, boring), but in a sense I missed speaking Russian: I felt rusty. Sometimes, I speak my native tongue with myself or to myself when I walk outside. We live in small town. I am sure it gets noticed, but I pretend that it have an earphone: quite handy these gadgets are even for those who don’t owe them. I wonder if Tanja misses speaking German. She hardly has a choice these days: while Leon speaks it fluently, he does not volunteer and neither myself nor the lil-ones do it sufficiently well to enjoy a conversation in German.

13.06.2021. Our Sudanese neighbors (on the right) with an oil well down there in the desert came for their annual two months of vacation in a less sunny country where they own a house. Their arrival produced quite a cultural stir: we live in an enclave; it is very quiet here. With them around, lovely people I must add, it became lively. One thing they do is render their social activities in the driveway. They have a small army of relatives living in England it seems. They come to visit almost daily as extended families (there is never a single visitor, they always come in packs of five). They bring food (just that) and entertainment. So, before they make it to the house, they stand and talk in the driveway. Then, the adults go inside, and the children start playing in the driveway. Then, around 9pm, guests are going home, but before they drive away there is half hour of talking and laughing in the driveway. It drives our English neighbors nuts. For us, foreigners, it is just another cultural thing. We are just glad that we do not stick out as much.

14.06.2021. It i supremely hot. Here in South England the sun knows no mercy. Once out, it is out to burn. I get very depressed. Not just because I have never liked the sun, but also because I overdress. The English are all shorts. I am all jeans. I do not wear shorts. I have never worn them. I was painfully shy as a child, and despite prompts, bribes and threats I refused to wear shorts. For a long time I did not wear short-sleeved shirts either. Imagine a child, an a 30 plus day wearing long pants and a long sleeved-shirt. Well, over the ears, living in Southern Illinois help, I managed to overcome the shirt part, but not the shorts. Now it is not just shyness. Now it is a position. I do not want to give it to the sun that it forces me in this ridiculous outfit. I will persist.

16.06.2021. It was a strange day. I woke up very early on a sweaty dream–it is really hot around here. Back in my mind, I kept the football game (Russia-Finland) which I would not dare (read: wish) to watch at home but could watch at the gym (the game was abysmal, very disappointed, would not want to watch another one any time soon). A similar impression was produced by the Putin-Biden meeting. Blah. The workers were supposed to finish the conservatory (they did, for all practical purposes, they did). Today, it was supposed to start raining heavily, so I waited, but it started later. Actually, it is raining now at around 9pm. Tarkovsky’s Stalker was at the tide-breaker point, going into the analysis. Nik had a strangely unproblematic root canal procedure.George the music teacher had a birthday. People at the Embassy want a very detailed vitae. My tuna and salad was not as good: the tuna got overdone and the salad was all wilty (well not as wilty as it was yesterday when I by mistake washed it under hot water). The new episode of Elementary was kinda good. The serial killer was a convincing dude, but the story was a cliche. Reading was difficult: Golosovker’s myths are a challenge. Not a good night reading. I don’t know. A strange day that did not yield anything bad, yet in and by itself was promising. Back to the Russia-Finland game. It is as if the day was arranged, just like the game, by the gods who came as replacements of the real ones. As substitutes. Remember how in school we loved to have substitute teachers. Things would happen with subs. We could make them cry or they would speak their mind and stun us into a conversation. Nothing like that today was delivered by the substitute gods. They just played the baseline. Strange that I would yearn so much for something not just strange but something that is really strange. It is not always good, is it?

17.06.2021. I had a meeting with a neighbor. His name is Danny. My age. He lives across. He has a camper van and a dog. All three are kinda worn out and a bit trashy. He is a curious bee, but his curiosity is limited by his interests. He knows for example that we have children, that our construction does not seem to ever end and that we have cats. I know that his name is Danny, that his wife is sick and that his dog’s name is Harry but used to be Paris and that he adopted it from Greece (hence Paris). All that he told me when we met the first time. And then the same info he gave me the second time (mind: I did not tell him anything about us–he just knew). So, today, I meet him again on the way from the gym. I ask him how he is doing and he tells me that his wife is sick. I empathize but switch to the dog, who is sitting patiently next to him. So how is Harry or shall I call him Paris, I say. He answers, Actually it is Pari, not Paris. As in France. Not quite the same as Harry, I say, (thinking to myself that if it is probably Paris as in Ancient Greek Paris). Though it depends. If you are into roayls or, sorry, not any more. what is astounding about this conversation is that it is exactly the same as it was the first two times. Exactly. He speaks. I respond. I joke. It is not a deja vu. It is a repeat. Very depressing given my limited contacts and sociophobia.

18.06.2021. After my experience with Danny (above), I have decided to be a bit more social just to see if I would enjoy it. For my site of practice I decided on the gym. The gym is my most diverse social context. I started reacting to greetings with hooks for small talk, as in doing the English most favorite type of small talk, that is, discuss the weather and chuckle at little things that have happened during the day (read: driving, shopping, work, children). Since I don’t drive or shop or work (would not consider my academic fiddlings proper work for the audience) and children are not exactly the kind of topic young guys or old guys at the gym wish to discuss, it would be mostly weather and workout. For my subject I selected a somewhat retarded guy of about 25-26 (physically exhibiting these signs for me to make the presumption). He has tried to communicate with me before but I would typically avoid him. So, I reached out. Yeah, that is how I conceived it. I caught up with him in the locker room and brought up the weather (hot, hot) and spiced it with a complaint: adverse experience with the new gym shoes. Two lines into the ‘conversation’ I have realized that the guy does not care about my dribble. It was he who did not want to engage, not me. I got embarrassed because at that moment I have also realized that my choice of the subject was neither safe not well made because he is more and not less specific in his preferences, his world is more and not less complex in how he attends to people. It was a déjà vu all over again: in the past when I was young and stupid, I thought that a not so pretty girl would be easy to woo because she does not have much choice. I was made realize quite quickly that an ugly girl is pickier because she is less flexible, because her world is more constrained by her experiences, etc. etc. it was both arrogant and ultimately not very kind of me to think otherwise. I guess, it will be another year or two before I am going to test my social skills again.

20.06.2021. I had a strange offer today at Tesco Express, the only store in Hove where I physically shop these days. When I habitually settled at the clearance fridge in the back anticipating a great deal on some Atlantic cod the manager came up with a cart filled with more clearance items. She smiled: Prime Deals. I smiled back and mumbled something about me living for Tesco throw-aways. Well, she said, If you find something you like I will discount it for you. I think that I was so stunned at her offer that it took me half a mile to register it. Like, anything? Lamb cuts, rib steak, salmon? At the time, I only managed to squeeze out: It is very kind of you. In fact, it was not kind, it was forking great. The downside is that I will be too freaked out to meet her again. Shall I start shopping in Coop then?

21.06.2021. Nik got so excited that his schoolmate’s mother got Covid, that after Tanja administered a home Covid test upon which it was discovered that he din’t have it, the poor boy burst down in tears: He would have loved to stay home for ten days playing on his ipad. Oh, boy.

22.06.2021. My trip to London, one of very few recently, has confirmed what I began to sense years ago after I moved to England: I dislike the English capital. I dislike its drabness, its architectural mediocrity, its narrowness (crammedness) and most of all its arrogance in the face of cultivated specialness. The Russian Consulate which was the purpose of my visit reflected that the way the domesticated alien reflects the most grotesque features of its adopted nation. Located in an old building with two centuries of history, the Consulate has a massive iron cast fence and a massive door the Soviet style. But both are rugged and somehow shabby, as is the inside: chipped marble stairs, scratched copper plated rails, worn out carpet, soiled antique furniture. Shabby. It is but a facade. The security person who let me in did not speak Russian but his English was not great either. A tiny garden in front of the Consulate door could barely sit two. Inside there was space but the atmosphere was that of a regional OVIR. Four women in their thirties were presiding over the Consulate’s affairs with little interest in the clients but much interest in all the things bureaucratic. They commandered visitors around like generals commandered troops, making them nervous in the face of a potential mistake. Naturally, I had an argument and left with a sour taste in my mouth. It was the same taste I had when the Russian football team lost to the Dutch 4:1 a day earlier and Putin announced a publication of an article about WWII: so much pretense at greatness by way of mediocre efficacy. My people suck!

23.06.2021. Academics often take the general level of education for granted. Especially around here. We, foreigners, certainly have hyped up expectations about the English educational system. The English think the same. Yesterday, the PM announced that the UK will be–in no time–the world’s academic superpower. In any case, today, Tanja went for a haircut. The hairdresser asked her where she worked. Tanja said that she taught philosophy at the University of Sussex. Ah, said the woman (25 years old, single, no children) after a long pause, As in stones, right? Meaning–I kid you not–Harry Potter’s Philosopher Stone(s). When Tanja (begrudgingly) explained to her that stones had little to do with her vocation, the woman admitted that she was dyslexic and that it would take ‘hundreds of days’ for her to finish a book. This reminded me of an acquaintance of mine, who I met at the gym over here in Hove, where he worked as a fitness trainer. When to his question about my work I answered that I was a philologist, he drew a blank. I elaborated: languages, literature. He said, Languages I understand but what is literature? Ah, I said, Fiction? Fiction, he said pensively. I rushed to help: Books, George. Do you read books? Ah, books, he said with relief, Yes, so, you read books. I see. Yes, George, I read books. Do you?

24.06.2021. I was not sure at first if the character of Moriarty in Elementary worked both as a woman and as far as the actress was concerned. I have come to believe that the idea was solid. Yet, I would have wanted to see a different kind of woman. Still a lover, but a mature woman. By association with Lucy Lu who played one of Charlie’s Angels, I thought of Demi Moore: ‘I have never been good. I have always been great!’ I think Miller could have played a better Sherlock as well: more dependent, perhaps, but also more enthralled.

25.06.2021. During the Amazon Prime Day sale Leon bought himself an Alexa Eco Ball and a special light bulb. When he set them up the little ones spent the whole evening playing with Alexa: Alexa, turn the light green. Alexa, I want to go to sleep. Play rain. Alexa, wake Leon up at three in the morning. The next day Luka ran upstairs to invite Leon to play ping-pong with him. He knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I said: Leon must be busy. Luka screamed through the door: Leon, are you having s-e-x with Alexa?!!!

26.06.2021. Somehow along my life not so long time ago I managed to convince myself that I disliked ice-cream. The same happened with bread. Strangely so, for every time I taste either, I like it, but I never want more. In Boston, I lived on ham and cheese croissant from Au Bon Pain. In Germany, I ate chabatta every single day. German ice cream was my staple food for years. I guess, old age brings you to minimalism of some kind. As in travel, as in cinematic experience, shopping. A grey transition to the lesser land.

27.06.2021. As a parent, no matter how not outgoing you want to be, how much you do not want to communicate with other parents and in general not belong to Motherland, both other children and their parents catch up with you. Eventually. Take Henry, or Janu, for an example. Henry is a friend of Nik’s. He is the boy who knows what he does not want. He does not want pizza, sweets, juice, Disney Plus, ping pong, cats. The list is endless. At the same time, he is entirely lost as to what he actually wants. It is as if he grew up in the family of nihilists. This makes him look cool, but difficult to be with. He is as socially adapt as he is socially deprived. Janu is a friend of Luka’s. He comes from a South African family. He also lives by prohibition, growing up in a family of Christian fundamentalists. When traveling on the bus with Luka the other day on the way to a birthday party, he chastised Luka (with poorly concealed approval from his father) for saying ‘Oh, God’ because one is not supposed to say God’s name in vain, especially if it sounds like swearing. Ironically, and I witnessed this inconsistency with Christian fundamentalists in the States a lot, this does not prevent him from justifying the need to cull and eat animals or be paranoid about Covid. Somehow, God does not come into play where murder is justified, if for a reason, and God is too busy regulating your world to simply protect your child. Somehow extremism invites illogism as if to believe is to accept inconsistency and self-contradiction.

28.06.2021. Sometimes, I feel like I can do something absolutely amazing. Like, I am meant to do it. Like, writing an amazing book or perform an act of absolute heroism. Like, in changing history. Like, in my biographer being befuddled: ‘How come?’ Most often however it is I who ask myself ‘How come?’ Why this sense of some singular contribution to the life of mankind? There are no objective reasons, no prerequisites. Yeah, there is a justifiable feeling of being special which was cultivated during my childhood, but all the subsequent life, is it not the dismantling of that pedestal? So, what is this sense that bothers me now and then? Is it about something latent or is it about something yet to come?

30.06.2021. The news: Putin announces that one off his favorite (three were named) pieces of literature is ‘Kolobok,’ a folk or fairy tale (intended for the children under five-years old) about a smart round bread who escaped a series of dangerous trials and fooled first the humans, bear, and the wolf, but fell victim of the cunning fox. If the President of a nuclear superpower meant to say that he was non-aligned first and foremost, what shall we be thinking about the ending? Shall he be saying that he is not to be fooled by the fox (the collective West)? I am at a loss. Another piece of news that involves my people is the victory of the Russian team at the World Robofootball Cup. Yeap, after the dismal defeat at the EUROS, we won with the robots. And, listen to this. In the finals, we played with Iran. Yeapapapadu!

01.07.2021. Luka’s philosophical comment over dinner: ‘Where there is ice, there is stone.’ My little elementarist.

02.07.2021. Last night I saw my first entirely black and white dream. I dreamed that I was guarding the perimeter. Something alien was behind the barbwired fence. I had a black German shepherd with me. I also had a stupid helmet and a small machine gun. MP3 by the looks of it. Maybe it was me thinking about the Zone too much recently, maybe it was a recent glimpse at The Sin City I had on Amazon Prime. Either way, it was somehow okay, not too scary.

03.07.2021. The last time I saw any football match from the beginning to end was in 2006 in Berlin shortly before Leon was born. We called him Leon because the mascot for the World Cup was the lion (I have a whole bunch of them saved. Leon has a big plush lion still siting on his shelves). Well, not just because of the 2006 World Cup that we called our first son Leon but also because of Luc Besson’s film Leon the Professional. We were so cheesy back then. In fact, our next son got the name Nikolai after the coolest Russian saint already because we were pretty embarrassed with our original selection process. I am sure Tanja remembers it differently. But the air was charged that summer in 2006: the Italians played the French in the finals. Remember the famous head butt? The Germans came in third, I think. Plus, Berlin is a very international city. The Brasilians, the Argentinians, the Europeans of all kind were out and about day and night. It was an event all right. Good times but the question remains: Did the child have to pay for it?

05.07.2021. It was very tedious to get out of a dream last night. As it often happens these days (nights) I dreamed about being stuck on a platform trying to get on the train home (I think it was home). After all the passengers got on and the conductor announced departure (in my father’s voice: All Aboard), I tried to get inside, opened a metal door, saw another one behind, opened it too, but only to see the third. The train started moving. I have realized a that point that the doors were too close to each other for me to hope that I could stay between them and not fall off and that there would not be the fourth and the fifth one, and so I jumped off. I woke up. it was 8am. I heard Leon leaving for school, stayed in bed for twenty more minutes, heard Tanja taking the little ones to school and only then, after catching a breath, I crawled out.

08.07.2021. As I was musing the way we named Leon, I have realized that it is more a ‘like son-like father ‘ type of a situation than I would wish to admit. I barely escaped being named Nikita for the reasons which are even more bizarre than the ones that motivated us to name Leon Leon. The story of me being named Alexander has long been a ‘party’ story. I would save it for a special occasion, for it is indeed as precious as the one about me trying to assassinate my baby sister. Shortly. I was born on April 17, 1964. My parents expected a girl (there was no ultrasound then). They even had a name–Larisa. A boy took them by surprise. They deliberated for a week. Then my father’s colleague told them that a friend of hers named her son after Nikita Kruscheuv and received a refrigerator. After some deliberations, my parents decided to write a letter to the General Secretary telling him that a baby boy will be named in his honor. Since people have already done that, they did not hope for a refrigerator. A washing machine would have been just fine, they thought. I was saved in a nick of time: as they were laboring over the letter, Kruscheuv got dismissed. I still shudder when I think that I would have been stuck with a stupid name of an exiled leader.

09.07.2012. You will ask: How come you were named Alexander then? Well, not as easy either. No, it was not that my parents admired Alexander-the-Great or thought that I was going to become a great poet like Alexander Pushkin. It was that I was born in Alexandria, Egypt, where my father was stationed as a military advisor. This fact was not for common knowledge. For the reasons that dealt with the Soviet System, the fact of my birth abroad could have hurt my father’s legend (he worked for the military intelligence). So, at the age of three months, my parents flew me to Moscow, where I got registered in a military hospital where my place of birth was falsified as Moscow, USSR and not Alexandria, Egypt. I found out that I was born in Egypt only when I was 22 and the KGB tried to recruit me. My handler wanted to impress me and pulled this fact out of my file. That file was started when I went to the USA for half a year abroad. But that is an entirely different story.

10.07.2021. One must look history in the eyes. What is is and not was or how it should have been? History does not know subjunctive. It is not moved by the past. This is exceedingly clear now in this a-historical times of ours.

12.07.2021. It was quite a night. The English were anticipating the Euros finals for a week, stocking up, passing on invitations, booking tables at sports pubs. At the same time, being English (football hooligans notwithstanding), they tried not to show their excitement, downplaying the event, while talking about it non-stop. I would get most of the talk in the gym. Close to the finals, talk shows would discuss the possibility and the need for a bank holiday the day after, schools would offer flexible morning hours, and some employers (my hairdresser) would hand the sing ‘Closed’ on Monday. As anticipated Monday was the quietest day of the year. After a dramatic loss, the English who, with few exceptions, watched the game from 8pm until 11:45pm, talked lowly, drove slowly, and in general stayed home. ‘We are mourning,’ said our music teacher, a lovely young gentleman who is cooler than I will ever be; he gave a very even-handed account of the vent and condemned the fans as if the 50 year-old was he and not I.

As for the game, we watched it all, although Tanja and myself managed to build some IKEA drawers in the second half right before the Italians equalized. After that, it all went to hell with the little ones. Leon and Luka were doing decent impressions of the Italian accent, imitating the team’s expansive way of communicating with each other, while Nik, the only one in the family, was rooting for the English, hoping that he bet on the right horse. Well, he didn’t but we didn’t know it until the very last kick. It was very exciting. I don’t remember screaming so much. I also do not remember passing on so many likes and dislikes when it comes to individual players. My favorite was the English goalie, less because of his skill and more because of his jumpy fiery personality. At the end, Luka had a meltdown, Nik held his grounds, Leon was still researching stats on his smartphone in my room. It was an event to remember. Unlike the English who will undoubtedly be scarred for years if not decades to come, we had it easy, just underslept a bit.

13.07.2021. Why do I find Pickford so extremely appealing? I wondered and concluded that he appears to be entirely consistent as an English twenty-odd year old who is as good in directing his team from the goal as he would be running around with a firecracker up his butt rooting for this very team. He is over the top the English way. There is a tinge of insanity in him. During both world wars he would be running first into the enemy midst with the bayonet ahung and be that very captain of the last schooner stuck in the shallows some tome in 1502 some place in West Virginia, trying to instill fear in the locals while being severely outnumbered. Some audacity, some gall in that boy/man that is somehow extremely appealing to me, a person who does not have these qualities but romanticizes them even at his venerable age.

14.07.2021. I have been dying to read something good, something new, anything but by or about Tarkovsky. But, in my mind, I saw myself reading more of Thornton Wilder. And so, I got one the books I have not read: Cabala. It was his first book, the intro told me. It was all right. It also told me that Wilder wrote Cabala when he was twenty two. Well, I am into genius, into prodigy, into the early riser, but do I want to know what an American twenty-two year old thought up about Europe, Rome, love and death? I don’t think so. I will have to search some more. For now, it is back to Brothers Karamazovs.

14.07.2021. I have been dying to read something good, something new, anything but by or about Tarkovsky. But, in my mind, I saw myself reading more of Thornton Wilder. And so, I got one the books I have not read: Cabala. It was his first book, the intro told me. It was all right. It also told me that Wilder wrote Cabala when he was twenty two. Well, I am into genius, into prodigy, into the early riser, but do I want to know what an American twenty-two year old thought up about Europe, Rome, love and death? I don’t think so. I will have to search some more. For now, it is back to Brothers Karamazov.

I got vaccinated today. In the Brighton Centre. Totally anticlimactic. Except for Brothers Karamazov that I read for 15 min. while waiting for the jab to take in.

18.07.2021. We opened the swimming season here in Brighton. Finally. Altho only 15 plus in the sea, it was lovely, and felt like a real vacation, including ice cream on the beach, water melon, inflatable toys, and sun hats. Luka did a poor job applying sun cream tho: he likes to do things by himself these days. Later, when he showed up all red, like a gobster, as he put it, he explained his bad job by his conviction that he could ‘outrun the sun.’ Predictably, his night was not the smoothest. Being the fairest of them all, he looks like a cartoon character; huge red circles around his eyes.

19.07.2021. Today is the Freedom Day in GB. Holding my breath.

31.07.2021. I have caught myself at taking pleasure in exercising my like/not like choice in an unexpected way, with the photos that Microsoft gives me when I open windows. I even feel righteous (occasionally) when I say No Fan. Usually, the No Fan response comes when Microsoft gives me the picture of a city, that is, urban landscape, or the picture of some everyday pond, mountains, animals, flowers. Not a fan.

01.08.2021. It has been difficult to write: my head is filled with media garbage. In my family ‘garbage’ is a code word. The little ones commonly watch garbage ( as we tell them) when they play on their devices with ‘stupid youtubers” (as we call them) commenting on minecraft gaming in the back. The Olympics of course produces the most trash: watching actual events, counting medals, getting emotional, reading up on controversies, arguing with commentators, hating the hateful people, wondering about what happened to countries like Poland, Turkey and Belorus, which, although on different sides religiously, politically and ideologically, showed dismal results. Watching the BBC coverage was not unpleasant: the Brits do not seem to try hard with showing neutrality. Too polite to bash. Yesterday at the gym I heard two teenagers addressing each other as ‘sir.’ I was stunned. The kids got interested as well. For a while at least. Enough so to watch gymnastics, but not enough to sit through my explaining the ROC label. Then Lulu gave birth to a kitten. It was a significant event in itself. Made us anxious (Lulu did not appear to have makings of a good mother, but she is pulling it through or rather Mother Nature is pulling her through) and agitated (well, the little ones were quite screamy). One more form of life around is joy and…more garbage. Now my sister wants to make up, and I am not sure I am up for it, but will be kind and accept her apology if she offers one. Memory garbage. And all this time The Elementary and Loki keep on throwing images in that garbage bin that I call my head. The action either takes place in Cosmic Garbage (Loki) or deals with human garbage (Elementary). Earlier, on July 21 (I missremembered the date so I am doomed to remember it now-garbage), there was a stressful trip to East Croydon. I needed to surrender my biometrics to the Home Office. I had a an upset with a middle age black woman working there. Totally my type of upset. I am glad I am not living in that dump. The weather is also garbage: rain/no rain/rain/no rain. To add insult to injury, our garbage was not collected a couple of days ago: we started throwing bricks from the unfinished construction site (garbage) in the bin and got blacklisted by the workers. And that is a perfect metaphor for the mood. And the question is: How am I going to get rid of this garbage?

2.08.2021. I have been trying to justify my not liking nature, as in going to see natural beauties or oddities or grandiose natural ‘things,’ be it waterfalls or mountain ranges or other inhuman elements. My sister is a sucker for those. She would pay through the nose to go to Antarctica or Iceland or Sakhalin. None can pay me enough for traveling to a shithole like Altai just to see some ‘stone mushrooms.’ I am interested in a human being, and this includes myself, over any other life form, least so inanimate landscape. Perhaps it is a loss, but it feels like a waste. Pretty garbage.

03.08.2021. In light of the ‘garbage’ theme, I wonder what it is that the Olympic walkers (50K) think about when they walk. With running, it is mostly about yourself, your body, your performance (the way it is described by the athletes), but walking is an invitation to thinking, is it not? Shukshin’s ‘Chudik,’ does it not describe the walking thinking man, Grisha? In any case, do they think mundane thoughts then? What to bring to their families from Tokyo? There is this Swedish volley ball player who winked at me, maybe she likes me? No? Philosophical thoughts then? Berdjayev’s idea of the divine truth, does it apply to my feet? God, they ache, but then again, those trainers have been problematic to begin with. Isn’t it the full moon today? I love B.B. King…

04.08.2021. When Tarkovsky went to London to work on his Boris Godunov, he described the English as the people with an innate sense of style that precludes diversity.

05.08.2021. I want to make a correction to what I said earlier about BBC and the so-called neutrality of the British reporting about the Olympics. It is the same ‘neutrality’ that I hated back then when I worked with the English in Boston as an interpreter. They say: we did dismally at the athletic events this time, but it is good because athletics is an international sport and all these other countries make it good for all. Make it good for all sounds very nice: politically correct and all-inclusive. But what about all these other countries? What other countries? Poland, Bulgaria, Turkey? These other barely noticeable countries which are ‘not like us,’ as the former Prime Minister Blair said at some point about Eastern Europe, do they really count or is it the PC mentality pays undue homage to them? The Proud Tower that stands crooked.

06.08.2021. Watching the Olympic women’s football final was painful. Don’t ask.

07.08.2021. Actually, do ask. When I lived in the States, I dated a soccer mom. She was a bad date: often unavailable driving her van with the girls to a practice three times per week. So, now that I see the quality of womens football at its highest, I wonder if I did not suffer or was deprived of her company in vain.

I am so glad this stinking Olympics is over. It was all very painful and highly distracting. My favorite event was the German equestrian disqualification. I would have also hit the horse, but I would have not cried. A German woman crying under pressure–too common a sight in academia. I guess in sports as well.

08.08.2021. When the kids told me that Wonder Vision (Marvel series) is fun, I got so excited that gladly added another half hour to the evening watching routine. After I saw the pilot, I was highly disappointed. The idea seemed perfect–to imitate the style of the fifties sitcom, capture the talk and the atmosphere (which was a success), but it was not meant to be a copy. It was meant to be a parody. Bringing it too close to the original stole its pertinence. It was not funny. Yet, with the second episode, I have realized that the makers meant to bring the series up to speed gradually. The slow addition of color was the right sign for the upcoming change. Very clever.

09.08.2021. I should institute a thinking day. Like, Friday a thinking day. no writing, no reading, just walking, sitting, eating, exercising – thinking.

10.08.2021. In my family there was a particular kind of rhetoric implanted by my mother – the rhetoric of self-sacrifice. As a result, even the most justifiable selfish actions had to be rephrased to be sold to the family: we children could not have things just for ourselves but had to share them with others. Even now, my sister tells me that she adopted a baby for my mom (to make her happy)?!! My mother tells me that she has to, must go to a sanatorium because she is gravely ill (and not because she likes it there). If my mother lays down, it is because she is aching all over and not because she likes to spend half an hour on the sofa with a book. This kind of rhetoric is tiresome to maintain and is a cause of many a conflict, for, eventually, selfish reasons could be explained only by ‘because I want to’ and not by ‘because it makes us all happy.’ Sounds like one of those gazeta.ru editorials.

Looks like a swimming day. I will combine it with the thinking day!

11.08.2021. There has been a distinct lack of creative work recently. Shall I write a poem? Make a placticin Ritter? Draw map of the garden and paint it? Write a ‘killer’ article? Just to massage the brain. It sounds squeaky. I can feel it rusting inside there.

13.08.2021. I don’t want what it is that my subconscious is trying to tell me but the dream I saw last night about driving my old Mazda 323 on the wall of an entertainment centre, parking it next to the escalator on the second floor, trying to bring it (drive it) down the stairs and then having to kill a guard with a car key, the message is not a reflection of the violence I saw on Elementary in the evening before, it must be a general disposition of sorts. With all this, I was lost (when driving) in the first place, I took the wrong turn, hence the wall and the many lights. Now that I am writing I remember that the centre was full of demonstrating (not shopping) people who were agitated by something, but what? Why does my subconscious insist playing this kind of cats and mice with me? Why making me wake up exhausted in the morning after all this anxiety it builds for me in my dreams. I want to outsmart it. I want to look in the window for half an hour before going to sleep or something. I cannot be taken hostage by the dark net of my head (khm, rhymes, go figure). A glass of warm milk perhaps?

14.08.2021. In The Karamazov Brothers Dostoyevsky wrote the following: A German scientist who spent time in Russia observed that if a Russian learnt man (usually someone without a formal education) would be given a map of the world, he would immediately return it corrected. Indeed, the the ‘we know better’ attitude flourishes with my people.

15.08.2021. It was mesmerizing when watching Kabul fall. Internally, there was so much talk about it that even the kids got the drift and managed to incorporate it into our Lego playing. As of now, Dumbledore (me) was evacuated by the Ewoks (Luka) in the face of the Mandalor (Leon) advancement. Dart Vader (Nik) tried to negotiate with the Mandalors but failed. They are fanatics, he said. Other attempts to stop the radicals (Mandalors) failed. Being reasonable failed. Being sly failed. It was a thorough failure and a joy to play. It also made more sense than most of our stories.

16.08.2021. One of the criticisms of Tarkovsky’s Sacrifice was the scene of panic in the streets of the capital. It was said that his extras were moving too erratically, running in all direction instead of running with a purpose. The scene appeared to be too staged. I think that Tarkovsky was correct in presenting a panic. Looking at the footage of the running Afghans in the streets of Kabul made me believe that this is how panic should manifest itself: running without a purpose in all directions.

17.08.2021. We continued to play ‘evacuation from the Border Town’ today. Luka was true to the pics he saw on TV. His evacuation ship could not handle The Giant and so he fell on the town destroying the Dumbledore Tower.

I watched the Sky News (ongoing report about the Afghanistan crisis) and was disgusted by the quality of ‘experts.’ Pathetic. Trivial. Utterly Blah.

19.08.2021. Luka, when he saw photos of the Talibs, asked me ‘Are they the pirates of the Caribbean’? In fact, they do look like Johnny Depp’s look alikes, especially on account of their gaunt facials and the made up ‘eyes.’ Apparently, the dark around their eyes protect them from bad spirits. I think that they are rather wanna be Jack Sparrows but with machine guns; their strangely intensely vacant expression does match that of Jack, and although they are not looking for some golden compass they are there for gold by and large. An advisor to the Chechen leader Kadyrov said that the Talibs were ‘pretty boys.’ Well, take it from someone who knows. The Chechens are hardly pretty boys. Mostly mean boys with machine guns. These are indeed Abdulahs from The White Sun of the Desert. I think these bandits think that they are in some film. Thank you, America, for showing them the way to act out their homicidal aggression properly in good style!

20.08.2021. Relatedly, I noted and was secretly pleased to hear that Afghan interpreters have to be evacuated from Kabul. But why is interpreter the only profession that is associated with collaboration? Why not teachers and educators in general. Aren’t they the ones who are more responsible for transmitting alien values? A pretty superfluous view of the intercultural attache. Interpreters and their families first.

24.08.2021. In an attempt to conquer bad dreams that come to bother me with a shocking regularity I thought that I would start reading some fuzzy children’s lit before going to sleep. Say, Winnie-the-Pooh or Alice in Wonderland. Despite that we have two copies of each, I could not find any. So I grabbed (it was getting late: the kids go to bed at around 9:30) Beatrix Potter. Yeah. What can I say? The last book I read before I started The Tale of Jeremy Fisher was The Karamazov Brothers. Reading about a frog who went fishing and almost got himself killed after reading about Dmitry’s trial was like spiraling down from ten thousand feet. They say that when it happens fear freezes your brain. It was not fear that froze my brain, but since it is still froze, I cannot say exactly what it was that did this to me.

25.08.2021. The English do not know how to meet strangers. Small time, provincial attitude. Village mentality. No diversity and no curiosity about the stranger.

26.08.2021. I was forced to watch paraolympics. It was not an ode to the human spirit. It was very sad and heart-breaking. It was also, shame on me, very very boring. You could hear the strain in commentators voices. Short of saying something like ‘isn’t it amazing, a person with this ailment, look, they managed to…the commentators were struggling to identify a feature they, able people, could properly admire. Wow was not a part of their discourse. It was a meticulous and tedious presentation of the direction with an occasional aside in the direction of the ‘special rules.’

Unfortunately, appearances do matter. It is hard to celebrate not just a broken body that did well for the spirit that inhabits it, but to embrace a body that is not well kept generally (bad skin, bad hair, bad teeth) is particularly hard.

27.08.2021. Nothing has fallen so quickly and so spectacularly in the modern history to the enemy within as did Afghanistan. In a sense, it repeated the fall of the Soviet Union 30 years ago that too fell in the hands of all kinds and of nationalists, extremists, bandits. Bandits. I remember those times of Bachanalia and Shabash. A fast degradation of morality and as fast a decrepitude of spirit.

01.09.2021. How much I hated September 1 which is the beginning of school in Russia. Unlike my sister who was dying to get in to rally her friends around her to tell them her summer stories and bask in their attention, the very thought of putting on the brand new uniform, new crispy and uncomfortable shoes, tie up that new young pioneer tie made me cringe. But even more so, I was anxious to be in the same class with a bunch local bullies and away from the rugby crowd who protected me. It was a day to fear.

02.09.2021. Desperate for a swimming opportunity, I went to swim in 15 degree water, with strong winds and no sun (very common around here) over the last weekend for three days in a row and predictably got sick. So sick in fact that I could not focus on writing about things that mattered and bothered me, the things that I dreamed so vividly about that I wondered if they were not premonitions. I felt like I was in a cloud but with my ears ringing. Like in an Avengers film. Incidentally, Marvel films were what Leon and myself were watching when Tanja and the little ones were Germany. Their absence added to the experience of white noise. Laying around and staring was the predominant mode. Sitting on a cloud and staring into nowhere.

As for the films, such as Guardian of the Galaxies and the Infinity Wars, etc., I had to make a shameful admission to Leon in the locker room of the gym (Hove Squash and Fitness) where both if us go: I like Thanos the best. He is a very attractive villain. I wish our Lego figurine had the glove with the stones. Other than that.

03.09.2021. Luka coined the new word and a new world event: Uglympics. It is a world competition for the people who are ugly. Of course, I have lectured him on the inappropriateness of the term, but the idea stuck to me. It would have given–the Uglympics–an opportunity to the people with ‘special’ appearances to express themselves on the level that would solicit admiration and envy from the norms…I think I am digging myself in deeper and deeper. Something is wrong with me. I should stop.

How do you call a person who expresses gratitude only for the things that you do for them at their request but not for the things that you do spontaneously pursuing your own vision of how you can please them? No, I am not talking about the English. My mother is always unpleasantly surprised when I give her a thing I think she needs of likes: ‘I already have a pair of black winter boots.’ ‘This chocolate you can buy in Russia as well…’

04.09.2021. My Lego character (yes, still Dumbledore aka Dumble D’or) is as obsessed with a certain part of his wardrobe as myself. If it is shoes for me, for Dumbledore it is pants. He has quite a collection in his lab. Most of them are maroon with the golden trim. Some of them are techno, others are fancy shmancy art deco (khm). At some point Iron Man donated a pair. Those can fly. I have not tried them yet.

05.09.2021. I was accused of being insensitive toward people with various defects, of putting the less fortunate down, of advancing my own normality. I have accepted the accusation as valid–mostly along the lines of being unduly judgmental and petty–and decided to diminish. I will hold off writing more notes until I find a new voice.

19.09.2021. It has been two weeks. It is no longer penance, it is pouting, so I shall be breaking out of my slump, albeit very slow;y. Recently, Tanja suggested that we ran a test of comprehensibility with Alexa. Yes, there have been occasions when Alexa did not seem to react to Tanja as fast as she did to me. As a result of our extended five-minute test (basically, exposing Alexa to the same commands), it did become clear that the robot preferred the male voice and the Russian accent to the female voice and the German accent. A bit of a female she is after all, isn’t she?

20.09.2021. Yesterday, I sat down on Grogu. Grogu is the kitten that Lulu produced about a month ago. Like his namesake from The Mandalorian, Grogu does not have special powers, but like the ‘real’ Grogu, he proved to be virtually indestructable. It was dark in the conservatory (we were watching Elementary on the big screen), and Luka just got up to let me sit down. When I landed my butt on the poor thing, it felt like I sat down on Nik’s giant squeeze ball, except that the ball screamed (well, more like squealed) bloody murder. I almost had a heart attack when I realized that I actually sat down on the kitten. I was sure I popped it like a frog. But he was fine this morning. A bit flatter perhaps but in good spirits nonetheless. I wonder what would have happened if I stepped on her?

21.09.2021. A habitual of disturbing dreams that betray all kinds of anxieties, I was not surprised to see one last night, several days before my departure to Russia. But this one was a different one. I would have expected my anxiety about the trip to transpire in a familial setting: train station, a chase. This dream has a super store as a setting, and I was the one who was shoplifting in the store. Tanja and the kids were there as well, but a different area: I got separated early on and did not see them before the end of the dream, which was me walking through the door detector. It was some of the detail that made me remember the dream very vividly throughout the day, affecting my mood. For one, there were two young female store assistants who put me up for filling up a very expensive leather bag with a broken zipper with designer scarfs and linen. They were not erotically given: both were made intentionally unattractive by my subconscious. These two women were following me everywhere. They were the ones who brought me to a boutique in the same mall. There, a woman in her early sixties with high hair, who I think I know in reality, told me about some of the items on her store. She remembered me from my last visit during which I bought a bronze whistle. This time she showed me her collection of books. All of them were supremely old, – the binding and all indicated hundreds of years old, just like the books Polanski showed us in The Ninth Gate. These books were only a dollar each. My bag was full of useless crap, so I could only buy one. As I was regretting not to have a bigger bag, the woman came up to me and asked me to open my bag. Apparently, someone stole a pair of womens boots worth 40 thousand dollars. She frisked my bag but did not find any boots and did not pay heed to the overabundance of kerchiefs. One last detail: when I was walking out of her store, I felt a tiny pinch in my finger. When I looked at it, I saw a silver hook on a silver line with a silver sinker in the shape of a tank that pierced the skin of my finger and was hanging out of it. I thought to myself, It is a Sherman tank. Immediately after, I saw a badly damaged book. The cover of the book said: The History of the Greatest Tank of the War.

24.09.2021. My Guardian Angel is watching over me. The last few days were precarious. I was especially perturbed by locking myself out at the gym (left the key in the bag that I locked inside the locker with a padlock), for I was sure that I did not have a spare key. Well, I found the key straight away in an odd box. There were other minor things that do happen a lot before a complicated event (read: my trip to Moscow). I hope my Angel does not need a Covid pass to cross the border. I would very much like to have it around where I will be. My mom will benefit from its company as well. I know she will. Or maybe her Guardian Angel and mine will have tea together.

25.09.2021. It has been so beautiful around here for the last week: sunny and dry, like a proper Indian Summer. For the first time, I am not anxious to travel. Actually, not the first time.

27.09.2021. Actually, none of the above was true. I wrote about my anxiety in the aftermath of the slowly dissipating stress over such things as the vaccination passport, Covid test and other unknowables of the pandemic times. In fact, I was calm and collected. That was new, and it helped. For a change. The trip was not only normal but more than normal: unlike the last two trips to Moscow which involved a Boeing 777 with only ten percent of taken seats, this time not just the plane but the bus to the airport and and the airport itself were super filled. Packed, stuffy, and smelly.

29.09.2021. There were also an inordinate number of archetypal characters on both sides, Russian and English. My people on the plane were fully represented. Embarrassingly so: a not so old woman who was speaking into the phone for an hour, while waiting for the gate to be announced in the common hall, on the way to the gate and in the line. She was so engaged that even the ever alert mask minder from Aeroflot never told her to put her mask on. She had that look. While she was talking on the phone other passengers including myself became privy to the most intimate details of her life. We have found out that she was from Chita (not surprising, – her Puma sweat suit gave her away straight away), that she had a daughter who was married to an English gentlemen name Charles and that Charles had a bad case of dermatitis. There was another representative of the Russian province, a burly middle aged man with thick hands and as thick a belly who chanced upon to sit with another man just like him. The two made friends straight away talking about #life# and pouring down Hennessy on which they spent a small fortune.

30.09.2021. At the airport, my sense of some Russian panopticum increased: cultural characters there were more weird and more aggressive. They were grotesque to the point of me wanting to stay and watch them longer than I otherwise would. I am sure I too looked weird to them. It was not traumatic, this encounter with the own, I even enjoyed this opportunity to gawk and snicker and think about all the things that will never make my nation great, such as, for example, the maddening slowness of walking men and women. Like, they are not going anywhere, like they and not returning from anywhere, like life is a promenade.

01.10.2021. The Russian TV is revolting. I’d rather listen to the radio, which is as bad, but without the visual, it is more bearable. So much stupid uneducated crap, a bunch of Rush Limbaud’s (sp.?) and an endless stream of efficacious discourse. The only #experts# who are able to say something interesting and say it well, sounding smart and knowledgeable, are either lawyers or economists. The worst is when they talk about God and soul. So very bad. My people have certainly degraded as humanists. I am saying this not because I am old and bitter (both are correct), but because I am deeply upset about my people’s backwardness. We are barely Europeans indeed.

I miss that fox that comes to our garden in Hove to forage. I miss her more than the cats. I dreamt about her last night. I was feeding her bacon.

02.10.2021. Strange how one’s missing turns into a fit of possession. I was at the flea-market today, the one called Vernisage, about 20 min. walking distance from my Moscow flat. The only thing I wanted to buy there was the hide of a fox. I was so ashamed of this transformation of my imaginary relationship with a fox that I bought a Japanese tea pot instead. The one that weighs a ton. An old woman who was selling her meager possessions let me buy it for a whooping sum of 4 pounds. She did not want to ask more because she lost the filter; she dropped it in the toilet and had to call a basurman (Central Asian person) to solve the problem. Needless to say, I was not sorry that I did not get that filter (seif).

03.10.2021. By the way, when I say ‘weird people,’ I mean that man on the rusty bicycle who was dressed in the emergency unit medical outfit (blue disposable pants and shirt), but did not have socks; he had broken glasses, and on his bicycle, taped to the back with a scotch tape there was a bottle of kefir. In a somewhat elite and expensive gym where I singed myself up after arrival (for location not because it was elite), there is a member who has boxer shorts and leather mocasins for his sports outfit. This would not be a problem if he did not burp and fart throughout. Not once, not twice, but every time he is there. Weird.

05.10.2021. I lost my Kyrgyz barber to the pandemic. After a few days I ventured out to a new place in Malakhovka. This time it was an Abkhaz, Rustam, who did my hair. When I saw myself in the mirror, I screamed. No doubt, he failed to notice that I am not twenty years old and cannot possibly be a student of the IPhC across the street. However, to be fair, when I got home, I washed my hair (at the dacha I have to heat water in a pot four times and then fill a small bathtub) and kinda liked it. I look like an old but well groomed dog, that is, like who I am.

06.10.2021. In Moscow I sleep in my father’s old (ancient) divan (couch). I take this sleeping arrangement as a symbol of my status here. I am in transit. When the divan is fully extended, it has a crevice in the middle. I feel like I am sleeping in a small fishing boat. When I put it together so that I sleep on one half only, it reminds me of a train bed. It is as short and as narrow. In both positions I dream only of crossing the river or finally getting to my train station. I complain. My father did not complain however. At 164 cm and 65 kg, he was by all counts, a small man.

05.11.2021. Perhaps one of the reasons I have been subdued with my notes…Funny, actually, you were not subdued, you didn’t write, Alex, or, to be more correct, Sasha. Okay, I didn’t write because my mood was (that inner sensor again is laughing at what is going to follow)… dark. Khm. Dark…One most recent example may clarify and shut that inner voice up. Finally. Yesterday, I saw a dream. I will describe it first and then offer an interpretation.

I slept very well that night. At the dacha. I woke up a few times, as is common these days, the last time at 7am. After some tossing and turning, I fell back to sleep. I woke up 9:30 with a jolt. I was disgusted and terrified. Here is my dream as I remembered it vividly and recorded it faithfully. The dream began in Germany in Wuppertal. Tanja and myself were invited to a party. I put on a dress shirt, a pair of jeans and a fancy TH blazer (Lulu just recently ruined it when trying to climb over it to the top of the wardrobe). I also had an expensive pair of dress shoes (yes, my shoe fetish). Tanja was wearing one her self-made silk scarfs (yeap, she makes her own clothes..).

At the party, I got drunk quickly and started provoking people (specifically, one fat woman Tanja used to have for a friend in England) who at some point chose to move from a long common table (you see them lots in German beer gardens) to a small round table. At some point we went to dance. I flirted with a large woman I know (my sister’s co-worker who hates me). She brushed me off and disappeared. Tanja got upset and left. I went outside to look for her and got lost. It was dark. I went to a different pub and saw a man who looked familiar. I came up to him, and we began to chat. He was short, muscular and dressed up like dancer in tight pants, tight black shirt and dress shoes. At some point, he leaned over to me and kissed me on the lips. I liked it but told him that I am straight and was about to leave. Before leaving I realized that I lost my jacket and began to look for it. Finally I found it. It was in the next room, which looked like it used to be or still was an industrial space: there were no machines but the windows and the lights were distinctly industrial.

In the room I saw a bag and put some stuff from the pile on the floor inside, took the bag and left. Among the things that I took there were paper key from some table game. I walked outside and found myself on campus of the Wuppertal Uni. It was darker than before or so it seemed (less lights). I was anxiously trying to remember how to get to Tanja’s parents’ house. I saw a brightly lit house (also a pub) and walked inside. I saw a woman selling small doughnuts first and got quite hungry. I asked her for four doughnuts. She told me that they cost four Euros. I looked in my pockets and my bag but did not find any Euros, only rubles and pesos. While I was looking for the money inside the bag, a man standing next to me saw the paper keys that I stole from my previous location. He whispered something to his friend and offered me two Euros for two keys. I agreed, we made an exchange and he laughed as if he has just fooled me big time. I looked around and saw many Russian-speaking students in the pub. I sat down next to one of them, a burly man who looked like John Goodman. I asked him about the downtown Wuppertal. He pointed out to a short dark-haired woman who, from his words, lived downtown. She could help me if I took off my shoes and danced with her. We began to dance, but then she disappeared. John Goodman was also gone. I began to look for my shoes, but they were gone as well. I put on some worn out shoes which were two sizes too large and walked out with a small bus in my hands.

The bus looked like a battery-operated car children use in the street, but smaller, about 50cm long and twenty cm tall. There were two buttons on the side: right and left. A yellow button in the middle most likely designated brakes. I quickly figured out how to control the bus and started riding it downhill. At some point, the asphalt turned into dirt, I pressed the yellow button, but the bus did not stop, and I crashed. When I got up, I felt a sting in my eye and found a tiny cockroach with many long antennas moving in different directions simultaneously. It was writhing in my fingers. I crushed it and woke up in absolute horror and disgust.

Of course, the dream was much more horrible to sleep through than to recount it. However, it lost its power rather quickly. Still, it stayed with me for the whole day, making me wonder. I understand the anxiety of getting lost quite well. It is not just the difficulties of the last two years with travel; the emotional, intellectual, and professional sense of being lost has become quite strong recently. The figure of Tanja is a historical one; she has been present for as long as I remember, with all the content thereof. The figures of her friend and my sister’s friend were indicative of my recent drive to revisit my past embarrassments. The homoerotic element always catches me by surprise. I wonder about its latent significance. Only later I have realized that the figure of the man is that of a fitness trainer in my gym. I like this man a lot and observe him closely whenever I can. He is very cool. Germany has always been a context filled with anxiety; both Wuppertal and Berlin were hard to get used to. The cockroaches brought it all together: it scared me shitless when I caught two in my hair in the old dacha (apparently the owner behind the wall let her half to a bunch of gypsies and they dealt in garbage; hence, the infestation). One of them, a big red one bit me in the head. I moved to the other house after that but the memory makes me imagine every night that something is crawling all over me. So, not at all a symbolic cockroach.

03.12.2021. Now it is only my mom who is battling the uglies.

04.12.2021. Luka called me Sherlock when he saw me sitting in my bed surrounded by three laptops (none of which work properly or are fully functional; hence, the number). In Elementary Sherlock has twelve screens in his living room. I am not sure I want to be associated with Sherlock or rather THAT Sherlock. Too neurotic for my taste.

05.12.2021. Gardner’s description of snowy light in Pennsylvania is amazing. Winter light. What a master. Reading Nickel Mountain.

07.12.2021. Last year I have noticed that my penis changed shape. It got crooked. It used to look like a rapier. Now it looks like a jatagan, or a pirate sword. Not a proper sable–too wide–but a Roman sword gone crooked. It retained the same girth and the same size but is looking at me rather than ahead. Must be age. I cannot say I was perturbed by this change, well, maybe a little bit, but I when I buy fresh cucumbers at Tesco, out of a weird sense of membership in some society of the crooks, I always reach for a crooked one.

08.12.2021. At the gym, they have a number of large-screen TVs. With subtitles but no sound. I have noticed that when I watch real people on TV without sound, they appear more naked, as it were, than if they had the speech for back-up. Only by seeing Adele’s interview w.o. sound, I could indeed say with certainty that she is supremely uncomfortable in this kind of situation. Yesterday, I watched a Nottingham player at a press conference. I swear: he spoke by moving only his lower jaw. It was obscene. Yeap, little pleasant insights.

Just a clarification (somehow needful): I do not identify with other vegetables on account of my penis. That is – I am loyal to the cucumber family.

9.12.2021. On the vile show I nonetheless watch at the gym – Dickinson’s Fair Deal – I saw a dealer who spoke only with the right side of her mouth. When she laughed, she turned into a prune. Very unsettling. She failed to buy a smutty drawing by Picasso, offering 90 pounds for it. The auction bought it for 600 (it was a fragment).

10.12.2021. Chronicle of a dream. I have not seen such bad dreams for a long time. In Russia dreams were murky. They were neither in color nor in good resolution. Not memorable. Here, in England, my dreams have been sweet. Except for the last night. Early in the morning I dreamt about going out with Tanja and the kids. The place resembled that of a park next to where I live in Moscow. It is a small park situated along the Scheulkovsky Schosse directly across the Institute of Physical Culture that trains athletes to become coaches and other (semi-medical sports profession). My sister went there to study. I used to train there as a child. There was a fair in the park (something that never happens). We were … Ooops, Miglena is here. To be continued.

11.12.2021. A group of men from the neighborhood came up to me. They were dressed up. Some were with their wives, who were made up and wore outdated Soviet style clothes. One of them gave me flirtatious (knowing) looks. The men seemed to know me and I faked knowing them (it in fact happened in my mom’s house three years ago). They invited me to come with them, but I explained that I was with my family and stayed behind. At the fair I saw a familiar face of a black man who was selling German souvenirs. It became dark. We were about to start getting ready to go home when my handy ringed. There was one of the neighbors who was calling to invite me over again. I again turned him down, but he did not hang and neither did I, thinking that one of us did, so I could hear him saying to his friends: ‘There is something weird about this Alex guy. We need to check him out.’

We went home, but then I said: ‘How about I go and get you some ice cream.’ I guess I was curious if I would meet the neighbors. I walked out of the building and found myself in an unfamiliar place. I reached inside my pockets to get a phone and found none. I did not have any keys either. I rushed home, but the building I entered was not my home. It was my sister’s. There was a blond woman standing in front of the elevator. I asked her if she saw a German family with three kids. She said she knows someone who knows where they are and invited me outside. It was dark and windy. She took me to the bench in the park and left. All the lights went out. I realized that I am in box, panicked and woke up.

So, here they are: my classical anxieties. Fear of settled men. Fear of getting lost. Fear of being abandoned and stranded. I should not have had this dream now: all is well, and I am happy. Then why? Is it a warning of some kind? I wonder.

13.12.2021. All this wondering. Last night, I dreamt of being sent in exile. The KGB wanted to know where I hid my books. They too were wondering. A very sticky dream. Lots of sweating.

I think I lost my readership (one person?) on account of the ‘cucumber’ mention. I thought I was sharing an important insight, but it turned out to be yet another way to show-off or not? All this self-doubt. wondering and self-doubting.

14.12.2021. Most of the time, when I walk or stare, I try not think of things rather than think of things. It feels as wasteful as shopping on Amazon, shopping not to buy things rather than the other way round.

15.12.2021. To heck with nasty dreams. No ticket is not a reason to wake up with a palpitating heart, not before Christmas anyway. Christmas has not always been fun. Now that I spent it with Tanja and the kids it is fun. But even three years ago, I would spend it with my mom. Just she and I. It was depressing to say the least. My mom tried of course, but she and I at the dacha in the dark, with no alcohol (well, that happened once – my mom forgot, I guess) and no company. It was very depressing. Now, the gifts and the food and multiple indulgences, but the thing I love the most is the Christmas lights (legitimate once, not like the ones I had all year round in Carbondale, ‘for ambiance’). The tree too. Now the tree is a proper reminder and a symbol of my life. It has an overabundance of toys which represent all the historically significant time periods of my life: my childhood Soviet made toys from the 1960s, the American funky toys I used to buy at Pier 1, the German wooden toys and the fine glass toys from the Chzek Rep. Tanja’s mom added pretty balls and my sister gave me a set of exquisite porcelain toys. I remember shipping the US toys to Russia and then bringing them to Germany and then to the UK. At some point, I and the boys made our own toys, and the schools contributed as well. Granted, with so much eclecticism the tree looks a bit weird, but alive somehow. Yet, there is no nostalgia there; just plenty of memories all hanging together.

18.12.2021. I dig Hopper. I really do. His melancholic vacuous palette. His buttery colors. His immense but short lived depth. I saw a girl last night. Tanja and I myself were going uphill to pick up the Lil’ ones from the karate, and I saw this girl standing at the bus stop (a pole in the pedestrian passage) under the dim lights (those yolky small lights too far from each other to cover a territory. An ode to localism, these lights. The girl was standing under one of these lights. She petit, unnatural blonde. She was short and very thin. She was wearing faux leather tights and high heels snubbies. She looked out of place standing at that stop in that outfit, and she knew it too. When we were passing by, she demonstratively looked away. When I was relatively far, I looked back and saw the girl just as Hopper would do her: a strange and lonely figure under the lonely light, with the same house over and over and over behind her. She may be read as embarrassed, and, as easily, annoyed or performing indifference; in other words, unaffected. All the same, I wanted to have her go to some hotspot in Brighton and have fun. I think that is what Hooper is about: his is still melancholia but of a sweet kind.

20.12.2021. For the second day in a row at the gym I see bits of Dr. Zhivago (the American one with Omar Sherif) on multiple screens there. First it was BBC2, today it was BBC4. For the English this horrible movie is a Christmas thing. At first, I could not understand how a film packed with desperation, fear, death and murder, rape and firing squads can be about Christmas. Shrek is about Christmas. Even Malefenta is about Christmas. But Dr. Zhivago? What is it, the overabundance of pretty fake snow or the revolutionary sailors running amock in that snow. Today, I found out why. On three differenet screens there was running The Road to Perdition, The Shashawnk Redemption, and The Mystic River. All that drama. So, the Englush actually got it right. Christmas is and has always been about drama. Not unlike Hoper, khm.

21.12.2021. It is sooo quiet here on Christmas. Of course, it is all residential, so why not, but it is extra quiet. Even passing cars are quieter. And churches are quiet. Stores are quiet as well. I guess it can be that way every day, but that would not be in the spirit of the holiday, would it?

In the Legoland, we have made some, actually numerous, adjustments. Dumbledore got into real estate and slave trade. Luka got himself two new characters. Both of them can fly: G-man and V-man. The first one stands for Golden man the latter for Vibranium man. Nik’s Dart Vader is a proper police chief now with his own vibranium police station capable to hold Hulk inside, and Leon is in charge of the Justice League. President Business, once the ever powerful villain was demoted to Banana King, that is a superficial position up on top of the Banana Kingdom where he brandishes his bananas at monkeys. As for action, it is still Thanos who brings most of it. But with a twist: we have the actual big Thanos and the mini Thanos. Remember Mini Me, the Mike Myers’ character from ‘I shagged…’ And of course we have a Christmas tree (with a ton of explosives under it–Thanos’ very special gift).

24.12.2021. There is a pet store on Nikitinskaja St. in Moscow. This is about fifteen min from my flat on Sirenevy. I would visit it now and then when I go to the bookstore or for a haircut with Meran. In that pet store they have a huge iguana lizard who never hides but sits and looks at you in the manner of buddha. He just stares at you and does not blink. Quite unsettling, but also draws you to him. Mesmerizing. He (he) also has an appropriate name: Kenzo (like in the Japanese parfume maker). It is on sale but none would buy it for something like 400 pounds. The last time I stopped by, some time in November, it was gone. I asked the seller if he found a home. No, she said, he found a job. It turns out he moved to a anima l theatre that just opened in Moscow not even a year ago. I felt so proud of Kenzo. Next time I am in Moscow I will go and see him perform. This too is a part of my social context.

25.12.2021. Tanja and myself were sitting in the conservatory on Christmas day. It was dark and it was pissing rain. On the right there was a set of lights from the X-mas tree. On the left from a Christmas rotating ball and in the front up the hill at the prime stop, there was a sea of lights all around the local brothel. It was as if this brothel was the House not of Ill Repute but the House of Santa (could be the same for some joy-riding clients, no doubt). Ordinarily, the brothel tries to hide (hard as it is for a mansion on top of the hill). At night, it is usually seen only by two small red lights (we are always in the know when it is open…so useful this info is for us, for me), but during the Christmas season it comes out of hiding and shows itself in all its raging glory. On Christmas it owns the town. Santa has never left. Merry Christmas, boys and girls. La-la-la-laaah-lal-la-la-la.

26.12.2021. December rain, still pissing down like it means to. In Moscow, it is minus 25 and snow sits up the knees.

I was perplexed about Tarkovsky’s fascination with dwarfs until I realized that cupid is not a boy but a dwarf.

I was grateful to my subconscience that it did frighten me on Christmas night. I dreamt mostly of the sea. There was only one scary image–I had a nose-full of hair. Like to braid it kind of hair. it was scary but even in a dream I realized that my subconscience was being cheeky.

2.1.2022.

3.1.2022. Writing backwards is as much fun as driving backwards. Looking back makes your neck hurt. Looking back is an unnatural position for a human body. One such ‘back to the Old Year’ story.

For the New Year Eve outing, we have decided to go to the Lego Store in Brighton. The occasion was to get some small building parts. For 7 pounds one could get a small cup and fill it with whatever pieces they have on offer in the back of the store. I love this thing. One can find rare building pieces but also spiders and frogs and plants. While we were there trying to decide on what each one of us thought he wanted (Luka-vibranium, Nik – brick-looking bricks, Leon – large pieces to build his Justice League Tower, me – knobs and windows and handles), an older gentleman, who was sitting on the ledge right across the drawers with parts, got in a conversation with us. He told us that he brought his grandson to the store, that he wanted him–as a New Year gift–buy himself 30 pounds worth of Lego and that the boy could not decide and kept on lingering, so his granddad put him on a timer – 20 minutes. Soon, we saw the boy himself; he brought a package and put it next too his grandfather. Then he grabbed the package that was already on the ledge and ran away to find another. While there, he asked his granddad how much time he had left and how much money. None of that would be worthwhile to report (despite granddad’s amusement) if the boy did not look like the sweetest and at the same time cartoonish character. He had a huge head full of curly hair and an open face with huge eyes and freckles. He would have made a perfect good child for Charlie an the chocolate factory. We were still there when he cam back with the last package. This package as well as the other two packages had the same kind of toy (Brickheadz), that is a figure (Dart Vader, Harry Potter) made of small blocks, but they are done in an explicitly caricaturish way. The thing was – the boy who was buying these items looked just like one of those figures he was buying. In other words, he was the clearest example of transference I have ever seen. He imitated himself, he was building the world in his own image. Synchronicity (the way I see it).

4.1.2022. Who would have thought that in the New Year I would still be running around in my underwear trying to make it on the plane in my dream. Empty halls with no employees, no signs. A proper fork-up of that very subconscience which I cannot even name properly, without misspelling.

Just read a big article in the news about Tarkovsky. None of that was interesting or correct, from the cynical point of view of course.

6.1.2022. On the second of January we had visitors–the first ones in three years. It was weird and stressful, but this note is not about that. One of the guests, a girlfriend of the music tutor for the kids, had a very strong parfume (Jimmy Choo), making the house smell like her in a matter of minutes. The cats got beserk. Myshkin wanted her like he never wanted Lulu. As for me, I began to think how women use parfume to claim things around them, not unlike the cats, smelling things and people up, killing off competition, as in Jimmy Choo killing off Chanel or Calvin Klein. So many possibilities. I think I knew of them intutively when I would stink up the SIUC#s Com Building with my Jazz or Obsession. Strangely, it did not help me much with my studies. I hardly win over a single professor. Academically, I mean.

10.1.2022. In the gym’s locker room today I overheard a conversation between two older gentlemen. I just walked in all sweaty. As usual I was overdressed: it was about 11 plus outside. One of the men was leaving. On his way out he said to the other guy: It is pretty chilly. Where have you been?, I thought. Are you even English? It is damn balmy. I am gonna brace myself, the other guy said, as he was grabbing his towel and went to the shower room. Only then it dawned on me that as it is common in this country, there was not hot water in the shower room. A minute later, the man returned all flushed and smily. Damn chilly! Feels good! So, I was wrong again: more English than English and not less. In the past, I heard the English complain about showers only when there was no water. No water at all.

13.01.2022. I began to watch snooker Masters in 2003 when I was in Belgium. I would have my salad with turkey hearts, smoke some, drink some and settle in front of a tiny TV which could get decent reception only for local Flemish channels and BBC. On BBC 2 there would show snooker. I would be glued to the screen. What was there not to like: it was quiet, even commentators whispered, colored balls would hit each other contemplatively, and I would try to figure the rules out. I knew billiards but snooker was more sophisticated, it seemed. I soon learnt all the names and had favorites. The cheeky Davis was my man. I liked Higgins and Williams. They were baggy and a bit sad, but played like demons. To make a long story short, yesterday in the gym (the only place where I watch TV), I saw some of it again. It was the very beginning of the broadcasting. I stayed on the machine longer and my first reaction was to laugh. I laughed. Nobody laughs at the gym. We all wear stone faces, pretending that nobody is around. I laughed because it was absurd, ridiculous. A pompous beginning with bombastic music and colors and the old players I liked and respected, by now very much retired silver haired bolding masters serving as commentators, spitting out common places and looking awkward in their Hugo Bosses look alike garments (black suits with gun metal colored shirts). It was a pageant that ended all pageants. The beginning of an end. The only thing that was still fun is to watch the last of the old guard beating the young and upcoming Chinese cohort. The skill, proficiency and grace were still there, still enjoyable to watch.

15.1.2022. Masters final today. What a crappy final. Anyway, now that I am about to leave for Russia, I have realized yet again that I will not miss TV. Any TV. I will be sitting at the dacha w.o. TV and w.o. Internet. I will be going to the library and haul back piles of books they do not want to keep.

16.01.2022. I am filling my suitcase with gifts for my mom. One of them are pills. My mother lives for pills. Literally and Ironically. She believes in them like some believe in Jesus. The ones I bring over are not even pills: Anadin, Vitamin C. In the morning at breakfast my mother and I take a couple of vitamin Cs and a big fish oil caplet. This is her way to affiliate with me. This and cooking.

18.01.2022. For her birthday, Tanja asked for a fish tank. As a family, we have already had one a medium one, 60l. or so. This one was compact – 28l. It was shaped as a cube and was explicitly decorative. It was ordered on Amazon and arrived as a set: fish tank, filter and lights (built into the lid). It was a perfect size for the beginners, which we were not. Not only the earlier experience was still with us, including two apocalypses (once I decided that the lovely pebbles from the Brighton beach would do and although I boiled the gravel for hours trying to get the salt out, I still managed to kill all my fresh water fishes in the course of an hour and once we had a house swap with a pescaphobian family from Germany who overfed the fish to death within a week) lots of minor accidents caused mainly by ignorance neglect, I was trained in all things aquatic by my father, who at some point of his life was an avid fish keeper. He learnt all his skills from his stepfather, who had several huge 100l. fish tanks in his communal two-room flat, specializing on breeding funky platies. Platies are the easiest fish to keep; they are also pretty dull, but as a child I admired them as well as the huge barak (wooden house), where my grandparents lived until I turned 8 or 9. My father on the other hand went all the way with his first and many subsequent 100l. fish tanks. We had all sorts of fish which we bought at Kalitnikovsky market, a hard to get to yet centrally located place the size of five football fields about half and hour by tram or marshrutka (khm) from the Tagansky metro station (purple line). It would take us under two hours to get there from Izmailovo (bus, subway, tram), which meant that we would have to transport fish under out jackets during winter. At that time, before the global warming, it was typically about minus ten minus twenty. TBC.

19.01.2022. The market was split into five parts: fish and everything aquatic, fish foods, including and mostly live ones (worms and water fleas-do not know their English names), amphibians (turtles, lizards), small animals (mice, rats, rabbits), cats and dogs, birds and finally exotics (monkeys, leopards, bear cubs). We would spend several hours wandering around first and then buying our fish food and new fish. Unlike his stepfather, who went about his fish breeding on a whim, my dad would surround himself with books (his main source of knowledge, unsurprisingly, for his mother was a librarian), so all he did was exclusively by the book. This approach has never taken in me; hence, my aversion (even now) of in-depth research. I prefer to wing it. We would clean the fish tank once a month (algae was pervasive) together (it wasn’t fun). When we had guppies, my dad would wake me up in the middle on the night for watching live birth. I did the same with my kids once. They were underwhelmed. We bread only guppies. My father wanted to breed a long tail one. I cared more about school fishes (danios) and pretty exotic ones. Liked barbuses and neons. That is what we decided to put in this new fish tank. Barbuses are playful and pretty. TBC.

20.01.2022. Older people like myself wear all sorts of funky things at the gym. Older guys tend to show up in extremely tight shorts, while there is a woman who spends half an hour on the treadmill wearing a long silk scarf (quite a hazard on account of many moving parts). I used to wear very long t-shirts that would cover my butt (no more). Younger guys tend to downplay their outfits, while middle age professionals sport expensive techno clothes. It is the same in Russia, unsurprisingly: human follies are universal.

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25.03.2022. I could not access WordPress while in Russia. Not clear why. Got back last night, exactly one month after the war began. I have prewritten a lot and will be filling in daily slots ahead of time.

26.03.2022. Leon shocked me and Tanja when he said – to the question if he was interested in the Japanese culture (his best friend is half Japanese and his other friend was born in Japan) – ‘I am not into anything unfamiliar.’ With this, he confirmed our sense of him, but at the same time, he subscribed to a life without adventure. On his own accord. Freely. This made me sad.

27.03.2022. Today is Luka’s birthday. The sweet boy turned 9. He has grown quite a bit, and overgrown hairdo wise. His favorite gift was the Sloth stuffed animal-pillow. Strange – myself, I have never been into stuffed animals. I was into little people. Oh, yeah, today, he and Nik performed in a Covid delayed show (two years in production), a funky musical after Dr. Seuss (never been into him either). They did a good job. Both of them. It is a pity that the inner politics of Stage Coach that caters to the newcomers and their parents made moved them to the background.

28.03.2022. Tarkovsky would have been very surprised to find out that his film Mirror is considered by the Russian propaganda as a war film, or rather an anti-war film. Moreover, he would have been amazed to see his film shown on Spas, the Russian Orthodox Christian channel, repeatedly.

29.03.2022. The ‘I love it’ rubric: ‘Research (Canadian, for sure) shows that regular meditations dull such emotions as shame, as well as the senses of guilt and responsibility.’ Oddly, I have always suspected that the Hinduism with its search for nirvana, is a shame-less religion. Leon, who studies RE as a major subject, could benefit from a report to that effect, but since he does not pay heed to my advice I doubt this report will ever materialize.

30.03.2022. The West failed to anticipate Putin not because he was ‘unpredictable’ and ‘hard to read,’ but because Western politicians did not read him. Literally. His speeches as well as articles did not fail to indicate that his emphasis on history was not about a hobby, but about its making. From day one, Putin saw himself a part of history. For better or for worse, what he is doing now is making history. One simply needs to accept it as a fact and adjust to him accordingly: respectfully and openly, yet, carefully. Then, history making could involve all and not just him.

31.03.2022. My sister, following her kind, believes that Putin is mad. I understand where this impression may come from. Known as a pragmatist, he lacks passion and is often described as calculative. Personally, I think that he is over-calculative, hyper-calculative in fact. If one wants to think of him as mad the question should be asked (with John Gardner): ‘What is mad? Was Homer mad?–raging against the other, bemoaning the very foundations of his world in the name of a vision of life never tried before nor since? Was Tecumseh mad, murdered because he refused to sell the Congress the air, the clouds, the sea, his very soul? What is madness after all, but overweening pride, the daring assertion, always mistaken, that Man is God–a high office otherwise left empty?’ (King’s Indian).

01.04.2022. I too wish that Putin were more charismatic and passionate. For the bearer of a Great Idea that he is, he appears too dry and subdued, even reticent. As an orator, he also lacks good improv skills and a good sense of humour.

02.04.2022. All that I have come to believe about the collective West, namely, that it is shallow, hypocritical, and self-serving, has played out in such double standards as the labels put on Putin: war criminal, butcher, murderer. There are calls to put him on trial for war crimes. The ones who call for that, why, why do they not see him sitting behind bars with Bush and Obama, Blair and Brown who collectively killed half a million of people in Iraq only and displaced 38 million people in the Middle East and Afghanistan in the course of the last twenty years? The carpet bombing of a single Iraqi city that killed 150 thousand civilians over two days and left over a hundred thousand wounded is forgotten by the so called international community why? Why all these US toadies like Poland are so eager to please the American boss, their new master? Where does it come from, this blindness, but not from the righteousness and privilege. The collective West does not have any moral right to speak of human rights.

03.04.2022. And the way they descended on the news about alleged Russian atrocities today, regurgitating them over and over again: BBC, CNN, Euro News, all these fast news agencies who forgot long ago how to do real journalism, preferring fake news, fake tears, fake blood, fake emotions. All these wanna-be reporters in their silly Press helmets telling stories about a girl who got reunited with her mother after two weeks of wandering some place in Western Ukraine. One-sided accounting without even an acknowledgment that there could be another perspective, not a single mention of the Nazis and their atrocities in Donbas, not even a feeble attempt to understand why and in the name of what the leader of a nuclear power is ready to sacrifice his own and world peace. Absolutely disgusting. As an example, after the Russian air strike on military gas reservoirs in Nikolajev (satellite town of Odessa) BBC reported about Russian air strikes on the port of Odessa. And again we see running civilians and hear the sirens and are shown people in distress. Yes, if anything, this war is gonna teach some people how never to trust the West.

04.04.2022. After many weeks of contempaltioj in the wake of the war, I have come to the conclusion that Putin’s ‘plan’ is not based on economic or even political concerns (although military ones are certainly in the picture). Putin’s hero’s, Peter the Great’s accomplishment was not only the forced ‘opening of the window’ into Europe in the wake of the Baltic wars with Sweden, but a consolidation of the nation. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russian identity failed to accomplish its formation as homogenous. It has remained amorphous deeply and strongly tied to the liberal values of the West, its illusion of prosperity for all. Putin, through his ‘patriotic education’ attempted to overcome this impotence and failed. The war with Ukraine became a way to separate the nation and thus the people from the West, create the ‘other’ of the West and the ‘own’ from the ‘Home.’ Putin’s calculations presupposed the sanctionist response that would go as far as seeking Russia’s complete isolation from the West (but not from the world). But, anticipated Putin, despite the resistance of the West to see the world order rewrite, the country would not become just a rogue nation, but the bona fide other. The realization on the part of the Russian people that they are the other, the realization that this other has been long time constructed by the West via russofobia and the politics of exclusion will make a shortcut to the process of consolidation for the Russian identity. Only then will the country truly prosper. Less so economically, but as a sovereign nation governed by the Idea. We do not sell for sausage, as Putin said twenty years ago. For the country and its people to prosper means to exit the existing Anglo-Saxon system of dominance. Consolidation shall be done by way of isolation. Unification shall be accomplished by way of sacrifice, self-sacrifice. For thirty years I have seen the values I embraced so whole heartedly when I moved to the States become vacuous and self-exhausting, malicious in fact. Personally, I am glad we are leaving this cruiseship into nowhere. As for my own sacrifices, they have already been undertaken.

I have reread the last sentence and chuckled. Indeed, Alex, what is it exactly that you have sacrificed so far? Well, I did get carry away by my own pathos. I meant the discomforts of having the flight to London cancelled, the anxiety caused by the uncertainty of even getting a ticket, buying a ticket to turkey, having a cancellation, having a new one bought by Tanja, spending a day travelling, all that discomfort which could have been irritating if I were less patriotically-minded, but certainly very minor even petty sacrifice. Unlike my sister, I embraced the ‘historical moment’ for what it was worth–the ‘history in the making.’ Other than that, the biggest sacrifice was leaving ‘my people’ yet, at no point, I took my people over my family (I see, pathos is still with you, Alex ; ). Indeed, it is very hard to shed it. Even when Tanja and myself talk, and mind you, it is not easy for a German woman of her generation to talk to someone like myself, who is feverish from anxiety and grief and fear and God knows what and at the same time someone who feels liberated in the weirdest way, liberated from the Soviet and the post-Soviet baggage, someone who for the first time in years feels proud to be Russian, proud to be a part of some resistance yet, again, confused as to the actual nature of that resistance. I have to give it to my partner, she has done more than most people and more than I expected form her trying to understand my position and be tactful about not sliding into a fierce argument, for our opinions did not coincide on many issues, could not possibly coincide. This event is new to us and it tests us in most inconspicuous ways. It is for a reason that big politics resemble domestic interpersonal one. Made by people it cannot be otherwise. Motivated by emotions as much as it is motivated by ideas, it (man, I am getting carried away again!). Better stop for the night…

05.04.2022. I am so tired to dream about the war. Every night for the last six weeks I see burning tanks, dead soldiers, ruins and more ruins. Nonetheless, when I wake up, I reach for the computer and get more of the same. I have reduced my reading to morning briefings of the Russian MO, yet I feel like I have not properly woken up all day. My head is full of badness. I pray to God that the war ends, that we win, that we become We no matter sanctions, no matter pressure. I want Us to win.

07.04.2022. Actually, not just Us. I want the Idea to win. I had it all worked out before Putin vocalized it on March 16. This date, together with February 24, is as memorable as 9/11. I remember how I woke up early in the morning, opened my computer ahead of showing up in the kitchen (my mom would be asleep at 8am) and read the news. Then I streamed Putin’s announcement. When I walked to the kitchen half an hour later, I said to my mom (who just woke up): ‘Have you heard? It began.’ My mom is 82 years old, and is not particularly sharp, plus, in the morning, she is still dazed, but this time she understood my ‘it’ without asking for a clarification: ‘Did we invade Ukraine?’ From that day onwards, I felt like I entered something huge, something historical. My sister, who was driving from Pecheura (upper North) on that day, could not even get it. She did not hear the news, and I was speaking so much and so abstractly about the historical moment and the new beginning and did not mention the war even once that she thought that Putin died (she hopes). But there was no abstraction for me. The war made me feel scared, anxious and worried. I was scared and worried about myself, my family, my country, my people…And then, amidst the Russian military success of the first two weeks, there began to come sanctions, exclusions, exceptions, bans, etc., etc. Deep inside, I have worked out and justified my position by that time already, but it was the President’s Speech of March 16th that made it all very very clear. The words like ‘existential threat,’ ‘NATOs encroachment,’ the Nazi Regime in Kiev, ‘genocide of the Russian people in Donbas,’ ‘the malice from the US and its Satellites,’ ‘the Collective West, ‘the erosion of Europe and its values,’ ‘subjugation,’ ‘annihilation,’ ‘truth,’ ‘justice,’ and finally ‘our own way’ made perfect sense. This speech should have been addressed to the world community. Of course, I cannot help but ask myself if the price (I only mean lives, not sanctions or lost moneys and opportunities) is not too high. I hope not, for indeed I see a better and more dignified future for my people and my country. But I also want Us to win.

08.04.2022. Beware what you are wishing for. Wishing for news gave me the war. Wishing for war-free dreams brought up one of the most disturbing mosaic of images last night: my father naked in bed with a teenage lover; me, also naked, hiding from a person who resembled too closely the health reporter for BBC South, a naked couple of lovers who looked like two unrelated gym members. Eros and Mars seem to go hand in hand together.

09.04.2022. After the West announced its politics of cancellation for the Russian culture, I got up in arms and decided to watch only Russian films (Soviet war films, to spite them), listen only to Tchajkovsky and Shostakovich and read only Goncharov and Fonvizin. After an evening of Rakhmaninov, I have realized that I am not going to last long on this lean diet. It is great, this Russian culture of mine, but it would still be nice to read an occasional Melville and listen to Adele over a glass of Spanish Cava. I have gone soft, it seems.

11.04.2022. Kadyrov is like Andersen’s child screaming: ‘Look, the King is naked!’ Being as loyal as Kadyrov is, he would not be screaming about his King, ‘our dearest President,’ but the things that the King would not want to say, not yet, anyway. Most of his Kadyrov’s statements are bewilderingly simplistic and naïve, yet they reflect the natural attitude toward the war the best; hence his appeal to the Chechens to go and fight ‘demons’ in Ukraine. They also reflect the official plan. Whether it is his conviction that Kiev is going to be ‘cleansed’ sooner or later or if the biggest battle is days ahead tell the actual story that is yet to unfold. It is just that it indeed takes someone like him to blurt it all out. What a child this general is!

15.04.2022. I think Gardner with his Indian’s Tale inspired the makers of The Pirates. Dead pirates, a woman on board, the blind seer, Davy Jones’ Locker, the Isles of the Oblivion, etc. Or, more likely, the novella was written as a genre experiment, so it used the ‘pirate story’ in the same way the film used it.

I took the loss of the Russian war ship ‘Moskva’ personally: it felt like a personal tragedy, the loss of a loved one. It was a freaky feeling. it is only a ship, and I am not into anthropomorphizing hardware normally. I am getting too deep into this war. I need to stand my involvement down., or I will go nuts.

16.04.2022. My personal ‘stop-list’ (formerly ‘blacklist’), which includes people, persons (neighbor across the street at the dacha), celebrities (e.g., M. Freeman, M. Galkin), rivers (e.g., the Nile, the Missouri), politicians (e.g., Little Johnson, Fon der Lying, Zhopa Borelja-Borel’s Ass in Russian), countries (e.g., Poland, USA, Canada, Australia, the Baltic Swamps), companies (e.g., Reno, L’Occitane, Dannon), food items (e.g., ochra, orange, brown bread), dogs (e.g., Spitz), birds (e.g., seagull), toys (e.g., spinner), etc., etc. has recently been expanded to minerals. Now I prohibit jade to enter my personal space. Don’t ask. A hint perhaps? Must be something Chinese, something like an imitation of preciousness. The war has made the list grow by leaps and bounds: soon there will nothing but myself, and when madness sets in I will include myself in the list.

Started reading The Centaur by Updike. It was a rough beginning. Gardner is still too fresh with me, and he is so much lighter on his toes. This is a quote from his book that applies to Putin’s perspective on the ‘necessary losses’ and ‘sacrifice:’

17.04.2022. What a nice day! I was still in the shower when Tanja and the kids sang Happy Birthday to me. There were gifts and more gifts. Very sweet. The Russian MOD too has made me a nice present: I feel quite optimistic about the outcome of the war now that crucial numbers were announced. Once Mariupol is free, the advance on Donbas, Odessa and Kharkov will encircle the enemy’s Army and break the Unkranians. There will be celebrations and spoils. Obviously, after the sanctions, the Russians shouldnot care about the money as retributions. Land is the prize. The Nazis will pay with territory.

Putin’s should have read The Heart of Darkness before he started the war. Marlo’s vision of victory as imbedded in the alien and not home, as what always and necessary occurring from within, would be useful when justifying carpet bombing and the use of strategic aviation as an alternative. From within or fully over. A war is not a face-off. It is either ongoing subversion of full dominance. The one way is the Russian way, the US way is the other way. At this point in history. It used to be the other way round during the Cold War.

I love the smell of boiling rice. There is something very oriental in the smell. That is how a Chinese restaurant supposed to smell and not like burnt oil.

18.04.2022. Here is another evidence that Putin is motivated by history in his actions more than by anything else. From next school years, Russian school children will start learning history from year one. “Patriotic education must begin with the knowledge about the home in its generative dimension.” And the hymn that will preview the beginning of the school day (I would hate as a child).

19.04.2022. A lot of times Tanja obtains her info from general German sources faster than I obtain it from the Russian MOD, like today. Also, I hate all these innuendoes on the part of Lavrov, Shojgu, Peskov and the like: ‘at this phase we are not going to use nuclear weapons,’ ‘we are going to use new methods of warfare adapted to the new situation,’ ‘we will redirect our supply lines,’ etc. At what stage will you use them? What methods? Where are you going to redirect? This amount of ambiguity in these times is a weakness, not a strength. What was it that downed Moskva? Say it. Name names. Point fingers. Only the child general Kadyrov speaks out.

As for the times, I have decided to stop reading Updike. These times call for epic literature: Gilgamesh, Beowulf, The Knight in the Tiger Cape. Will be good to start with Beowulf and get back to Gardner afterwards.

20.04.2022. Fun news (once in a while): Canadian scientist (my favorite academic sect) had some comparative research done on the size of male penis in different nations (64 countries participated). The longest was determined to belong to Ecuadorians (14.5cm), the shortest to Cambodians (6.1cm). There was a disclaimer: the respondents were self-surveyed, so a few centimeters give or take was suspected to be added in certain cases. The Russians were excluded from the study on account of the war and them being aggressors. I take this mean that they have a humongous chunker that is beyonf comparison (khi-khi).

Occasionally, I am totally swept of my feet by the mere thought that once I was insanely young. Shockingly young. Effortless. Ethereal.

I truly hate conspiracy theories, but in this case, I do allow for unwelcome possibilities. Such as: What if Putin is really evil and his plan is to reach his goals by inflicting as much damage on the other as possible thereby making his country and his people suffer. What if he wants this war to be as long as possible: bombard the Unkranians while refugees are filling up the enemy Europe? What if he uses Ukranie as a testing ground for testing his Army and his weapons? What is he ‘does not want to occupy Ukraine’s territories,’ but simply wants to get what’s his? But the scariest scenario would be if he is convinced. Convinced about not winning but being right? What if he invaded Ukraine at the worst time agriculturally, thus creating the current food crisis (also on purpose)? What if he plans to secure Ukraninian Southern regions to blackmail the world foodwise? Maybe this is the weapon and not nukes at all? Questions. Sure, they can and should be asked. I however do not ask myself these questions because I don’t care. I have a purpose. I will still have it regardless of the outcome of this conflict.

Johnson reminds me of Kruscheuv. He is the English version of Kruscheuv (too much credit?): provoking, opportunistic and excessively into himself, an enthusiastic amateur, a bon vivant, a womanizer (yeah pretty sick thinking about Kruscheuv in that role, but he was!). Winging it, always winging it.

21.04.2022. Today when we were returning from a trip to Churchill Square, a crazy man began to shout at us. At first he did from a distance, then he came up closer still shouting. We got in the car and drove away without taking action. he was clearly not right. Yet, I took it as a bad omen. Things like that happened to me before, and bad things followed. I am not sure what this incident could signify. All I know is that it is a rupture in the order of things, and that I shall be alert.

Formerly I have written that my head is so full of war that I need to find help directing my feelings elsewhere, for example, literature. By way of association, I can achieve displacement. However, epic is not genre for this moment. It has to be something mystical (the above incident may be a reminder of that as well).

24.04.2022. Contrary to all promises to myself, I am reading not Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but Magic Mountain (Zauberberg-I love the sound of the original title!) by Thomas Mann. The experience is amazing. Just a few pages read but the sense of going through a singular experience is already there. To be in the presence of great literature is both awesome and inspiring. The same sense but in a nutshell can be given when one is standing not even a meter away from Rembrandt, Matisse, Breughel. Breathtaking. Good for Easter Sunday too!!

25.04.2022. Finally, at the gym, I managed to crack a successful joke. There is a young and very friendly assistant who likes to chat with me (I am not so inclined because I feel quite deficient – the English accent and speech patterns – mostly speed – are hard for me to discern). She also likes to vacuum. For that she uses a funny looking vacuum cleaner shaped as a red face with a black beret. They call it Henry here. It says Henry on the front. The assistant was struggling with Henry the other day. It kept on opening up, spilling the dust within (bagless VC). ‘Khm,’ I said loudly at the girl, ‘I have always suspected that Henry is a crackhead.’ Sadly, the girl did not laugh, and as usual in this sitution I got embarrassed. However, I knew better and did not pull Ross: I did not get into a long soliloquy about what my joke meant. Anyway, I will keep quiet next time.

26.04.2022. My head is so full of war that when I think about my work, I think about phases, the failure of Phase 1 (I planned to write two chapters in Moscow – most of the material was prewritten, ready to advance, in other words, but the plan had to be aborted due to the intervention of problematic materials – read diversion actions), the change of plans and the shift to Phase 2 (slow moving, yet precise hits on the problems around a particular area), feeling pressured and surrounded by hostile #references# (read foreign support). I am also constantly concerned about ‘being on schedule’ and ‘completion of all set tasks and missions.’ In other words, hopelessly mired in the war.

27.04.2022. I pray for the Russian soldiers every day. This is my way of participation. The practice reflects my position, but only in the ‘own’ sense. I am not religious, but I strongly believe that myoveralll disposition (not opinion) matters: it affects the course of events, and I contribute thereby. What is it? Historicity-in-action. A block of flats, – drained and frazzled by gunfire, – comes to mind. everything broken, not usable, a waste. Garbage. War creates waste, garbage. Quicker, in fact, than it took over in German reinforced trenches, as the art of a long and bloody long war. Catch-22 at best. But also miller and Aldrington. Fischer. Quicker, that is how long the Russia-Ukraine war should continue – not long or short but quicker. The world goes awire at the prospect of tediousness on account of waiting for a resolution. Mistakes of judgment are often made in this very atmosphere: foggy, opaque.

28.04.2022. I have watched a BBC report on the war while on the treadmill. I was held hostage by faulty machine: it gave me only channel to watch. Typically, I do not watch English news, BBC or other. Regrettably, I came out of that experience enraged and disappointed. The report was trivial, puerile, unbalanced. It had no worthwhile analysis, not even a one-sided one. Neutrality was a mere pretense. This war killed the journalism I would wish to partake in. Good bye, BBC, CNN, Guardian, Times, NYT and all that jazz. The Anglo-Saxons…Who would have thought..

29.04.2022. The smell of lilac around the house is bringing me back to my childhood. I grew up in the shadow (actually my home apartment building in Moscow cast the shadow, not the other way round) of the Great Kolesnikov lilac farm. It is restored to much of its glory now. At about this time, all its 127 sorts of lilac in over 500 tress spread around a five square kilometer park, produce the kind of smell that if you leave your windows overnight (not this year – too cold), it will give you a headache. Tourists come over from all over the world to smell different sorts. The lilac that is growing in our driveway has a melody of a smell. Something Rakhmaninov. Something rising over you. Makes you enfused with sensibility.

30.04.2022. Reading Magic Mountain. Hans Castorp, the protagonist, was described as anemic as a child. For this reason, following the convictions of his age, he was given a glass of port (05ml) every day after school from the age of eleven. Watching BBB (my name for BBC – bullshit, bullshit and more bullshit): a Ukranian retarded girl was shown. She was missing her father who was a Russian POW. Bad, bad Russians, by separating them from their parents, they do harm even on ‘special’ children.

H.C. Anderson’s fairy tales are proper horror stories. I have read The Red Shoes and was quite appalled by the scene with the henchman who chops off the little girl’s feet. Ok, vanity is bad thing, but to punish the little orphan than way? Perhaps, the Danish author shall be considered as the precursor to the horror genre? Will consult Todorov.

1.05.2022. When someone asks me over here what it is that I think about the war, I say: ‘It is a tragedy.’ I do not expose my position to the English because there is no point to discuss anything fruitfully if you do not share the same information, or have uneven access to it and are pre-judicial, as I am, at the moment of discussion. For example, how I can discuss the situation on AzovSteel with someone who is convinced that the Russians did not want to let the civilians out? It would be absurd to argue the point which is located in two dimensions simultaneously. The same is true when it comes to the reasons for the Russian invasion. However, sometimes I do indicate my position by adding: ‘It is a personal matter. I would rather not talk about it.’ Given how eager the English and those with them are to talk about the ‘Russian animals,’ it shall be clear that I do neither subscribe not only to this kind of voice, nor do I hold the same (dis)position as well.

In his fairy tale The Elf-World, H.C. Andersen describes the elves as stunningly beautiful in the front and absolutely hollow in the back. ‘Like a mask,’ he says. Kinda different than the way the morally superior and at the same time beautiful elves were presented in The Lord of the Rings. The hater of Russia, Tolkien presented the West exactly how it has presented itself to me all my life. Not anymore. I see what Andersen has seen: ‘and hollow in the back.’

02.05.2022. I should ease up with my rhetoric about the West. There is no need to turn my position into a persistently negative emotion. After all, my children and Tanja are the West. Need to adjust.

In Mann’s Magic Mountain, there is a description of two types of Russian patients at the sanatorium. One is the unapproachable aristocrat, the other is the vulgar sex hungry merchant who is staying with a lover. My impression of what the Russians at Davos are today (well, were yesterday) is pretty much the same: two types of the newly rich: the ones with manners, trying to fit in and the ones without any inhibitions, there to spend money and have good time the way they are used to have it at home.

Current news: BBB presented a little girl (another one) who spoke about her family in Russian as a Ukranian (caption: ‘speaks Ukranian’). It is that kind of ignorance that gets my gut going.

In Stokholm, Russian balalajka players set up a small protest meeting against ‘banning’ balalajka as a symbol of Russia.

03.05.2022. Everyone in the gym wears this or that poker face. Dissatisfied with my own ‘unfriendly’ poker face, I have shopped around and came up with a face modelled on Abramovitch’s slightly bemused slightly surprised expression he sports in all his photos. Given how im-personal people are around here, that is, they really avoid making personal comments, I will most likely never get their reaction to my face. Uhm.

05.05.2022. The day felt heavy today. Even a lovely trip to the Gardening Center (Tanja – more trips; the little ones – a water fountain; myself – water bottle forgotten by someone and fish food) did not relieve the tension. It was not just the kind of tension that comes around because of the interrupted sleep or for a meteodependent miserable bastards like myself from a change of barometric pressure. It had a bad omen in it. For this reason, although I am still not sure as to the omen, I treaded very carefully all day long. My steps were calculative beyond simple habit, and my speech was more carefully produced than usual (ironically, the latter resulted in more joking- go figure!). Well, the day is still young (and very bright I might add): let us see what it still has in the making.

06.05.2022. My favorite letter is Greek Omega. I see it as an invitation to transformational change. I wonder what imaginary friend would be best for me. I cannot relate to Putin, but I can relate to his ‘Idea.’ It was a bit embarrassing watching pics from the Met-Gala event. I barely know anyone (close to 90%). I am so out of touch with the new generation of actors and filmmakers, celebrities and business people (well, I did recognize Mask). There is a paper on Fink and Alice in wonderland. Something about paradoxical rationality.

07.05.2022. T. Mann writes in Magic Mountain that the Russians really, like no other nation, like to take rides (horse buggy). The most difficult thing for me in this current situation is to place myself in the context of the ‘historical moment.’ It is clear to me that we are living through it, but it is not clear as to how one should attach oneself, express oneself, act out. I think that depression as a medical condition has a strong cultural component. I would love to research it some more. Historically as well. Pushkin, as I have read in the book on the medicine of his times, suffered from the ‘black bile.’ Foucault could be the one to begin with.

What this war has also shown is that the Russians and the Ukranians are indeed brotherly. The Biblical Brothers. Pumelling each other. For so brutal to each other can be only be brothers. It is therefore to the best for them to separate from each other once and for all. This means that someone will have to budge. One way to position oneself in this new and coming world would be to accept that media formulates opinion and moves matter.

09.05.2022. Today, for the first time in my life I watched the Victory Day parade with a strange sense of sadness. I have often found it pompous and would be embarrassed for it before my foreign friends as a student, but I would always be impressed by the hardware and the handsome Russian men and women marching sooo beautifully (actually, not just Russian at the time of the Soviet Union). Today, I was sad looking at the men and women, tanks and rocket launchers. I have seen too many pictures recently of these very men and women being shot, tortured, dead. And the Russian tanks burnt to the crisp on the streets of Kharkov and Kiev did not leave much space for jubilation. Yet, I was proud. Sad and proud of my grandfathers and grandmothers who overcame. I will raise a toast to them and all those who perished in that horrible war.

As to the current war, my trip to the gym was truly marred by the BBB snickering and lying, lying and winking: ‘wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more, Putin, that bloodthirsty fashist, that mass murderer, the killer of babies. He has no clue as to what he is doing. He is insane. He is losing the war, but he is not getting it. He is desperate that he has become blind.’ The brave Ukranians, on the other hand, the indomitable Zelensky, they will be the victors, they will prevail. It was not even the usual BBB lies and snot (look at the Ukranian fighter jets, look at our heroes who are so staunch, so determined (so outgunned and so demoralized) and that little girl (she likes to be on TV, you can tell), even she is ready to fight), but the sheer hatred of Putin, and the Russians (by default), the complete dismissal of his position as a ‘fairy-tale’, ‘a deceitful narrative,’ an ‘ empty rhetoric.’ No attempt whatsoever to understand the other side, its argument, its position. Embarrassing and outrageous this West is. Indeed. Even the news about the absence of the air component of the parade was put in quotation mark. Like, they said ‘due to the weather,’ they said, as if it was also Putin’s lie, as if in fact he did not have enough planes (like a month ago, the same people said that he did not have enough precision rockets, enough tanks, enough men). Like ‘due to the weather’ was another ‘failure’ of the Russian military.

In the meantime, the Russians have destroyed close to one thousand Ukranian soldiers just today, shot down four helicopters and four fighter jets, burnt four ships and took two towns just today. It has not been mentioned ever that Kherson (an area the size of Austria) is under full Russian control in addition to Lugansk, and that the ‘failing Russians’ keep on bombarding the crap out of the biggest and most capable Ukranian army in Donbass and that, all things considered, fifteen percent of Ukranian territory in under full Russian control. What kind of wishful thinking is it? Is Zelensky, Johnson, Biden, Sholtz and their Polish jackals not insane to think that they can win this war, no matter what goals it pursues? I think they have less reason that Putin. Less right. Less truth. Plus, he is not just ‘Putin and his men.’ He is also me and a growing number of an already handsome majority of the Russian people who are tired and disgusted of Western hypocrisy and shiny wrappers: ‘wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more.’ At this point, I prefer pompous and crude, be it propaganda in the Russian media or in the Red Square. All the tasks set for this operation will be accomplished. I can bet my head on it.

10.05.2022. This war makes me want to throw up. I am pregnant with it. I hope I am gonna give birth sooon!!

11.05.2022. Is the child indeed self-alienated when he or she plays. What does it mean to be bifurcated that way? Is it dangerous? Can one lose themselves in play?

12.05.2022. We have got a fish tank. It is called The Cube. It is small: under 30 lit. Recently, I cleaned it and changed the plants 8plastic ones of course). In the wake of the change, some of the fish began to behave differnetly: formerly peaceful fish got aggressive, while the usual bullies went into hiding. I wonder if a drastic change of environment affects humans in the same way. That could explain wars.

13.05.2022. In the description of Hans’ Russian passion (Shushu or Claudia) in Magic Mountain Mann gives her ‘Kyrgyz eyes’ (meaning slightly oriental cut, a common feature of Russian women, the Tatar legacy and abruptness, which Mann presumes to be also a Russian trait. I think he is quite right. The latter feature can also account for what people often ascribe to the Russians as sincerity (positive account) and crudeness (negative account).

14.05.2022. For the reasons unknown I have developed a strong aversion to photographing which is particularly bad given that I am about to start taking pics for the Playmobil book.

In the Lego Land of ours there have been some significant changes: Dumbledore built more housing, while Luka is decidedly and committedly nomadic. Nik has his black structures for the police and Dart Vader expanded. My character gets into trouble with both Darth and Luka and spends every day in jail for disobedience. He hired more house help however: there is a fixer (handyman who works 24/7), a chef (compliments of Darth) and a doorman (currently Hagrid).

15.05.2022. I love my character. Dumbledore is a feisty old man. he is a cool dude. Recently he began to wear Harry Potter’s clothes (H.P. is in a perpetual servitude with Dumbledore’s family) and looks hippy in an appropriate age. He also tinkered with the Simpsons’ car and did a good job spiffing it up.

I am nothing like my character. I am bad with vehicles, I wear ridiculously unfitting – for the current context – clothes, and I don’t sport a gun (nor a magic wand). Dumbledore is very much my alter ego. He is also rich and magical. Granted, he cannot fly like Luka’s character ‘Luka,’ but he can transform, albeit not as well as Darth.

16.05.2022. When I examine the Russian news in contrast to the foreign news, I feel like the news are radically different style wise and cultural imagery wise, but the actual pics that accompany these news are pretty much the same: the same armored vehicle regardless who sits on top, the same family happy to be away from ‘all that’, the same image from above taken from the drones, the same burnt down tank, the same ruins.

They promised a scarlet moonrise tonight. I wonder if it is going to be a bad omen for the things Ukranian.

17.05.2022. My father was a ‘miniaturist.’ At some point I have argued about Tarkovsky being the same. Collecting stamps, shells, cactuses, coins.

In The Magic Mountain Mann calls the Germans ‘energetic and phlegmatic’ at the same time. He claims that their way of being is paradoxical and because of it often self-destructive.

18.05.2022. To be seduced, to allow oneself to be seduced is not a weakness, teaches Mann, but a sign of great power. His description of the budding romance between Claudia and Hans is so seductive that one can see the whole purpose of the book, its main import, in that relationship alone.

War and image. All that media is doing about the war the way I see it, literally, is trying to seduce you, tempt you to consort with the devil; hence, the religious import of the war.

The war of words as well: the surrender of Azov in Mariupol is called ‘evacuation’ by the Ukranians just as the war in Ukraine is called special military operation by the Russians. The desire to throw up is still with me.

20.05.2022. In response to the Russian wish to divorce themselves from the West, in Lego (as Luka calls our play hobby) I am setting up a Mushroom Land, where all rogue parties are going to assemble for ‘independent’ living. Of course, they are going to be armed and not dangerous. Perhaps giant trolls will patrol the Mushroom Land. Or a special petronium weapon would have to be developed. Time will show. We will see.

21.05.2022. It is quite sad but inevitable that the so-called liberal values in the West would dictate the rational behind actions, whether individual or collective, military or peaceful. The time of PR, Media, and Remoteness is also the time of Rhetoric. Rhetorical statements seem to be as much a commodity as actual bombardments.

The Russian MOD should construct a better picture of the enemy. The surrendered Ukranian Nazis from Azovstal did not look animalistic. They looked unsurprisingly like a lot of Russians would look like after a month underground. Despite their tattoos.

Mann introduces a new group of Russians who joined the ‘bad’ Russian table. They were young and hairy, argued a lot about a revolution here and a revolution there and apparently wore no underwear. The latter ‘fact’ is repeated over and over.

23.05.2022. In an extreme situation, all things big and small become pertinent.

Finally, Putin cracked a decent joke. Today during the photo session with Lukashenko, the latter said: ‘You know, Vladimir Valdimirovich, all we hear is Putin is to blame for this and for that. Putin, Putin, Putin’ to which the Russian President responded: ‘Well, I will need to have a serious talk with this Putin.’

After having been exposed to a continuous stream of the same faces in the media, my brain has exact imprints of the major players. I see them as ‘ghost’ faces on the carpet and the wall, but I also see their doubles. Fro example, today I saw a Stoltenberg in the gym and a Scholz at Tesco Express. The latter looked even more bedraggled than in real life. Putin or Zelensky look alikes are rare. In the Pokemon card deck they would be the exclusive cards with the power rating of 300 and more (no wonder Time magazine put both in the list of 100 most influential people in the world–no idea why Zelensky tho).

Being a scavenger that I am, I constantly dragged all sorts of stuff that I pick on the sidewalk: books, pottery, gadgets, toys (Luka’s favorite as of recently was a fully functional albeit a bit crooked battery operated lightsaber). Two days ago, Leon, who is too good for this kind of past time returned from his gym trip with a full DVD collection of six ‘Breaking Bad’ seasons. I got jealous: that was indeed a great find and pretty serendipitous for Leon has been watching the series. In any case, that same day, when I was walking to the gym hours later I noticed a long bag that looked like it contained a tent. It was a legit find: there was a note that said ‘Free. Take home.’ So, on the way back I took. I was a mile away from my place, and this thing weighed a ton. 15 kilos I estimated. I was pretty tired–some nasty bug brought me down the day earlier–so I began to wonder why it was that the tent is so heavy. I stopped and looked at the bag. It said momandpop on the side. A strange name for a tent-making company, I thought. I started feeling the bag, then I unzipped it. Guess what it was that I found inside? Khm…It was a foldable infant bed. No, I did not throw it away. Rather, dutifully, I dragged it to the Hangleton square a few hundred yards away and put it in front of a charity container. The note ‘Free. Take home.’ was still in my pocket. I felt fooled but covered my disappointment with a ‘good deed’ feeling.

24.05.2022. In Elementary that we watch every other day before going to bed in the evening there is plenty of sexual allusions. The kids, who are typically peevish and close their eyes demonstratively when there is a naked body, say Sherlock’s, or some kissing and fooling around takes place, perform ‘disinterest’ in sex dolls or words like ‘onanism’ meaning they are curious but too ashamed to ask. Instead, they throw out things like ‘Uuugh’ or ‘Yaak.’ But they are fully aware of some red line out there.

25.05.2022. There was a report on BBC the other day about all sorts of trouble that British ‘sponsors’ have with their Ukranian ‘guests.’ The complaints varied but most of them focused on noise and smoking as well as ‘incessant’ cooking. Some ‘sponsors’ ended up kicking out the Ukranian refugees or ‘moved’ them to less habitable parts of houses and apartments. ‘What happened?,’ asked the BBC reporter at the end of the news. Well, I can give a valid answer: You, Brits, happened. That is what happened. The people who are xenophobic to the core (isn’t it the EU immigration policy that spawned Brexit in the first instance?) without ever admitting it cannot possibly understand and accept the difference, cannot reach out in a committed fashion. The Brits have no idea how to embrace the difference beyond writing on their money (ironic , isn’t it?) ‘Diversity Built Britain.’ No, money built Britain. Hundreds of years of robbing the world built Britain. This country is one of the most diversity poor contexts I have experienced.

In Mann, the Russians from both the ‘bad’ and the ‘good’ tables decided to do a separate X-mas gift for the Head Doctor Berens. ‘As always, writes Mann, the Russians separated themselves. And they did it only to produce ‘the most hideous and useless gift – a huge silver plate with Berens’ initials engraved in the middle.’ Good insight into my people, Thomas. I vividly remember all these kind of gifts. They were popular even with my extended family: obnoxious art albums, porcelain statuettes, crystal vases, carpets. All expensive and customized. Impossible to regive.

26.05.2022. My favorite flower these days is peones. White or pink with ‘blood stains’ at the core. Very pretty.

27.05.2022. I am at odds with the flower. On second thought. It is deceptively robust, but too tender to last. When it dies, a peoni explodes. Such a glorious thing.

28.05.2022. It was weird, – my children showing up from school on the last day singing ‘God Save the Queen,’ wearing commemorative lapel pins with the Queeen’s profile (for that purpose, banknotes could do just fine) and paper crowns (Nik got himself a subdued tasteful one, Luka – a goddy golden stars and diamonds covered one). For a Soviet boy who at their age sang nothing but the hymn of the Soviet Union, it was quite a sight. English children, I call them.

29.05.2022. I can imagine the kinda stakes and the kinda risks the Hungarian PM Urban is taking by vetoing the oil Embargo and refusing to send weapons for Ukraine. If Russia prevails in this conflict, drawing its borders all the way to Romania, as the only conscientious resister, Urban is gonna get all sorts of spoils for his ‘loyalty.’ If, on the other hand, Russia loses, he is deep up his ears in crap for his support, meaning less of everything for him from the EU. But the first prospect shall be exhilirating. If Hungary is the only country Russia gives a preferential status in, say, developing the Russian Ukraine, he can reindustrialize his country beyond his wildest dreams, turning Hungary into a new Russian ‘European locomotive.’ I hope he is a good gambler: knows his table and his hand, but, more importantly, like Putin himself. has a ‘vision,’ not just a ‘plan.’

I would like to call the current state of the war not ‘impotent,’ nor ‘viscous,’ as BBB does it, but determined. I think determination has settled with the Russians. They are finally ‘on to it.’ Not that there is nothing to lose. There is always something ‘more’ to loose. It is just that the war is less and less a game for the Russians and more and more a fight. They have learnt how to, and they are finally ready for ‘more.’ By the way, I find the images of the Russian SF soldiers very sexy. I am also proud of my people for being able to produce something other than an awkward fat slow-moving gun-wielding champ. These guys in their masks and lean sturdy figures, well dressed and well kept with handsome sex guns make an impression even on a less adultered creature than myself. For an avowed hetero, this impression may appear suspicious. Well, I have been quite shocked over several decades of living abroad to see that the middle-aged Russians appear as much less attractive than their Western counterparts (TBC).

29.05.2022. All evening long the kids at the dinner table entertained themselves with my entertainments: making Alexa do farts and fart jokes, making her burp and sneeze. She was pretty good at all: so she is our buddy now. She passed.

Peoni are very sad flowers. Properly melancholic. Indeed, they do not wilt, they just end: like rain their petals fall on the table and all there is left sticking out is the stem. As if, in separation from the petals, the stem acquires a different identity. But then you don’t want this ‘metamorphosis’ around any more. So, you throw it all away.

31.05.2022. The one-sidedness, the tonality, and the pure diletantism of Western media (BBB and the like)confirms me in my support of the SMO in Ukraine. It is indeed the war with the very West that hates, that lies and that pretends. Pretends to listen, to understand and to care. For a small man like myself, a misplaced citizen of Russia, there is nothing else to do but to hate back, to ignore back, to turn away. Even more so, I want to be more radical and less concerned with the reaction from the West every other day this operation continues. The arrogant, pompous, hypocritical, and spoiled West is indeed that very totalitarian West that Putin spoke about in his so called narrative of the Western dominance, in the words of Scholz. I am so disappointed in being so disappointed about making that journey to the West for nothing, for being stuck in the West and for not being able to shake it off like many a bad dream I keep on having these days. Who is to blame? Myself? Sure. For being young and stupid, for, as my dad said, being seduced by the glamour (read glitter) that I saw in the States on that faithful trip in 1984. What shall I do? Not go to McDonald’s with my kids any more, throw my Bank of Scotland Visa in the garbage, burn my American passport, cut my Marc O’Polo shit with scissors? All this sounds stupid. Not honorable. Petty.

So, as my reader sees, I am still at odds with my ability to run my position into proper or rather appropriate action. So, back to the black. But if we win…

Was it a rant? Yeah, it was. Aggressive and whiny. Self-centered in any way. But also emotional, passionate even. I care. I feel that in the Best, emotions are misplaced by ideologies. Liberal, conservative, doesn’t matter. By the way, isn’t it amazing how the most pronounced liberals and greens have been the most confrontational and aggressive, much more so than their Republican predecessors with this war? Like they have to prove themselves in their convictions by wielding that sword of theirs.

Undoubtedly, Putin speaks not for all the Russians. Even fewer trust him. But he does speak for his generation, and this generation happens to be the last capable (powerful-in power) one that saw both the Soviet Union and, like myself, believes that it is there that they properly belong, and the Great Collapse with the Dark Times following directly. His Idea, not his person, is what results in the 72% support. It’s like we get it. I want him to carry this project of his through. For the reasons stated earlier. They appeal to me on a historical scale. Tarkovsky’s Mirror (now I understand) appeals to that very historico-cultural subject.

I shall rewatch it. except that today we–myself and the little ones–are watching the ungodly Western product The Skyfall. That was a joke. I like Craig. All the 007s, even the worst ones (remember–Timothy Dolton?-God!) are utterly entertaining. I do not want not to have that. I guess I am weak. And, again, self-centered and narcissistic. Blah.

05.06.2022. Queen’s Platinum Jubilee was remarkably unimpressive, even sad. When the Queen showed up on the B. Palace’s balcony for the fist time, not only did the she look like a shriveled potato that was found in the back of the fridge after a year of being put there, she was more sour and crabby that ever. Her inability to walk is forgivable but her inability to smile is not. She is a public figure after all. What’s the use? It appears that smiling is in general a problem for the Royals. Only the commoner Kate smiled, heroically, I must add giving her misbehaving children. everyone else–Ann, Charles, Camilla–looked vexed. Like they were dragged away from a tea party. Luka asked: They say the Queen worked fro seventy years, se must have got herself a huge pension, did not she? Well, Luka, the Queen has not worked a day in her life, for public service is the opposite of work.

Her pageant was as sad. A bunch of no names and the oldies (Queen, Rod Stuart, Duran Duran) looked out place, small and shabby. Plastic. Just the like the laser show, the ultimate British replacement for a grandeur. There was nothing to celebrate. The long speech Will learnt by heart and managed to bore everyone to death with was the metaphor for this celebration.

06.06.2022. The hardest thing about this war is to figure out how to live with the people who turned out to cross the river. The ones on the other side. I mean both the celebrities and the politicians who fled the country (to Israel of all places), but also someone like my sister. It is one thing to be disgusted by the abstract West or indifferent to the rants of my English buddies at the gym (what do they know?) and quite another to pretend that all is normal with my own sister. None is normal with someone who wishes her own people to be defeated, someone who ‘understands’ the Ukranians, the ones who kill the civilians torture the Russian soldiers, someone who sees the President’s death as the only solution.

08.06.2022. The Russian ambassador in GB said that now that the Ukranians have started to loose, the Ukraine ‘topic ‘ has moved to the background of the news reel. I felt the same way a couple of days ago. The Brits cannot sustain the passion of the event. After all, they are not the participants.

09.06.2022. Putin looked like he had a stroke two days ago, but today he looked good. I wonder if my prayer is helping. Khm. At the gym, there was a charity campaign started by two Ukrainian refugees. They want to run 1,654 miles around here (distance from Hove to Kiev) and get money for it (donations). The idea is preposterous and absurd. Crooked One can run with them. At the recent meeting in UNESCO, the Ukranian delegation accused Russia of stealing borsch from them (among other things). As absurd as everything that surrounds and comes out of this hopefully soon to be gone country.

As a bearer of a great idea (that being the revolt against the West, or a great divorce) Putin lacks the appearance and the passion of a true revolutionary. I want a Lenin in his seat. As for the revolutionary, today’s talk at the VDNKha was AGAIN (pay attention, BBC) telling. In this talk Putin explicitly and unreservedly mentioned the return of its historical territories (to remind, born in St. Petersburg, which worships Peter-the-Great, he is the biggest fan of the adventurous Emperor) as the priority for the modern Russia. The question is: Is Kazakhstan going to be next or is Belorus going to be forced to join first? Personally, I will die a happy man if I see Kazakhstan a part of Russia again. I DO KNOW HOW ALL THIS SOUNDS but I am not embarrassed: ever since 2008 (Russia-Georgia war) I hoped for these returns. I am also fully aware of someone like Tanja saying: Well, following this logic, the Germans are right to demand Konigsberg back and Japan is right to demand the Kuril Islands. Not quite so: the latter were given to Russia in the wake of the war. The dissolution of the Soviet Union was an illegitimate affair. I see historical justice at work only in this case. Sadly, this is how I ma these days, – fighting this war from couch. A computer with the same news over and over again instead of a gun. I too am getting filled with hatred. Sometimes, I start mumbling outloud hateful messages early in the morning and continue doing so throughout the day. I do want this to stop, but I am afraid only when the war ends it is going to stop, but even then I will still be up in arms against the Poles, the Americans, the Norwegians, Musk, BBC, Coca-Cola, Disney and many many others.

Last night I dreamt of being surrounded by the dills (derogatory name the Russian use for the Ukranians), and my tank did not fire. I was so desperate that I woke up. When I fell asleep again, I saw myself running through the forest with an empty machine gun. I knew it was empty, but I could not drop it. I did not have any will.

10.06.2022. Mann is a giant! It took him 500 pages to get to the point where Hans tells Claudia about his love, but I have not been bored or distracted. He is that calculative. Keeping me engaged all this time. Superb!

You know, I am a bit ashamed of my anti-Ukranian, anti-Western pose. Ultimately, most Ukranians I have met were not at all different than Russians, and among the Westerners (Germans, Americans, Poles, Canadians) there were people I loved and respected. I love and live with them too. Maybe that is why this is so difficult. It think this is about Motherland or Homeland, that is, that place that you need to have to feel grounded. After I did not find this place in the USA. I did want it to be my ‘adopted homeland,’ as the Americans call it, but it did not work out. Already in Germany, I thought that it was me, that I was fated to be a nomad, a gypsy, that I did not need a homeland. But I do, and that is why I am so passionate about the divorce with the West. It is like my passions are securing my ‘return,’ no matter how ephemeral it is. A fantasy of home, but a potent one. This is why I take passion over logic. Logically, rationally I understand that a lot of what Putin says is neither true nor right, that tragedy co-exists with travesty, that we do not appear aggressive but are aggressors. Yet, I am willing to overlook it. The Germans take order over freedom, says Mann. The Russians take will over order. ‘Volja’ is the Russian word that is by far more significant for the Russian person than freedom. It can be ugly, no doubt, but this is what moves my people. Mann says, in the words of Claudia: we [Russian people] do not like to be tod what to do. Indeed!

11.06.2022. I think that it is going to be very hard for the Russians, Russia no matter the outcome. Not just for a decade, as Putin said, but much longer. They are not going to forgive, nor the West is going to forgive them. Least of all the Ukranians.

Just reading the news makes me supremely aware that we are living through a social dram of the unheard of proportions. Unheard of by me. Desperate to get some meaningful news on the Internet six months ago, I am drowning in all sorts of emotions. Not just mine but everyone’s. From leaders of states to cleaning ladies, the war in Ukraine made us feel like we have never felt. Mann wrote that war is somewhat akin to love: it fills us with self and other awareness, opens the world to us or shows its formerly hidden facets and features.

13.06.2022. Berlusconi is surprised that Putin does not take his calls. Was he not the one who, unlike Schreuder, condemned ‘the Russian Aggression’? Putin is all loyalty, has it not been clear? Who did he give the Russian Order of Hero (Labour)? The professional opportunist Mikhalkov. I wish Putin had better friends. Mikhalkov. Lukashenko. Shojgu. Sad. Poklonskaya is a strange creature, however. No wonder the Japanese ‘dig’ her. No wonder she is made to be a meme. she is too provincial to be a good politician. Or just a bad politician because she speaks what’s on her mind. She was indeed a great Prosecutor General of the Crimea. Impressive. Only unlike Kadyrov, she does not ‘love’ Putin. The Ukranians are also not altogether like the Russians. Not as much as I thought. I thought fighting them we are fighting ourselves. Not quite. Not as in ‘all the means are good if they reach the goals.’ Not with the way the Russians carry out the war. At a self-inflicted disadvantage. Or maybe ourselves but the ourselves from the past.

14.06.2022. Luka is an enthusiastic player. A bit ‘small’ in his story-making, but better than Nik. Nik is simply bad. He is an aweful team player, as in wanting all the rules to bend under him, and he is rather unimaginative. Stubborness and the desire to be first override creativity in him. Could grow up to be a good dictator))

16.06.2022. I have grown very fond of the Pope. Ironically, he reminds me of Kadyrov; he too has a tendency to say what’s on his mind. For the reasons entirely different, neither man finds it necessary to censor. When the war began, the Pope wanted to meet with Putin even before the UN Secretary requested a meeting.

22.06.2022. Neither Peskov, nor Zakharova, not even Lavrov should ever give interviews in English to the English speaking press. They do not sound good. Peskov in particular: a-grammatic and wrong, contrary to his intentions and his Russian style. It is particularly sad that diplomats do not take advantage of highly trained professional interpreters they have aplenty in MID. The only thing that I have learnt rom my twenty yeas of experience in terms of the interpreting protocol, trying to show your meager, in most cases, knowledge of the native language before the natives, keeping the interpreter on the sidelines, while struggling to construct a correct sentence is similar to Tarkovsky’s showing off with horseback riding before the instructors in horseback riding on the site of Andrei Rubleuv. Predictably, he fell off the horse and broke the leg. Embarassing, to say the least.

24.06.2022. Virgil: “There is nothing higher than the love for he motherland and the insatiable drive to power.”

25.06.2022. Konashenkov’s briefings have become a proper marketing product filled with rather sophisticated content. I remember how it was in March: dry numbers, twice a day, no film or pics. Came April and Konshenkov started showing informercials: numbers appeared against a purple background in yellow. In May, there would be occasional video snippets. The number of briefings was reduced to one or once a day. New content was added: warnings, updates on the situation on the front and statements about ‘Zelensky’s lies’ and casualties. Finally, for now, in June, high quality videos were added to the small map of action. The map would show all the destroyed weapons and troops, in other words, the PROGRESS. Internal and external progress. One thing that has been most impressive is the ability of the Russians to learn fast. As I have already said, the Russian MOD briefing is the only war news I care about. Sometimes, I wait for it for an hour. I care about the one only in Konashenkov’s performance.

27.06.2022. Thomas Mann managed to surprise me yet again. This time with a totally unexpected soliloquy on power, politics, humanism, terror, world order. All this seems to be more pertinent than ever. The same could have been said about Dostoyevsky decades ago, during the Perestrojka’s reconciliation with the past, Dostoyevsky came about most pressingly. For Russia, in the 1990s. Now Mann seems to be the man to pay heed to.

28.06.2022. This bullying of Russia is disgusting. The reasons notwithstanding. This very mode of attending to the country. Bullying. Ostracizing and pushing aside. My disappointment about the collective West is quickly changing to deep resentment. This is not how civilized countries behave. I hope there is going to be a lesson for them. Another thing, in the aftermath of the G7 meeting, you may like or dislike Putin, but he does not make empty threats and lofty proclamations. And, for the record, he is always true to his word. Not so much so the Western #guys.# I am afraid Scholz is right: there is no way back, neither for the relations with the West on the level of the country, nor on the personal level. Too much contempt has built up.

In that respect, I want us to win also in the moral sense: we did not bomb the civilians, we did not torture the prisoners, we did not blockade, shut down, blackmail. We did not swindle and we did not steal.

29.06.2022. The renaming of the Russian salad at the NATO meeting. Into what? Guess. – Traditional. I think it is just about right as far as Putin is concerned. I wish they served borsch, salo, and galushki, and only that.

30.06.2022. Formula 1 Eccleston’s ‘I will take a bullet for Putin any time.’ I have never seen the Brits being so disappointed. Reminds me somehow of all these ‘good will’ actors visiting Zelensky: Penn, Jolly, Affleck. But especially Ben Stiller. Yeap. One Jewish comedian visiting another. The Night in the Bunker.

01.07.2022. Today, the Ukranians claimed ‘another victory.’ Not this time it was not a victory over common sense or moral fortitude. Nor was it a victory on the battlefield. Today, UNESCO finally (timely, isn’t it?) included #borsch# in the world annals of immaterial cultural treasure to be cherished and protected. How absurd is it for a nation to designate itself and identify with a soup!? I used to think that borsch is what you eat. Does it mean that I shall never finish my borsch? You know, people may think…I think the Russian can win the hearts and minds of the Ukranians not by giving them ruble but by giving them borsch. ‘Borsch for everybody!,’ announces the Russian leader and all is good and all that is bad is over. Really!!!

08.07.2022. Saw a Ukranian woman at the beach here in Brighton. Guess what she was wearing. Yeap. A yellow and blue two piece swimming suit. Yeak!

09.07.2022. Now that I am leaving for Majorca next week, the weather here finally has turned. It is warm and sunny and totally swimmable. Irony is the worst teacher. It will be good to be gone for ten days anyway. Away from the shallow, ill-wishing, repetitive media. From all the lies and all the angst. I hope Majorca will have a bad (very bad) Wi-Fi connection. I will still have to bring a computer for work; otherwise I would have opted for going cold turkey: no connection to the world whatsoever. There are such resorts. How do they call them? Naturalist? No, that sounds like the nudist thing. In any case, I hope there will be no TV in the lobby either. I will have my books, my work and will swim till I drop. Nice. And when I return the war is going to be over, and we will win. Right..

13.07.2022. Mallorca did not happen – Gatwick airport collapse. For the better – the weather here is splendid, and this is a rare thing, that is, the thing to cherish and enjoy.

14.07.2022. I often sneeze after sex. Non-stop. Like my ejaculation continues with discharging other liquids. Weird.

Konashenkov’s briefings have evolved as well. All this special reports and extras have cropped in. Very clever. If the Russian MOD is the main source off reliable info, we are ahead.

15.07.2022. Morality is the only important question behind this war. Mann could advise. Dostoyevsky could advise as well. From their perspective, this situation may be considered as ‘beyond morality’ as in will and spiritual strength. All other, especially pragmatic issue should be put aside when orientating to it. One hundred years ago Russia was plunged into the fire of the Civil War (that pompous). The same thing is happening now. Propaganda, idealism, sacrifice take place now as they did then but in a postmodern fashion. ‘After fashion,’ as Elementary’s Sherlock used to say.

18.07.2022. Writing reviews is an art, especially bad reviews. I cannot do these very well: I tend to slide down into detail and am always at a loss of a good formulation, the right formulation, the kind that just nails the perv. My father could do it so well. He did not only see through, he always had just enough force to bring the other person’s deficiencies out, to punish with a word. Alas, I do not have that talent.

19.07.2022. Speaking of morality, there has been a moral test under way in this family. Here is the gist: when we got the fish for the fish tank, we wanted Neons. The shop had none, so we got Barbs instead, and, as the Spanish-speaking attendant recommended, a loach to clean the bottom. This loach called torpedo grew very fast and soon was bigger than the biggest Barb. We called it Shark because it refused to confine itself to the bottom harassing the Barbs instead. Mind you, the Barbs are not timid. It is advisable to keep them by themselves as they pick on other fish. Well, low and behold, we have noticed that one of our Barbs got its tails eaten up, fringed. Nik and Tanja ‘established beyond doubt’ that the Shark did it. After some deliberations, we have decided to eliminate the culprit. At the first scheduled clean-out, I caught it and flushed down the toilet (is it in Canada that one may go to prison for that?). In any case, peace was restored except…that another Barb showed up with the much diminished tail soon after while the original victim lost the rest of his. Guilt settled. The wrongfully executed Shark called for justice. But also some thinking began to brew: the three biggest remaining Barbs seemed all to have developed a liking of chasing the invalids. Shall all of them be eliminated? And what about the suffering crippled ones? Shall we not do some mercy-killing as well while we are at it? Frankly, I was the only one to go with that scenario–leave the bullies and flush the victims down the toilet. For aesthetic reason, I said. You should have seen the indignation that rose like dough in a barrel (Russian saying). How come, not only did the ugly fish suffered they had to be punished for their suffering!? And so on and so forth. I tried to explain that it is fish we are talking about. We eat them (not these ones, sorry) after all. No, I was the demon dad. So we left it all as is. But when time comes, I swear, I flush them all down the toilet and start anew. Playing God? Well, yeah, on that level..

20.07.2022. When Biden’s wife and Zelensky’s wife met in DC today, they wore matching shoes. Guess what color. Yeas, my clever reader: a pair of blue ones and a pair of yellow ones. Just like regular girlfriends who decided to double date in style. Would have been fun, if only the reason for their meeting was not fun but ‘more weapons for Ukraine’, and not just weapons as would be appropriate for girls, who are supposed to know the difference but ADUs and MRLs. Go, ladies! Pathetic what this war does to people.

21.07.2022. I have always perceived American politicians as two-dimensional, narrow-minded and shallow, but to hear the Director of the CIA profiling Putin as a person with gigantic ambitions, low self-esteem, and inferiority complex is another confirmation of my perception. To head the biggest intelligence organization in the world and to use pop psychology to explain the enemy. Truly daff!

22.07.2022. If you have not noticed, Konashenkov’s reading his briefs has changed again. He speaks faster and makes greater impressions at certain words. Not sure I like it. The naive way appealed to me more. Made the war news less scary.

23.07.2022. Does number have an ethical dimension? Khamatova is the Russian Winona Rider; her central character is an emotional wreck.

24.07.2022. The dream last night was a return of the ugly dreams: it was violent, horrifying in graphic details and anxiety ridden. Granted, it had nothing to deal with war. It started like a typical horror film on a peaceful note: I was standing with a girlfriend (I have never seen her in real life) on the bridge over a lake (an industrial waste pool more like it) watching fishermen taking out huge fish that looked like (on second remember) my fish tank barbs but hundreds times bigger. We went down to see the fishing better. On the shore in the thicket we saw a woman who was letting the fish out of the underwater nets. We told her to stop for it was too dangerous: the fisherman was very near. She could be caught. The next thing I remember was a blow to my head. When I woke up, I was alone – both women were gone. I went to a guy at the shore to tell him about that. He looked me up and said that it was local mafia that kidnapped the girls. I told him that I needed a gun. He got me one (revolver) and said that he would come with me. He had bad blood with the mafia. He took a big shotgun with him. The next thing I remember was a wild orgy party in a dungeon. Both women were there: they were naked and covered with broses and blood. The most disgusting guys at the table were eating the huge fish from the lake. At some point, my ‘friend’ took out his gun and shot the toothless guy at the head of the table, apparently the mafia boss. Panic ensued, and shooting broke out. Bullets were flying in all directions. The guy who kidnapped the girls (he wore a twenties grey and black checkered jacket) tried to run. I tried to shoot him, but my finger did not quite able to squeeze the trigger. He was already at the door when I saw a blood spot on his back. The spot was growing larger and larger. There was no sound. I squeezed the trigger again. There was no sound again, but another spot appeared on his back. The end. I woke up, my heart was beating wildly, and it took an hour to fall asleep again.

25.07.2022. I already jotted down a letter to Putin when I decided not to send it. It was largely a letter of affiliation and gratitude for the ‘new beginning.’ I decided not to send it not because it reminded me of Heidegger’s belief in Hitler’s cause (the thought did cross my mind), but because it was a personal letter. I however do not know the Russian President and do not feel like anything connects me to him (his recent appearances distanced me from him further), but the Idea. I have decided then to present my feelings and thoughts about the Idea in a different format, an article or even a piece of fiction, a poem. In either event, this is not about a person and should not be pinned on Putin. In general, I feel tired of the war more than ever. At this pace, I will not see the end of it.

10.08.2022. Seriously, I am not worthy of you attention, WordPress. All I write these days is rubbish. I should live in a barn, sleep on hay and dream of fishing in the lake 2 km away. Bass but also blue gill and pike. I know my fish. I know my mushrooms. Owe these tidbits of knowledge to my dad. He was an encyclopaedic freak: in fishing, he took more pleasure of telling me about it than doing it. We mushroomed for whole days in Ryazan looking for the right kind of stone shrooms. I never cared. All I wanted was to find the biggest shroom, not the rightest one. I wanted to catch the fish that fought the most and I could not be put in awe in front of the rarest one. Sadly, my boys neither fish (Danikow) nor hunt for mushrooms (here? are you for real!?). Sadly for me, of course, not for them. What do they know? There is no continuity with us: the children have to adopt the local ways. We, Tanja and myself, are uprooted. As historical subjects, we cannot continue.

11.08.2022. Having been surrounded, besieged and trampled by fake news, half news and simply lies about the war, I kept on holding onto the belief that the Russian MOD is trustworthy. Well, not in a sense that it does not hide things. Of course, it does, being a shadowy structure it is. But more in a sense that it does not lie. Even when Moskva got hit and sunk, it gave an incomplete yet plausible explanation: a detonation of the arsenal. It did not explain what caused it, and although one could guess, it did not lie. When there was similar event at the Krimean Military Airport in Novofeudoravka, it too said there was a munition explosion, apparently a human error. But, it was made clear, as stated – there was no damage to the fighter jet park. Well, the satellite picture published the next day showed quite clearly that at least half a dozen airplanes were destroyed. So, the Russian MOD did lie. Meaning that it could lie about the casualties, kill-hits, as well as operational failures. Most importantly, it lied to me; that is, to someone who has supported the cause and has been emotionally and intellectually involved from the beginning. I am afraid that unless I hear more about this and other events, unless I receive an exhaustive explanation, I will no longer take Konashenkov’s briefings at face value. I will not change my position, but I will not justify it by repeating what can as well be lies. I am on my own with all this.

24.08.2022. speaking of Konashenkov, there have been new developments: the emphasis has shifted to include precise Ukranian casualties. Must in response to the ‘popular demand.’

25.08.2022. Too much of the same. Plus, WordPress must have objected to all my war-war-war dribble and stopped publishing it. Yeap, it did not uploaded any entries for the last few weeks, losing them effectively. Perhaps, it is for a good measure, anyway. What good is this war for?, as Elaine from Seinfeld said at some point.

The famous English motto ‘my house is my fortress’ works in the opposite way from the common one: not just that they appreciate privacy over all other things, but they take their fortressing out there into the street. A lot of private households here put out boxes with fruit from their gardens and containers with water for dogs on the curb. They also put out whatever ‘free to take’ things, such as children’s shoes and pottery, tools, stationaries, books and dvds. As for the latter, I have benefited quite a bit. Taxi Driver, complete Breaking Bad, Fantastic Beasts, Charlie Chaplin’s classics. This is to say that the attitude is benevolent but it is still on the side of being expansive, as in claiming the street as an extension.

26.08.2022. In the house that borders ours on the right hand side (facing the street) there lives nobody for ten months. A Sudanese family that lives there keeps the house as an investment and summer property (it is damn hot in Sudan during the summer, yes?). While there are gone the brother of the owner who lives here in Hove shows up now and then. He seems to be a small time wheeler dealer and as an aside to his primary business allows some taxi drivers to leave their cars in the driveway of the house. Recently there has been a development. A man dressed up like a wizard–a black robe, a black cap and a huge cross showed up and began to hang out. He would pace up and down the street (indeed an enclave that St Helens Crescent is), being properly out of place, scary even. After some googling, I found out that his attire corresponds to that of a Coptic priest (the religion is represented in the UK by about 20 thousand worshipers). He reminded me Phillip Roth’s story about an Orthodox Jewish priest. I was so taken by that story that I did not finish it. To make a long story short, the English must be freaked out by the sight, but being English, they would never raise it as an issue. I like this priest. He is properly weird, just like us.

27.08.2022. I have just confirmed: I do not understand Alexa’s jokes. By the way, the e-bitch, as Tanja called her, stopped liking me either and messes up with me just as she does with Tanja.

04.09.2022. It is more and more difficult to support Putin. I cannot read his mind and while my patriotic verve remains strong, it is still hinged mostly on the Idea. The execution and the executor – this is what is in constant doubt.

05.09.2022. A sudden trip to Russia distracted me from writing: apologies. Will have to fly through Belgrade. never thought I would ever have to do that. Although, after flying via Antalya, this detour does not appear odd. Liz Trass, on the other hand (pardon the non sequitur), is not just divisive and abrasive but ‘plain odd.’ The violence in Ukraine made me physically sick today. In the past, I have avoided to watch videos ‘from the front.’ I had half an hour today to sit and recover (from hard labor) and so I watched those. I felt sick.

06.09.2022. Dostoyevsky’s Idiot bodes very well for me these days: I find solace in him. Rogozhin’s passions are so very Russian. But so are Myshkin’s ‘pity.’ My mother is all about pity. She pities everyone. I have a difficulty dealing with it. When in Moscow I need to make sure to visit the Tretykov and the Pushkin Museum. Perhaps, the historical museum as well. The latter has so many memories: my Pioneer ceremony took place there. In front of the glass case with the bulleted coat that belonged to Lenin (F. Kaplan’s assassination). The case was in the same hall where Lenin’s car was on exhibit: a big black Rolls Royce. Kotovsky’s sable (stolen and replaced by a fake in the 1990) was another memorable exhibit.

08.09.2022. Stranger Things has turned out to be more entertaining than previously expected: that is, it has been full of surprises as if the poorly fit – in the beginning – pieces have come to make sense all of a sudden. Is is a pity we are at an end.

09.09.2022. I am taking a break from reading about the war which means reading the news altogether. For at least three days. I began to see horrible dreams again, with me in Donbass amidst heavy shelling being totally naked. Yeap, not a pretty sight in peaceful times, but with buildings being blown up all around me – quite repulsive. Plus, there are other things (events) to participate in. The Queen’s death put mourning on public display the way I have not see it before. Here, in Hove, I saw an old lady with two dogs that wore black ribbons around their necks. On TV today I saw a woman with a shopping cart full of flowers next to the Balmoran (sp.?). Prince Charles, the new king, looked a bit jubilant. A bit more so than one would expect from a bereived son. His day has come. Poor man has waited for this all his life. My heart went to him. Want to see that kind of thing much more so than body parts. The question is: What kind of dreams I would have if they are inspired by this event? Me and Charles sharing a bottle of Sherry?

10.09.2022. Human moments from the royal transition ceremonials: King Charles getting annoyed at the awkward little table on which he was invited to sign the two instruments that made him King officially. The table was cluttered: the papers were too big for it and the two old-fashioned writing sets were in the way of signing so much so that he handed one to some assistant. Him dropping the pen as he walks away. Camilla sings the documents as a witness as well. She uses the same pen Will used before her and does not dip it into the inkwell, running out of ink on the second paper. Unable to resign, she finishes her signature by scratching it. In the meantime, the ex-prime ministers in the audience look properly awkward. Not like some of them are in real life, say May or Brown, but not quite knowing what to do with themselves. Yet, the only one using his smartphone is Johnsons. Of course.

Leon has turned 16 today. He decided to downplay the event: no celebrations with friends, no going out with his girlfriend, just gym and tennis, that is, business as usual. He is properly his own thing.

11.09.2022. I am still on the ‘no war diet.’ Feels good, but difficult to have it out of my mind completely. Still dreaming of tanks and airplanes. Will give it one more day.

12.09.2022. It was equally interesting to watch Princes Harry and Will with their respective spouses arrive together (although by separate cars) to the Buckingham Palace to meet the public. Despite what the BBC said, they did not reconcile a bit; you could see the interpersonal tension, even hatred of each other. They barely spoke to each other. Nonetheless, both couples did an extraordinary job working the public. Megan was particularly sweet – well, an actress that she is. In general, another human moment.

I should start fighting the war news addiction. It is truly debilitating. Waiting for Konashenkov’s report all morning and then rummaging on the net looking for fresh news from the front is not just distracting and wasteful but properly traumatizing. Especially now that the news is not really that great. du

13.09.2022. The Queen’s corgis are going to be with Ann. The Queen as it turned out invented a new breed by crossing corgi and dutchhound (accidentally, I might add). As far as I am concerned it is not a dorgi but a dorcki. Whatever. I am allowed a bit of levity on the day the Ukranians (I am very pleased that my spell check gives red on the word) retook in five days what the Russians had tried to take in six months. But still, no news for Alex. I mean, Alex does not read news any more. The castle in Northern Ireland, the Queen’s residence that is, is very nice: 16 gardeners and a bunch of volunteers attending to it full time.

15.09.2022. When watching the beginning of the line to Westminster, that very 5 mile line, on the first day, I was astounded by the lack of protocol with the commoners. The first five people looked like homeless in their not so clean clothes. Another moment a day later involved a group of blind people. Not only the queen’s coffin was closed (for the seeing), the non-seeing chose to stumble by with their dogs and their assistants (carers), who totally lucked out, barely seeing in front of themselves. Yeah, of course, the symbolism is what matters, as in ‘I was there.’ But is it then all that is all about? Not the queen, not her death, but being there? Vanitus vanitatum.

16.09.2022. Russia must end this war soon. My support is beginning to wane. And how would it not if I do not understand the strategy chosen at the moment for the SMO. I do understand the need, the Idea, but the means are murky; they are concealed behind Russia’s MOD’s meetings and conferences. As a member of the public whose support is being sought I want to be in the know. Otherwise, it is nothing but the guessing game, and I do not function in that mode very well.

17.09.2022. As I have already said and written, I despise all sorts of experts, especially the military one, who emerged in the wake of this crisis. They are invariably, regardless of the country of origin or allegiance, pretentious, simplistic, and on most occasions, wrong.

My heart is with my country. It is something else than unbridled patriotism. But going there soon makes me nervous. I do not know how this attitude is going to play out.

By the way, Fergy got the queen’s corgis.

21.09.2020. Tarkovsky’s borrowings from Dostoyevsky are quite limited; they do not go as far as Brothers Karamazovs, but rise from smaller novels, especially The Adolescent. Thus, the idea of mystery that lives in every drop of water and that is commonly thought to be Japanese can be found in the conversation between Arkady and starets (wise man) (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 164). In the same novel, there are numerous descriptions of the ‘ordinary’ characters, such the young doctor, who spoke and behaved with such an attitude as if “he just yesterday found out something special, a mystery of sorts, although everyone knows that nothing special happened yesterday, and that it was all ulitsa (street), seredina (middle)” (ibid: 158).

22.09.2022. The current situation in Russia is a topic for a sociologist. Sociology, among other things, deals with member categorization. At this point, after the declaration of partial mobilization, member categories underwent yet another more fine stratification. No loner ‘they who support’ and ‘they who are against,’ but 20y. olds vs. 40 y. olds, draft dogers and leavers against duty responsibles and patriots, or those who love their country and those who love themselves. The society is going through an existential crisis, not the country, not the government, but the society as a whole. The war has invaded the sphere of the everyday. People are fearful but also more determined. This may be the last task set before Putin: to consolidate the society. First power, then resources, then society. He is on the way of making history.

23.09.2022. On the flight to Moscow, I was sitting next to a middle-aged woman. She was chatty, and I did not mind: after a pretty horrible English leg of my trip (it was pretty chaotic in Heathrow the next day after Queen’s funeral), plus four hours in Belgrade, I was no longer in the mood for reading. Low and behold, I found out that she had lived in Zurich for the last twenty-seven years. She was independently wealthy (marketing and advertising). She owned an apartment with the view to the lake. At some point during our conversation, she started showing me the pics on her smartphone: her son, her house, her cat. But these photos were only a small percentage of what she was showing me. Most of her photos were of herself, her face, which was the glamour face of a typical Russian business woman, once pretty but now much done: lips, eyes, cheeks, blonde hair. Just the face, nothing else, no full figure. Slowly, I began to realize that I am in the presence of simulacrum, that I was supposed to perceive this very virtual woman inside the phone and not at all the woman who was sitting next to me, a rather large if not obese woman who was dressed up like a Swiss person, a woman who in reality looked nothing like her pictures, a woman who had meaty face and who at some point said: ‘You know, I am the kind of person who likes beauty.’ She said that and showed me the picture of a sunset (nothing remarkable) followed by another series of pictures of her face. 

24.09.2022. It is strange and perhaps disturbing, but it is indeed a fact that in the 19th century a Russian woman could propose to a man only if he was older than she. Dostoyevsky describes this situation in The Adolescent (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 108).

27.09.2022. From a conversation between Versilov and Arkady: “that cannot judge who did not suffer enough to obtain this right, but the one who did, shall do it” (cf. CW, 10, 1982: 68).

The last two entries are old ones, from the fall of 2020. I got them from the file that refused to open, claiming that my Microsoft account is not valid.

29.09.2022. Shame must be taught at school. It should be proper subject for pedagodgy. Emotions must be taught already in the primary school. Then, integrated into other subjects: literature, history, arts. One (the child) needs to know this emotion and not be afraid of it.

What they call in the West Putin’s war is no longer his war. At the end, it will be no longer his defeat or his victory. It is yet another properly patriotic war.

03.10.2022. This weekend I spent at my sister’s. She has guests: a 32yo son of her school friend and his family: his wife and his two children, an eleven year old boy and a five year old girl. The guests moved in two weeks ago when Putin announced mobilization. When I arrived the young man zeroed on me with questions about ‘the best countries to move to.’ Habitually, I explained my position, formed decades ago, about ‘better not going at all.’ I however outlined the main differences between Germany, the United States and England as far as assimilation and adaptation were con concerned. When it was my time to ask questions, I asked mostly about his ‘position.’ It turned out that he had none, or rather that he was entirely confused. It was the middle position, as I defined it to myself. One opposite was expressed by one 22yo Arik who was interviewed at the border with Georgia. Arik and his girlfriend were leaving with a suitcase filled with cash. It’s enough here to last us a couple of years, he said. I love my country but I love myself more. The other position was expressed by a 42 yo father of two who was called in and got mobilized. His name was Anatoly. Anatoly was a successful businessman (construction) from Moscow. When he was interviewed, he said: It is my duty. I have a 12 yo son. How will I look in his eyes? I told both stories to Lena’s guests, just to put thing in perspective. Lena and I fought, or rather argued, but I guess my idealism was more convincing than her pragmatism: the family left the next day. They decided not to hide any longer. Unfortunately my sister’s 25 yo son continues to hide. He was called in, but unless he signs the subpoena, he is not considered liable. Needless to say, I am disappointed.

10.10.2022. Yesterday, I got mightily annoyed by my 82 yo mother. My annoyance was irrational if one is to consider that she is not just old but frail and somewhat dim-witted as a result. She does not remember what happened moments ago and asks me to repeat pretty much everything I say despite the fact that I am loud (age has touched me as well). Anyway, as is often the case, I get annoyed and almost immediately I feel guilty. Guilt does not manifest itself any longer in me trying to apologize and explain. Rather, it manifests itself in an act of extra-reflection. For example, when reflecting on yesterday, I see how my annoyance emerged. Habitually (my mother’s request), when I am traveling, I tell my mom that I am about to arrive. Yesterday, when I left the gym a around 3pm (I go there on the way home and on the wa to the dacha), I called her to tell her that I was going to stop by at the flea market (I buy vitage Christmas decorations there) and so I would be back at 4pm. When I got home (bought a couple of trinkets), she saw me and looked entirely surprised: Why so early? I looked at my watch. It showed 4:02pm. I said, Well, did not I tell you that I would be home at 4pm? She said: Oh, I don’t watch the clock. My inner voice: Why the hell then are you asking me to call you to tell you when I would be back if you do watch the clock?!!! Obviously, I got guilty straight away but not enough so to keep quiet when she said: I bought you your favorite cheese and shows me the cheese that she likes (camambert) which I never eat. When I told her that, she responded: Why are you in such a foul mood? And so on…

11.10.2022. There are three areas that allow me to identify me with my mother the most: the war (approximately similar position, at least in principle); grocery shopping (she tells me in minute details what she bought, how much she spent and what sales she has seen), and being sick. If I feel like sympathizing with her, I tell her that I too have a headache, jointache, eyeache, that I also feel dizzy, diarheal, and altogether stricken by the change in weather condition (high/low pressure, rain, temperature fluctuations, what not).

12.10.2022. I wonder about Putin’s habit of looking down at the floor when speaking to a foreign leader. Yet, when a foreign leader speaks, he looks intently in the eyes of the speaker. When I do a similar thing, I look down to concentrate. Or is it some KGB thing he learnt ages ago.

Below is what I could not put on WordPress at the time: my computer decided that it did not like word any longer and cancelled it. Artificial intelligence at its pickiest.

05.03. Jack Keruac’s Big Sur was difficult to read but left an impression. His statement about Hesse, his narcissism was particularly welcome; it struck the chord. His character of the little boy Elliott was already ‘meaty’ because I know such children: “Don’t do it…Don’t do it…Don’t do it…” The ending was both unexpected and shocking. It appears that Jack drank himself to seeing the Cross, experiencing a religious epiphany. I don’t know, Jack..

07.03. What I think of the Collective West? Immoral, impotent, hypocritical. It has only one ideology – greed. This is the time I miss the Soviet Union as the antithesis of that ideology the most. Without angelizing the country of my birth (I do not – emphatically – miss the Soviet Union as a way of life), I nonetheless agree with Putin that it was a needful construct. It secured diversity, no matter how primitive. I regret to see how much Putin was correct.

08.03. I was in Moscow when the war began. It was very difficult for me to leave. I resisted leaving the country because I wanted to be with ‘my people.’ Being with my family was more important however. A different kind of ethics, I guess.

10.03. One good thing in the wake of the current war was the ban of ‘Facebook’ in Russia. In general, economically speaking, Russia’s emergency plan to substitute for the foreign companies is a blessing. The country could become not just stronger and more independent, but become a pioneer in many an areas, including arts. It may spawn a renewal. I very much hope that I will live long enough to see it.

11.03. My opinion of the war is grounded in morality and nothing else. I believe that this war is morally justified; yet, I am deeply perturbed by the ensued violence, and violence is immoral. I am trying very hard to reconcile my feelings with my beliefs.

12.03. These days I dream about the war and only about the war. Last night (12.03), I was falling in sleep thinking about Volnovakha. Volnovakha? What the fuck is Volnovakha? A small fore-post of the Ukranian nationalists is not quite an explanation. It is more like Pasternak’s Motovilikha, a metonymy for the war.

14.03. Today, I have lost a substantial bet with my sister. She bet on Zelensky staying pout in Kiev. I bet (twice) that he was going to flee. As of 14.03, he – officially – remained. However, after I paid my debt I forwarded a stipulation: the bet stands only if Zelensky was in fact in Kiev all this time. His retouched appearances indicate that he could be in Poland. We will see.

19.10.2022. In Malakhovka, at the dacha, I have a neighbor. His name is Pal Palych or just Palych. Palych is about 65 years old, which, by Russian standards, spells out as a burly bear bellied round faced short bold man. We call these men ‘papiki’ or ‘dedy’ (for the older veriosn). I know Palych as long as we own the dacha. He used to be my father’s bottle buddy but as my father’s illness progressed appeared rarely during my father’s last years. Like my dad, Palych also ‘served in the military,’ but I am still mightily confused as the where and in what quality (I suspect he could be a security guard). When Palych visited my dad, he would bring half a litter of vodka (barely enough for Palych), which resulted in both bottle buddies taking a trip to the corner store. I boycott this store because of its owner, a 50yo woman with big hair (and huge tits) who prefers to chat with her girlfriends rather than serving her customers; in the past, before Russia moved to fully electronic transaction, she used to shortchange me and my mother on a regular basis: twenty roubles here, fifty grams there; in sum, she is but a loud pretentious bore of a crook I tried to avoid at all costs, having to the store at the station whicvh was 15 min away rather than quickly grabbing a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk at her joint. Orignally, Palych would come over with his wife Masha, who was an identical replica of Palych (see above description—save the lack of hair). My fahter’s presence (he was a horrible flirt) made Masha nervous, she sweated a lot and fought with her husband about his drinking habits, his stupid jokes (very much so) and a lack of manners. Eventually, she stopped coming over, but when Palych was visiting, she would call every half an hour and sometimes waited at the door to bring him home. He needed that: with the sturdy assistance from my father, half a litter turned into a litter, and often it would take both myself and Masha to deliver him safely to his destination: a grim dimply lit bedroom inside an old dilapidated house, basically a hut.

After my father dies, Palych did not show up for along time until I started coming over to the dacha by myself. Five years ago, he met me at the door and asked me if he could stop by and ‘commemorate my dad.’ I acquiesced. He appeared not even half an hour later with half a litter, sat down and poured himself a drink. He offered me one. I sad, ‘I don’t like vodka, but I have a bottle of red wine, and so we drank some until he was done. Then I would call Masha and take him home. This ritual has not changed much. Palych remembered that I usually came in October and once he saw light in the house, he would call and arrange for a visit. It was the same this October. He called not even a week after I arrived and was sitting in my kitchen with his half a litter first thing last Friday. We started as usual: Have a drink, said Palych, handing me a bottle of vodka. Palych, I don’t drink vodka. Okay, don’t you have wine or something. Yeah, I have a bottle of Cava in the fridge. Now you are talking! So tell me, Sanya (one of many diminutives for Alexander), what do you think about the war? Palych, let’s talk about something else. I have my belly full of war. Well, then tell me, the English, are they really against us? I don’t know if they are against us, but they are certainly against the war. Okay, now, you are in the university, right? Yeah, in a manner of speaking. Are the English smart people? Pretty smart. Do they like to party? (to myself: not quite as much as you do, Palych). Absolutely. And so on. His last question: If it is fishing or hunting, which one do you choose (very slurred delivery) (to myself: would it matter to you Palych, unless there is no half a litter). Fishing, Palych. You know, Sanya, I know a place around here. We are gonna get equipped (wink, wink) and have fun!! (to myself: I know you will, Palych).

21.10.2022. An addition to the previous entry: my father was a flirt, but he was strictly verbal. He was afraid of physical intimacy. Even when he hugged, he kept distance.

When Tanja read about Palych, she had a dream where I slept with a very skinny woman. I slept with a very skinny woman once, thirty years ago, and was properly traumatized. I remember being confused about how to hold her, how to caress her. It was one of the least sensuous experiences (too much figuring out). When I ogle women (at the beach, at the gym, at the airport), my eyes never stop at the women who would not define themselves as full-bodied or plump. So, Tanja’s anxiety is misplaced, at least when it comes to the object. I’d rather eat a broom. Of course, there are also predicative experiences.

On Comedy Radio, I heard a joke about desiring a character from animated films (the host named Pikachu). I thought about it and immediately came up with two that I desire the most. Hold your breath! They are Marge from the Simpsons (okay, predictable) and Melanippa (female centaur) from the Soviet animation series Ancient Greek Myths and Legends (few saw or remember it). More are coming, I am sure–it is pretty lonely at the dacha..

22.10.2022. According to Russian ethnologists (Vernadsky, Gumileuv), my people have a very short cycle of renewal, hence their propensity to wars, revolutions, and riots.

23.10.2022. This year is a record year for mushrooms. The entire central Russia experiences a bumper crop of ‘noble’ shrooms: White, red cap, brown cap, and Polish. They are being sold at grocery markets and at the station. And not one or two, as before, but by kilo from a huge box. The sellers explained such an anomaly by a very hot summer. Go, climate change, an unexpected benefit of the upcoming apocalypse. My poor mom has made me three pots of mushroom soup in a row already, and I am going for the fourth. Yeam! Oh, yeah, I also ask my mom to make me chicken broth based soup (she prefers the ‘original’ version). Yeam! Yeam!

25.10.2022. All evening long, out of boredom (I hate Russian TV), I tried to invent a new signature: A. Kozin. I have already tried to do so. Once. Thirty years ago. The result—in both cases—was utterly ridiculous.

26.10.2022. When  am at the dacha, I avoid watching or listening to the news. I fear bad dreams which are common when I see disturbing imagery. Yet, last night I saw one of the most intense war dreams ever. It began as a typical quest dream: overcoming obstacles while trying to reach some destination (home?). All of a sudden, I found myself in the occupied (by Ukraine) territory. There were several other people (including women). They were surrounded by Ukrainiam soldiers. For the first time in my life, I too charge. I made them change their clothes (some men wore uniform). I also told women that they had to abandon their toy dogs, drop their fancy bags and chage into unattractive clothes. They refused. I explained in graphic detail what is going to happen to them. They walked away, and I did not see them again. Four men and myself were moving ahead.

We moved through backyards and ruins. At some point we were spotted by a group of local traitors who tried to capture us. Myself and a big man with a beard killed two of them. I used scissors and a lead pipe. There was no blood in my dream. It was the same time of the day throughout my dream: the gray in between of an old autumn day. At the end of that day, I saw a car. I ran to it and saw a dead family inside. We took them out. The car did not start. Then, we heard an approaching car. We ducked. It was a Ukranian patrol. The patrol stopped. I peeked through the smashed window and saw a machine gun pointed at me. I woke in absolute terror.

29.10.2022. I heard some truly funky news on the radio. For example, there was a live cockroach found in the man’s ear. The funky part was that the old man did not feel the insect, just started hearing badly. I wish all medical conditions were that externally motivated. There was an episode of Dr. House, where a boy had Lego figurines stuck up his nose. As the story goes, he first put a small dog there, then a farmer, then a policeman. Brilliant logic, as in sending the right people to find the dog, but highly unlikely – children are very mindful of their bodies and would not use the body as an imaginary world (say, forest).

Another piece of news. In a provincial Russian college, the administration set up a lottery for exam passes (those who won did not have to take an exam but received it automatically; the entry fee was about 100 pounds). The proceedings were intended for repairing the roof of the college’s building.

On the front page of a popular Russian newspaper Argumenty I Fakty, there was a picture of a female graduate from the Military Aviation Academy. She was in the uniform (pretty) and looked like Megan Markel. Not by chance, judging by the haircut. She had very similar features, identical make-up and smile. The question is: How appropriate is it for a Russian military cadet to make herself look like a celebrity from an ‘unfriendly’ country?

30.10.2022. The Russian MOD introduced yet another ‘linguistic novelty’ aimed at formulating a world view, specifically, the view of the war: it stopped saying VSU (Ukrainian Armed Forces) and started saying VFU (Ukranian Military Formations), hinting at their disorganized and bandit like nature.

31.10.2022. It may sound ironic, but one of the biggest accomplishments of Putin’s regime is everyday lawfulness and, with it, a new respect for an individual, the one I have not witnessed before. People respect personal space and personal choices, and now that Moscow has been beautified and modernized, – their immediate environment. I am constantly startled to see signs of respect, be it a door held for you in the subway entrance or turning down your loud device.

01.11.2022. Malakhovka is a black hole not just weatherwise but also intellectually. Last Saturday I went to a lecture about Russian cosmism and Tarkovsky’s Solaris. I decided to ‘go out.’ I even rewatched Solaris and visited my chapter about the film. At 3pm I was there. A small reading hall was prepared for the lecture. There were flowers on the table, a large screen TV was set up for the slide show. At 3.05pm the lecturer showed up. She was a small neatly dressed woman of about 70 (72 she said later). She asked me about myself and told me that she would begin when her friend shows up. At 3.20pm I asked her to begin. Apart from myself, the audience consisted of two librarians. The friend showed up at 3.35pm. By that time, the lecturer managed to work out only one slide. She constantly got distracted by anecdotes about the life in Malakhovka. She revealed in the course of her presentation that she was a local guide. Her lecture was slowly turning into a guiding tour with the main subject becoming not cosmism but the local ‘legend,’ one Mischerjakov who created the military satellite communication system. The librarians left; there were only two of us. At 4.30pm I began to exhibit the signs of impatience. By that time, there were only myself and the lecturer’s friend. After 10min of talk about cosmism, the lecturer turned to Tarkovsky. After some basic info about the director and the film, she said, ‘Basically, in his film Tarkovsky showed Russian cosmism.’ I cannot say that I was disappointed. I would have hated to argue with the old woman whose competence in the questions of philosophy and cinema studies was clearly beyond her abilities and education. What was curious was the lack of an audience. Later, it was revealed that the unpaid lecturer was known for the very approach I witnessed. Yet, there was no alternative. During the Soviet times, there were travelling lecturers who got hired by the Ministry of Education from schools and colleges. For the first time, I felt that Malakhovka was a big village. I don’t think that Hove is much different, however. The same thing the English style. By the way, there is a university campus here as well. It is an affiliate of the Institute of Physical Culture. In Moscow I live right across this institute. Khm, this entry turned out to be less interesting that I wanted it to be. Sorry.

02.11.2022. Actually, I know why I did not like what I have just written, what the above entry’s problem is: it is not about Malakhovka’s village ways or the lecturer’s incompetence. After all, these notes are not about putting myself above others. They are not therapeutic in the sense of pumping up my self-esteem. They are needful only for two reasons: to generate interesting insights about myself and the world and to express them in an interesting way. The above entry failed to accomplish either. I think the entry is about embarrassment. My own embarrassment for not being quite sure about myself ahead of the discussion. My own embarrassment for not being able to anticipate the course or the outcome of the lecture. My own embarrassment for enjoying being there as in showing myself. The latter is particularly embarrassing.

03.11.2022. I am reading Dr. Zhivago. Enjoying it tremendously. It is a very fitting book for the times: Russian Civil War, blood, loss, inner and outer struggle and sacrifice. There is one passage I find particularly pertinent: “Our mighty rulers have a weakness to speak in proverbs as if the proverbial truth brings them close to the people, forgetting the most important proverb ‘one cannot be forced to love’ [very approximate translation] and that it has become a habit for them to free those who do not wish to be freed and bring happiness to those who are quite happy.” About Pushkin: “Through his poem as if through the window stormed inside the room light and air, the noise of life, things, essences.”

07.11.022. The Burjat People of the near Bajkal region have an ontogenetic myth which instead of having the separation of light and darkness as what was before the world but fog. The beginning of the world was instigated by their Demiurgue, White Crow, who dissipated the fog to show trees behind it. In the process, the Demiurgue itself has changed, White Crow became Black Crow.

08.11.2022. All the religious artifacts from the Burjats are made of metal. Their masks, their ‘gods’ are made of raw iron. The Burjats believe that iron is sent to them by their gods through falling stars. The stars themselves are but fragments of the Iron Heaven.

11.11.2022. Solzhenitsyn wrote ‘notes’ not unlike mine (more interesting for sure). For example, he has a note about ‘twilighting,’ which is a tradition common to the patriarchyc Russian village of the 19 century. As it gets darker, inhabitants of a village get together and watch the darkness fall. They talk little and there is only the flicker of candlelight in the house. Basically, they sit around and wait through the change of natural state. I started practicing this at the dacha, but cannot last for more than 15 minutes – boring. My sensibilities do not allow for such a state of being. Can do better with light.

12.11.2022. Why Solzhenitsyn? After Doctor Zhivago, I felt the need to read something about the Great War but it was Solzhenitsyn’s book One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich that caught my attention in the village library which I visit to get ‘free’ books (donations that the library does not care to keep—occasionally, I get very good books). 

13.11.2022. Solzhenitsyn has a somewhat gray style which perhaps is justified by his topic. How can one possibly describe GULAG in color? Yet, realism does not have to be drab. His however is always dull. He is a second-rate writer who wrote well (exceptionally well) only about his own experience. He is also a testimony to the hypocrisy of the Nobel Prize Committee.

16.11.2022. I saw a dream the other night. It was one in a series. In it, I saw myself in a large conference hall where Putin was giving a press conference and then was meeting with people. For that he stepped down from the podium to the floor and was walking around shaking hands and exchanging brief remarks. More than once he came very close to me. Nervous, I would move away. When it happened again, I apologized: I am sorry Vladimir Vladimirovich, I seem to get in your way all the time. No worries, he said, actually, I have been seeking you out. Would you like to sit down and chat? We came to the nearest table and sat down. Immediately, the space around us was cleared by the Secret Service. In the meantime, there came a young woman to the podium, who was reporting on the successful production of extra million plastic buckets commissioned by the Federal Government. She was dressed up in a sexy way, was madeup and was wearing provocative red nylons.  She looked like my cousin circa thirty years ago. How are you, Vladimir Vladimirovich, I asked. It must be tough meeting with people all the time, remembering their names, their concerns. You must be exhausted. Yahh, he sighed and put his head on the table, sometimes I just wanna cry. I took his hand. You know, you have a responsibility, a destiny, and only you can fulfill it. You are the only one who understands me, said Putin and began to cry. I started stroking his bold head and woke up.

17.11.2022. The Russians are getting better and better at talk shows. Quite impressive. The bit about the Ukranian rocket in Poland was particualry good: the collective West looked extra foolish and despicable.

18.11.2022. It is snowing like in Doctor Zhivago. All day long. So beautiful. And not at all cold. I have never worked so well. At the dacha, all is white except for the red apples still hanging aplenty from one of the trees in the middle of the garden. Reading Isaac Babel, Odessa Stories. I bought the book at the Elektrazavodsky station, while waiting for train. On the way to the dacha, I was laughing out loud. What a master! So much color! Rachel Rubin, my American friend, wrote a book about his The Red Cavalry. Also pertinent for the times. Still pouting about Solzhenitsyn’s bad prose. Not a master.

20.11.2022. Babel: “With irritation, he spoke those words which sonner or later a man addreses to some women. There is nothing to talk about with them, it is boring to flirt with them, and they do not wish to turn to anything more substantial.”

21.11.2022. Babel: “In this painting (Catholic Iconic), the savior was handsome with the kind of ambiguous beauty which makes King’s lovers lose their half-spent dignity and the blossoming life.”

22.11.2022. In my most recent dream, I found myself in a box, I felt the walls all over and tried to break out. I woke up in panioc with an incredible pain all over my body. I guess I really struggled hard

23.11.2022. The stench of the old age has been described in literature numerous times. It is particularly visible, as in bitter, sharp, suffocating rawnch of the rotting flesh, in hospices and some hospitals. My mother, who has been sick for a week and stopped airing her apartment, smells just like that. Or rather the apartment smells like that. I cannot sleep there because I cannot breath. I feel like the stench sits in my throat, like I have eaten her old age. She, on the other hand, walks around shivering and trembling and refuses to open windows. She herself cannot smell the smell. My mother is very old.

01.12.2022. It is not clear why the Russian writer Solzhenitsyn turned to the history of the Russian Jews (Two Hundred Years Together) in his last years. Perhaps, after he has exhausted the topic of GULAG, he began to seek a grander victimized group pf people, a nation.

02.12.2022. I reread Vadimov’s The Guard Dog Ruslan. Got interested in the end of Stalinism. Still trying to make sense of the present by leafing through all sorts of national trauma. Remembered how I read it in 1989. Was impressed. Less so now. The perspective of the dog on the post Stalin’s death in its most gruesome expression, the concentration camp, would be too hard to deliver even for a mature master, less so for an average author. Still, I was moved by certain scenes and quite impressed by the structure: liberation, adjustment, last battle, death. The least favorite part deals with the prophetic, if not sentimental, tone, although the latter characterizes all early post-Soviet literature and film.

03.12.2022. I was wrong about Vadimov. He began to write in the 1960s, then stopped. He wrote The Guard Dog in Germany, where he immigrated in 1983. A bit similar life to that of Solzhenitsyn. A bit.

Is it really true that it does not matter if one prays in a foreign language?

04.12.2022. One benefit of Western companies leaving Russia became obvious when I was looking for coke. There is Coca Cola. Genuine one. Made in Kazakhstan. But, already by now, six months after Coke left there is a variety of wanna-be cokes. I have counted five varieties and all of them, I tried them all, amazingly, are not that different from the genuine product, and in any case, quite passable. Nowhere in the world, I have seen so many drinkable substitutes. Moreover, I have seen people who ask in stores for a particular kind. Customer preference as a grounding mechanism. Go, market economy, go! We will overcome.

The death of a 56-year-old Afghan veteran in Kherson is a beautiful death. He died trying to save his comrade. I envy him. Sitting on the rest of his life, dreaming of past battles, he, all of a sudden, had a chance for something grand. He took it and he used it.

05.01.2022. The war has filled me with hatred. I feel it flowing in my veins. I hate all: the West, the US, Ukraine, the endless list of Western countries, the Russian MOD, Putin, Scholz, my neighbor. I am afraid of a toxic shock. I need to find a cure. Literature helps. It alleviates the pain, but it does not cure. I need answers.

08.12.2022. After having visited a charity event with my sister, I have realized belatedly and ashamedly that I do like high life. Moreover, hence ashamedly, I feel very comfortable talking to strangers mostly, I have realized upon reflection, when I have nothing at stake whatsoever. My sister introduced me as her brother and that seemed sufficient to accept me.

09.12.2022. Strangely, the World Cup was one answer. I enjoyed tremendously the four matches I have seen so far, including the two yesterday and look forward to seeing today’s – England-France. So much fun! Totally distracting. The horrible irony is that both the Russians and the Ukranians watch WC at the front lines opposite each other and enjoy it! Drama instead of tragedy.

10.12.2022. Back to Pasternak. Reading his poems. The Russian WP commentator when he did not know what to say in the match Holland-Argentine would talk about how tall the Dutch are and how short the Argentineans are. Obviously, height did not help the Dutch. It has been snowing in Moscow—so pretty!

22.12.2022. A few days after my return to England I am facing English TV at the gym. More of the same: war news, Putin, Zelensky, Biden, antique shows, sports, but Christmas is creeping in. One English peculiarity when it comes to seasonal content is a plethora of nature shows (Attenborough and the like): insects, dinosauria, birds, dogs and cats, pigs and cows, plants and trees. Very English.

23.12.2022. Same with cooking shows. Same with endless Peter Pans. Same with gratuitous sports. English Christmas.

24.12.2022. When we went on a walk to the downs, it became apparent that this Christmas is different: from up high, Hove was clearly seen, and it was dark. Only one out of ten or fifteen houses had Christmas lights, while on a regular Christmas, every house would put out a light show of some kind. The English say it was out of solidarity with the blacked out Ukrine (like the new spelling). I do not think so: they are indeed trying to save on the electricity bill. Kinda sad, especially in comparison to Moscow–so luminous this holiday season, it hurts the eyes, as if Putin and Co. are rubbing in their overabundance of energy.

26.12.2022. When I was alone with the kid, I made them omelete with salmon and grilled chabata for lunch. They liked it. When I tried to repeat the next day, they protested: they wanted what they were used to: chicken hot dogs and brioches. Sadly habitual these children are.

27.12.2022. At McDonald’s Luka got greedy. Not only did he order the biggest sandwich, he also decided to get a banana milk shake. Needless to say, on the way back, the poor boy threw up behind some garbage bins on the busiest street of Portslade.

29.12.2022. Nik is worrying me: he wants to win so much so (in board games but basically everything) that he cheats and even when he loses, he keeps on screaming ‘I won, I won.’

31.12.2022. Pope Benedict, who died today at the age of 95, will be remembered, among other things, for his strong criticism of Harry Potter books. He was a theologian, a religious scholar, so his argument is particularly interesting. He argued that in Harry Potter, magic stood for religion and because of it should be considered as a mockery of Catholicism. Khm. How come that other religions, unsurprisingly, do not care about Harry Potter? Shall they worry too? Well, it appears that the book’s existence is negligeable to more secure religions. Insecure. There is indeed visible hysteria to Catholicism. It is a traumatized religion; hence, its stern façade.

What kind of year was the year 2022? I asked this question at the New Year dinner here at Hove. It was not much as far as the children went. They did not even wish to talk about the past year. They do not care about the past. No history has settled yet. The years past have no meaning for them. For Tanja, it was about incremental change. For me – the war. I-the war monger wanted only one thing from the new year: to end this nasty war with a complete and unreserved defeat of the Ukranians and some new hope to come to replace the All-American fast-food way of life.

I have not written much but got in the habit of talking to myself. Sometimes, up a storm:  I jabber and jabber. On the way to the gym, in the privacy of my room, on the toilet seat…The world has come about appearing even more fragmented, patchwork, dissipated in the haze of anxiety and grief. It would make sense them, for the sake of catching up, to use a different format for outlining the last month: nominatively.

Updike’s The Centaur. A beautiful and fulfilling piece of literature that moved me farther into the realm of mythopoetics, with Barth’s Chimera and Delillo’s White Noise waiting for their turns; new collections appeared. In Lego: musicians and scientists, but also vehecles (in addition to the HP bus and the Darth Vader’s (aka Indiana Jones) car, Nik gave me 007 set with Austin Martin for Christmas. Small but significant joys. Books, toys, clothes, conversations. Tanja, children, mom, sister. These are my main relationships these days. Less friends or rather less contacts with friends. No romantic interests. Erotic ones are reduced to ogling at the gym and some random porn. Indulgencies. Regulated, regimented, controlled. New Year resolutions: more reading, more exercising (including speech and memory), more and greater output. Work: still Play. Play for another year. Then, finally, – the Alien.

19.01.2023. Critical redundancy. Clever writers for Netflix. Wednesday is very good (tons of borrowings from HP tho). Andor – good (getting better with the fourth episode). Language – smart. Acting – nimble. Watching both series back to back with Tanja and the kids on non-indulgence days. My new ‘friend’ Phil at the gym turned out to be as English as any other ‘friend.’ Likes to talk about his experience at the gym. Doesn’t ask questions. I am a bit disappointed. he had a greater shot at being a social contact I wish for. He is big, ugly (mean looking) and a slow talker. New kittens. Very cute. Soon to get independent and disinterested in us. Our kids exhibit a similar trend, with Luka being the cutest on account of him being the smallest. Nik is going to the gym with me. A bit of a drag (he has to exercise with me next to him – he is only going to be 12 this March), but getting better as he learns his way around. he is in a precarious position: neither the adults nor the teens appreciate him being there (the smallest). All is well overall. Even Dumble d’Ore is doing well, no matter how annoying Luka’s new character Joe Biden is.

20.01.2023. The Centaur has taken a tragic turn. A splendid piece of the 20th century American literature. And such a nostalgic novel. No only did I read it thirty seven years ago for the first time, I do remember ‘that’ America so well. It was the first America I saw. By the way, Nik did win in chess when he played me the other day. In earnest. He did not gloat, and I did not pout either: I enjoyed the game.

21.01.2023. Critical redundancy – Andor. Brian – Wednesday. Nik losing to Leon in chess. The Russian fake celebrity in the States. Tanks, more tanks for Ukraine. The featureless face of the West. Plato again. Arseny Tarkovsky on death. The Chinese New Year. A Polish farmer eaten by his pigs – Steinbeck. The Chinese New Year: duck, duck, duck. Google has a freaky hare on its front page. Total kitsch, but so true to the actual Chinese vision.

23.01.2023. Zelensky who? My attitude to this revolting man culminated during the holidays when I was contemplating in earnest the purchase of an annual subscription to The Time Magazine. Last year the US publication put Zelensky’s face on the cover as the man of the year. I see it a lot through their cookies. And so I have decided not to subscribe. This is my contribution to the cancel the West project. Estonia what?

24.01.2023. Among the four kittens that we have with the new batch from Lulu and Myshkin, there is one very fat one and one very thin one. The other two are almost indistinctly same. In a funky way, the thin and the fat kittens play together all the time. The mid-range ones as well. They have paired up similarly to how human couples pair up body-type-wise.

Another naturalist observation from around here: The fish have changed their pattern of behavior toward each other and not once. it is now quite difficult to assess who is harassing who or who is trying to assault who or who is flirting with who. All this makes me wonder about my previous choices with controlling their relational environment by flushing ‘bad’ fish down the toilet. The way I see it now – the bad fish becomes good fish, the vulnerable small fish that used to be hazed becomes the bully and so on and the meaning of all this is imperceptible to the human eye. Unless the human eye belongs to the protagonist from A Beautiful Mind or a chaos theory expert.

25.01.2023. Dumble d’Ore’s best friend these days is President Business (Luka’s character). Go figure! The latter always thinks of new ventures and ways to make money. The magician can help of course. Think Putin. For that reason, I am kinda fascinated – yes, in the same breath – by the bestselling French title about Putin – Le Mage du Kremlin. The Headmaster of Hogwarts. His secret ways, his spells, his ‘powers.’ Nicely spotted. By the way, we have not yet watched The Secrets of Dumbledore I gave to Luka as a gift for Christmas. Still watching Wednesday and Andor.

I barely look at the big screen TVs at the gym when the news are on: the anti-Russian propaganda and sheer lies about the war are constant. Today, I was not as careful and chanced upon one when reading my book (The Centaur, almost done). ‘ Two British volunteer workers were killed in Soledar when trying to evacuate the civilians.’ Guess what, BBC, the Russians have also shown these two mercs but in full body armour with guns in position as they were so eager to post their pretty faces on social media. Shame on you, big liar corporation!

Someone at the gym asked me about my book (people do not read on running machines over here; nor do they read in Russia – I always get these weird looks). I sad Updike and cared to elaborate (it is true tho): ‘I love the 1970s American literature; it is so obsessed with death. Not just Updike but DeLillo, Irving, Gardner, Pincheon, Bellow. And the character is pretty much same: a university, college or high school teacher. As if there is only kind of intellectual in that country.

27.01.2023. Strange dream: stuck in a place some hilly place. Can’t get out. Home is close but no sense of direction. A village or an industrial dead zone. Rummage sale. I am sure some of the images were transported into the dream from the drone images of the war action in Ukraine, others from the last episode of Andor. Wednesday was over too. I liked it better than Andor. The interpersonal part was better made. By far. The Andor character I found bland and slightly irritating. Disliked the accent too. Back to the dream: I never got back home. When I woke at 7:30 I tried to will myself asleep just to finish the dream, but the tactics never works. if I fall asleep at that time, I see a different and usually much more disturbing dream.

Writing lit review (this time – mythopoetics), I feel smart. reading cursively and drawing my own, a lot of times, text distant conclusions becomes me. It is both pleasant (in an irresponsible kind of way) and inspiring for it has oneself as a foundation. I am such a sham!

29.01.2023. Sunday dream: being, sitting in a box. A deluge. White crows. Black trees.

04.02.2023. Getting endeared to Schiller (part of my mythopoetics research).

05.02.2023. Waiting for a big offensive in ukraine. Tensions build up. Too much expectations. There could be a slip.

I had a bad Italian day the other day. About fifteen years ago, when I lived in Berlin, I bought myself several pairs of Italian shoes on amazon. They

06.02.2023. Finished watching Willow (Disney plus). I was throwing up in the beginning. Then, I figured out it was more of a spoof. it was as if the writers got tired of regurgitated same o’ and decided to just have fun. It worked: the genre shifted to the comical.

07.02.2023. There is a woman in the gym who is rather uninhibited expressing herself when exercising (with a PT). She sounds like a porn film. Adults keep straight faces, teenagers laugh. Her PT is a cool guy. He does not mind. She is odd in other ways: hyper expressive even when she smiles. It looks like she is going to rip her face open when she does.

08.02.2023. Just a gist: reading DeLillo’s White Noise. Fell under the spell, started speaking to people (at the gym) like him. He is not as nearly complicated as Updike. Could imagine all these family, university exchanges. Can imitate them if needed. Thinking like him is a different matter. Still, could I write a piece of fiction in the same style. Perhaps, not. Too much craft. Being apprehensive about watching a film. Otherwise, I can identify easily: I used to teach in Richmond, a liberal arts college.

09.02.2023. Tanja is buying herself a new (another) car. Electrical. At first, it was BMW i3. We went to see one. It was found unsuitable by us: the back doors did not allow for easy ins and outs for the kids. The deal breaker. An alternative is E-Golf, which is an all time familiar. Tanja insists on midnight blue. I like the color but do not care much. The last one I owned was pink. It went in the river and was sold cheaply as a salvage. Ran fine. Apparently, its driver died. I liked the story behind it. Was sorry to sell it in a haste (moving to Edinburgh). Still remember a Indian guy who came over to tell me that the car had oil in the water. He offered me half of what I got at the end. The paradigmatic crook.

10.02.2023. Having been reading White Noise made me curious: I wanted to see how Netflix dealt with what critics consider unfilmable piece of fiction. Well, I had to stop half an hour into the film. The book turned out to be filmable but barely watchable. My biggest concern was its theatricality. The lines were delivered in a deliberatley stage-on fashion. Snippets from the book constituted the plot. Some of the characters were poorly cast: Babette, Murray. Jack too, especially considering his age and his demeanor. The children were not too much to my liking. The piece slant on Murray was particularly upsetting: to replace a New York Jew with a black guy. In any event, the outcome of that viewing was also the tainted view of the book. It was less enjoyable to read it the next day. Not any more tho. Tanja said that perhaps it was not that the film was bad but that it was a disagreeble interpretation.

An American walking a calf in the Red Square, screaming ‘This is not food!’ A form of ideological degradation of which the last year has produced numerous expressions.

11.02.2023. The story I wanted to tell for this forum happened some time ago, but I held onto it discovering more and more symbolism in it. Provisionally I call it A Bad Shoe Day. It began years ago, fifteen years in fact, when I lived in Berlin. Internet shopping just got off at the time. Being a fan of Amazon, I did it on that platform, with most of my stuff coming from America. It was at the same time that many brands getting greedy about the possibilities of diversification, began to launch whole new lines. For example, Fossil began to sell clothes and Samsonite – shoes. Samsonite was incredibly interesting to me. The luggage giant bought, as it turned out, an Italian shoe making line with funky and classical designs. I got immediately enamored and bought five pairs. One of them was a pair of smooth leather half boots. They were beautiful. In the course of the next fifteen years I wore these boots only on special occasions and only with formal attire. The last time I wore them was for a series of events at the Dashkova Centre in Edinburgh. That would be ten years ago.

To make a long story short, a week ago, I had to go to London. I had an appointment there. The details are not important. When I was walking to the station all I did was admiring my shoes. They were newly shined and did full justice to my semi-informal outfit. Actually, they pulled it together in a much flattering way. as I was barding the train, I felt some discomfort, but chose to ignore it, setting comfortably in my seat. At Victoria, I disembarked and it was then that I noticed that a black piece feel off my shoe. I looked down, thinking that I stepped in some mud on the way to the station. The piece did not look like mud. I lifted my foot. Oh, horror! The sole of my shoe was falling apart. No, not like along the seams apart or a hole or a crack has opened apart, but fully apart- being pulverized, it was disintegrating before my very eyes. I was shocked. What can I do to stop being shoeless? Run to the nearest convenience store for ducktape? Find a shoe store, a Salvation Army store, any store that could sell me any pair of shoes for these were no longer footwear. Shall I cancel the appointment? Yes, I shall. Shall I not move? I will be going home in my socks, for my shoes were no more.

This story was made up. My shoes did disintegrate in the above described way. Exactly like that. I did walk home in my socks. But it happened not even five minutes away from home when Tanja and myself were returning from the Hangleton Community centre where Sama Karate holds its lessons. we were seeing Luka and Nik off. I put on my new shoes to test them. Another Samsonite pair of dress shoes I tried a month ago was not as comfrotable because being as old its leather got hard. So I decided to first test these shoes on a short walk. What an incling! Can you imagine me in London in this very situation. I would be mortified.

The symbolism of that story, its fable meaning is yet to transpire. In the meantime, unlike on all previous occasions when I am forced to throw away old shoes, these shoes did not even make home…

12.02.2023. Leon’s mindset has come to some relief recently: the boy has bought Carnegie’s How to Make Friends and Influence People. I guess he sees himself somewhat short in that department.

13.02.2023. The fish has changed their behaviorals (behavioral pattern) again. Tyron, the midget fish is now harassing other bigger fishes, and they allow it to do so. The bottom feeders (Thai tiger loaches) have a life of their own at the bottom and do not mess up with the upper class Barbs. There is no violence on the part of the fishes, just chasing each other around. Whether it is play or not is not clear.

14.02.2023. From his French class, Nik brought home the word ‘voiture.’ He kept on saying it, mispronouncing it in such a way that it sounded like ‘watcha.’ Tanja and myself laughed at him for that and soon the word became a part of family vocabulary. Not only Nik liked to say it all the time (to annoy us), but it cropped into many different discourses, such as the discourse of stupidy, the discourse of playful fighting, even the discourse of learning. There was that same thing with DeLillo’s White Noise, I remember.

15.02.2023. Dumble D’Ore, my irreplaceable character in Lego is renovating his hotel. He wants to turn the lower part into a concert hall, with a bar and a museum Cafe. Luka resists however. He does not want to have competition for his restaurant. He kinda likes the Muppets on stage in that area (Lego Muppets) tho. The Christmas lights also contribute to the atmosphere. Maybe he is jealous. when he is, he behaves strangely.

16.02.2023. There is an ongoing chess tournament between the kids and myself (Tanja does not play chess). The little ones play very well and won a few matches easily. Leon on the other hand is a difficult player. He is too competitive for me to enjoy playing him. So far, he won one and I won one.

17.02.2023. That spillage in Ohio…What a proper unknown toxic event a la DeLillo. Just finished reading that part of the book. Did not like it too much. In general, my interest in White Noise is winding out.

18.02.2023. When Nik and myself were walking back home from the gym we saw a boy in his underpants running from the front door of the house to the backyard. I got worried thinking family violence, this kind of stuff. It took us a few moments of looking around to realize that the boy was having a party in the back and the party there was a small swimming pool set up for it. Just to remind: it is February. The temp outside is 8 plus. What can I say? The English children are sturdy. Luka, who is the only brother born in England, shows that same sturdiness. So, not the genes, but the environment. Go, human geography. I have always believed in you!

19.02.2023. Last night I saw a dream where I was Harry Potter. well, one may assume that there was magic. In fact, it was an erotic dream, but of a puzzling kind. I was dressed up in Hogwarts uniform, looking appropriately stupid. I was standing next to a bed on which there were four bodies–two male and two female–having sex. I tried to join but could not: both men were very much on top and the only way for me to enter would be into them, which I did not desire. In desperate exasperation, I tried to wiggle them around, but every time I did that, they formed, just like in Rubic cube, impossible positions. After a few twists and turns, I gave up.

20.02.2023. I talk to my mom twice a week. Sometimes for twenty minutes, sometimes for forty. I always call. Today, she called. Excitedly, she told me that she joined in the war relief effort. I sad, Great, mom! What did you have to do. She said, I found some of your gloves, these thick leather gloves that you never used (she meant my favorite US sheepskin gloves) and a couple of scarfs you never used (too nice for my trips to the dacha, one of the scarfs being cashmere). I thought you would be happy to donate them. I paused. Yes, I said, swallowing hard, feeling conflicted and morally challenged, I am. You did the right thing…

Today, Tanja took Luka to a birthday party. It was business as usual as far as English birthday parties go: some entertainment/sports center in Portslade, a football party. We have not done those much recently: Nik did not care, and Luka opted out a few times as well. This one was different. Tanja told me that there was boy whose mother she knew. The boy was rather active playing with others. The confusion was about Tanja’s knowing this mother as a mother of a single girl. When she asked Luka: Is it Georgina’s mom? Luka said, Yes, but it is not Georgina, it is George now. I must say, when I heard the story I properly freaked out. I am not ready for this brave new world of girls turning into boys and the other way round. Luka, on the other hand, was not discomforted by the event in the least.

21.02.2023. The word of the year 2022 is ‘discredit.’ Last year discredited were institutions, countries, people, arts and socio-political movements, organizations, hobbies and animals.

What I do not appreciate about DeLillo’s White Noise is that ALL his characters speak the same clever smart-ass talk. Not that I do not remember this talk from my years in the States, especially Boston and SIUC, but I resent to have it as a persistent discourse. After all, I do want a stupid cabbie and a stupid shop owner speak stupidly.

Sunak looks and behaves like a manager of a small mom and pop store some place Shire. Prikazchik bakalejnoj lavki. Recently Zelensky looked like a small time restaurant visitor who makes a scene over some dirty fork. Scholz should work in an Apotheke and Berbock teach in an elementary school. Putin looks like a character from John Wick and Biden from BeetleJuice. What is going on? What is the appropriate minimal measure of greatness that a leader of a significant country would require these days? Is it about some of them that DeLillo wrote that ‘eating is the only kind of professionalism that many people attained in their lives.’

During his long awaited speech today Putin looked old and tired, but more human. I saw how much he struggled with words and empathized. I am not much of a spontaneous speaker myself. When Peskov said that Putin worked on his speech for several weeks, I believe him. Wrote and rehearsed. The speech itself was neither here nor there, strangely gray, samish. It appeared as if he indeed wrote it largely by himself and not by someone good with words as was the case (apparently) his March 16 speech. I empathized.

22.02.2023. I woke up at 6 this morning and having realized that I needed more rest tried to will myself back to sleep. I tried to imagine myself in a remote place near a lake but saw the scene from No Time to Die instead where Specter walks over the frozen lake to kill a family of his archenemy. I tried to imagine a big bed covered with animal hides, but saw the one from The Game of Thrones instead. Finally, I conjured up the image of the Malakhovka library where I go a lot when I am in Russia at the dacha. I imagined that I came over there with my computer and a plate of fried eggs and a cup of coffee. After I was done eating and working I asked the librarian if I could leave my plate and my cup at the library while I was going to a grocery store. I said I would pick them up on the way back. I shopped a lot, had two full bags and decided not to return to the library and come over the next day instead. And so I did. When I arrived there was a different librarian. I told her that I had left a plate and a cup. Oh, yeah, she said, went to the back and retuned with my stuff. She said, you left these items yesterday at 7:10 pm. Now it is 11:50 am. It it then 17, no 18 hours. Okay, at ten dollars an hour, it is going to be in rent for the locker – 180 dollars. In the dream I found nothing better to do but run out. And it was then that I woke up. If it is anxiety, it finds you anywhere.

23.02.2023. Today, for the first time in a year I felt no anxiety about us winning the war. There has not been much a change at the front, nor any new development or proclamation. I just intuited the victory and calmed down. I felt peaceful and focused.

I tried to explain to Luka what February the 23d has been for the Russians. I told him a bit of history that dates back to 1922. I told him about how the meaning of the day has changed over time. I told him what the day symbolized today. After I finished, Luka said: ‘Oh, I see. It is Putin’s Day.’

24.02.2023. It was a quiet celebration. Appropriately for the times.

25.02.2023. In the past, I have written about Nik’s competitiveness, his big ego, his ambitious self, and his sore loosing (he cried the last time he lost in chess with me). Well, I played with him today and lost (in earnest, or I rather I did not mean to win to boost his morale, but he did play well). As usual, he gloated. What I discovered today however was that he did not just want to win. He wanted to humiliate me beyond gloating by winning with check-mate. It was something new and unexpected. I refused him this opportunity but it stuck. He is a good and lovely boy, but his moral make-up makes me wonder more often than not. I suffered from that character feature too as a boy. My teachers at school questioned it and later even my father, in response to me sleeping around raised it as an issue, claiming it was a character flaw I inherited from my mother (not true, she is more square than square). I would not want to say that I managed to get rid of that quality, perhaps I suppressed it, learnt how to manage it. I am on the lookout for Nik, however. As a father, I feel it is my direct responsibility to respond to anything that makes him less of a good human being and, practically speaking, hampers his chances in life.

27.02.2023. I consider the action with the Russian tank in Berlin a shameful display of russophobia (read hatred). It reflects very badly not just on a certain part of the German society but puts in question the very ability of a German man to reflect on the current situation in Ukraine. It is for this reason that I admire those German and non-German people who brought flowers to the tank for, if a symbol, the only thing that it symbolized were lost lives, and specifically, outside of any symbolism – the lives of those Russian soldiers who died in this very tank. Not understanding that means an appalling lack of reflection.

01.03.2023. News: the Boris Johnson Ukrainian battalion sent to Artemovsk was liquidated yesterday. Its banner is now in the hands of Wagner guys. Sorry, Boris, you have always been a looser, even by proxy. News: every fourth Russian buys food items with the clearance label, and I thought I was special! Tanja said, in Germany, it is every second! Boy, good not to be there. Just kidding. I actually miss Berlin. Well, if there are not burnt down Russian tanks on display of course. Nik told me that he liked German food the best.

When I play Carcassonne, I shout like crazy. Quite embarrassing. In England, they call Maslenitsa ‘pancake day.’ Like, really?! What about the religious component!? At the same time, did I care about anything else but pancakes as a kid? Not really. A mute point, anyway, we are not fasting.

I am finishing White Noise. Getting quite tired and glossing through a lot. Tired of the ‘cleverness’ discourse. It is such a quotable book. So quotable in fact that its quotability drown the plot.

03.03.2023. All these threes in the date. Good, bad, nothing important? I dreamt last night that I was driving a tank. That was not weird. The weird part was that I tried to park it and could not. For a very long time. Funky how my general anxieties and my war centerdness translated into that kind of amalgam.

Working with the Philosophy of Symbolic Forms by Cassirer. Quite boring and not very strong. Lots of familiar material and insights. Not very original either. Khm. For my reading at the gym I selected Faulkner’s Lying Dead. Such a different writer. So much inner life and so little accent on the clever.

06.03.2023. Actually, it is not ‘clever’ but intellectual discourse that DeLillo has in his White Noise. It also stands in juxtaposition to emotional discourse. This is the reason the characters in WN appear abstract. Like they were painted by Hopper. Modern Abstract. I am pretty bad with local period trends and movements in arts. Fun stuff though.

07.03.2023. Last year I brought my kids (and gave it to Luka) a gift: two clay figurines, two Ukrainians, a man and a woman. They were dressed in national costumes. They were done in a caricaturish style, but cutely, not offensively. My mom gave them to me to give the kids. Unfortunately, on the way to London, one of the figurines broke down – the man. His head came off. Luka was not too upset however and set the couple up on his shelves. A couple of day ago, by accident (I swear) I dropped the rest of the Ukrainians man and broke his torso into five-six pieces. There was no hope. I would not have been able to fix him. What is the story about? Aha. I take this story as a sign. A sign that points to the war in Ukraine. The war that ought to (moral imperative) end. Okay, I am getting didactic again. But anyway – to end victoriously. For if this war does not end victoriously, the effects on the country and my people (still feels weirs to say ‘my people’) will be deadly. The country is going to sink back into the 1990s. The stakes are that high. I think most Russians understand that.

08.03.2023. The English do not celebrate the 8th of March.

09.03.2023. Just read that I am not the only Russian who replaced anxiety as his predominant mood with ‘peaceful contemplation’ (RosStat data). Well, not that stupid, but true. That is, I am back believing in some secret plan concocted for the occasion by Putin and Co. As for other ‘world leaders,’ I think they wing it, they wing it all the time. let us wait and see

10.03.2023. Watching Better Things. Very bland. Good acting tho. Pamela Adlon is okay. Cute. Already liked her in Californication. She is playing a cool single mom. Her show. She directs it. Comes in severe conflict with John Wick (Tanja does not watch these kind of films – it is just me and the kids). John Wick – no story, bad acting (well, K. Reeves’ acting, anyway). But what action! The kids and I are screaming bloody murder watching it (and there is predominantly that on the screen)!! What fun. Like some dads and sons have when watching football.

The cats are slowly trickling away. I keep on forcing myself into conversations with strangers (gym, Tesco, barber). Sort of works. Makes me feel in sync. Sharon Stone is fun – just watched a clip with her. Still quite attractive. ‘The first half of your life you wear the face God gave you, the second half – the face you deserved.’ Got into Freud and Jung on the subject of the unconscious. Like case studies. Must be age)).

11.03.2023. Leon attempted to make dumplings. Sadly, it was a failure: too much dough, on the one hand, but it was the process that he could not quite master with just internet instructions. Luka was helping like crazy, him wanting to be a chef and all. I liked reading Freud’s uncanny so much so that I decided to go for seconds. Same with Jung. Reading Faulkner at the gym proved to be impossible: too complicated (Southern black and hill-billy jargon). Saving it for a good night read with a dictionary. Liking Gary Lineker’s refusal to apologize before the fascist BBC. We are partial, they say. my foot you are!

14.03.2023. Started reading The World According to Garp. Enjoying it tremendously. A very easy read. The easiest perhaps (in comparison to Gardener, Updike and DeLillo). The storytelling is the most enjoyable feature.

15.03.2023. Loved The Bear, the miniseries I watched with Tanja and the kids yesterday. Finally something new and exciting and altho inviting the kids for the pilot was a mistake, the overall experience was super positive. It is dynamic (perhaps a bit too much–it gave me a headache at the end), plot-less, character-centered and very well acted. Will have to rewatch it: to fast paced, it made it difficult for me to follow it on the ear and the subtitles were

16.03.2023. I love the feeling of being down with a ‘bad’ bug, that is the kind of bug that makes you feverish and headachy. I love the light-headiness and a heavy molassy sleep pattern. I love tearfulness and being hard of sensing (hearing and tasting). I love long awakening when you are that sick and shortness of breath when exercising. I tis better than being stoned, frankly. One thing I hate is the swollen throat, but diarrhea is not unpleasant (if mild of course), nor is the mild headache. A loss of appetite is also to my liking. Maybe, this is why I love to be sick by myself. I want to linger in that state, to lounge even. No need for a sympathetic hand that gives you a glass of warm milk. No need for being helped to the toilet. These experiences are mine and mine only)). What can I say, I am a perfect patient!

17.03.2023. Just to end the war on Russian terms, I am willing to do something, but as before, I am at a loss: What can I do? I feel guilty about my sitting here (or there) and thumbing my thumb. I dread the question. ‘Dad, what did you do during the war?’ ‘Playing Lego with you, sons’. ‘Doing some research.’ ‘Spending half my free time at the gym.’ None of it sounds good. I am depressed.

News: Zelensky, like his bosses, is indeed ‘miniscule.’ Insignificant. And it is for this reason that it is so annoying that they are allowed to act on his behalf. Arresting Putin? What a farce. Those who sit in this International Criminal Court shall be properly ashamed of themselves. And punished, I must add.

18.03.2023. There have been a few realizations about the war. Putin is often asked why it is that he did not move in after Crimea got annexed. I mean moved in to Donbass. He said: We did not have the hyper rockets yet. In other words, for a long war we did not have an advantage. But, Russia, in addition, did not have an army. So, it cuts both ways: the Ukrainians and the Russians did the same thing during these eight years before the war. There was an expectation of confrontation on the part of the Russians – contrary to what Putin says.

19.03.2023. Putin was funny a few days earlier when he sang a folk song: “I am a girl who sings and dances. I don’t know Lenin (rhymes) but I like him all the same (rhymes).” Putin used this song at a conference for promising entrepreneurs. It was supposed to illustrate, as he sais, that altho he had no idea what the person who spoke prior meant, he liked it. In fact, there are lots of interpretations for this song and not just as for its meaning in situ but the reference to Lenin. ‘I don’t know Lenin but I like him all the same.’

20.03.2023. The World According to Garp is supremely funny: the conception of Garp story, the roof/bird/dean episode, the dog bite episode. I wish I could write a miniseries script. The novel is really inviting a TV production. Each story is robust by itself and is also delicately connected

21.03.2023. One of the news website I consult is dzen.ru. It is a relay site. On its front page it features food blogs from a variety of people all of whom claim that their way is both easy and Yumy. I watched several such shows (potato mash and pea ommellette). Well, in two words – neither easy nor good looking. Yumy it may be, but easy? A mixer, a frying pan, an oven – the sequence (steps) is also counter-intuitive and hard to remember. So, there is someone (grandma, relative, friend from elsewhere) who is used to make certain things this way, but to embody it for someone who is new to the process is nearly impossible. Nor is it necessarily. Pretty much like what u-tubers show you. My children watch them voraciously: they give advice and show life hacks, none of which stick. You forget them, my kids say. You say, Wow and No, thank you!

22.03.2023. Ci and Putin – odd couple.

25.03.2023. On the way to the gym I was stopped by a middle aged woman who asked me for the way to the MillView Hospital (essentially a polyclinic). She showed me a piece of paper with the address. From her accent I deduced that she was a Ukranian refugee. In English I told her how to get to the hospital. She pretended to understand but I could tell that she did not: I asked her to turn back as she had missed the turn but she started walking straight ahead. It is at this point that I thought that perhaps I should offer her the directions in Russian. Yet, I did not. Instead, I ran up to her and tried to explain the situation again. She gave me an evil eye as if I was an annoyance and kept on walking in the wrong direction. I still wonder why it is that I did not give up. After all, given my attitude toward the war, she was kinda on the enemy side. Somehow this did not apply. And so, when I saw a man walking toward us, I caught up with him and asked him to explain the directions to the woman. He did, pointing backwards. She looked confused but more so – angry. I quickly told the man that she did not speak much English, must be – I accentuated – new around here. He was quick. Very slowly he told the woman where she needed to go. Reluctantly, she turned around. All day long, I was wondering why on earth I did not speak Russian to her. By now I know.

26.03.2023. There is intrigue in The Bear. After the previous ‘feel good’ episode the last but one episode made everything fall apart. It seems. I am at a loss about what it was that one could do in the last episode after such a fallout. Very curious.

27.03.2023. If only Putin stopped counting – tanks, rockets, people. When he does that he looks like an old accountant and I want a charismatic powerful – if only with words – leader. If a war, it should be a war and not a SMO (sounds like some food additive). One cannot consolidate a society over numbers. His appeals are wearing out as is the war’s progress. His recent appearances made me sad. Sad and suspicious. What if he too is a front for someone else who is lurking out there in the dark, in the shadows of the Kremlin? Altho, if it were to be the case, that someone would have certainly made Medvedev shut up. The man is worse than Trump.

28.03.2023. The Garp has that precious meta function. It shows the writer’s process. Like Gogol did. Like Gardner did. Like Bulgakov did. More involved though. Still liking it quite a bit.

06.04.2023. Often people tell me that I notice too much. They are surprised if I recount minute details concerning what they said or what they wear, what they drive, what they think. When confronted, I explain my hyper attentiveness to the outside of people by saying, Oh, my dad was a spy. I guess I got it from him. I sometimes say, I grew up in a tough neighborhood. A boy had to pay attention to survive. But in fact, I am constantly aware because I am a nervous type. Skittish. A loner by virtue of circumstances (I was the only kid on the block for years until I turned seven, just adults) I am afraid of other people more than I am comfortable with them.

07.04.2023. I identify with Garp more and more so. First, he is sexually compromised. Second, he is a worrier. Third, he is a writer, and not a very good one. Fourth, he grew up in the shadow of his mother (I – in the shadow of my dad). Fifth, he was a wrestler in his young years, and like myself good but not excellent. Fifth, he writes like I do, and Irving shows it only too well, by having him mull things over and over again. He is runner. I used to be. He was affected by the alien (Austria). I – by the American. Both, we had a strong sexual extension of those affects. Of course, other things differ: I had a full (fully dysfunctional) family and I have a sister, who, whether I want it or not, makes a difference, if only by creating dissonance. Well, he is an American, something that one must keep in mind when making such analogies. He thinks differently. He walks differently. He runs differently. I am just being stupid.

08.04.2023. This coming or projected and predicated, more like it, Ukranian spring offensive, it has a sense of the unreal, like it is supposed to be a new the season finale of some Game of Thrones show. But the anticipation is as strong. There is an element of wager in it as well (would not be the first one now that Tanja and myself run about half a dozen of them).

09.04.2023. Garp’s life is very livable. It is for this reason that I can easily connect to him. I can imagine myself living his life – in parts. Garp’s attitude toward sex is very congenial. He is always horny, he is physical, but he does not take sex for granted.

This is a great time for small and medium business ventures in Russia. Now that the makers of popular board games, such as Carcassonne, Uno, and Monopoly left Russia, there is a deficit. But Russia announced the cancellation of copyright in the wake of the SMO (considering the foreign businesses that have left the country as unfriendly), so one could make a load of money just starting to produce a knock-off version of Monopoly, for example. How difficult can it be? It is all cardboard and printing. In the same breath, one does not need copyright to translate. Anything can be translated from English or any unfriendly foreign language into Russian. Foregone intellectual rights. Man. It is Wild Wild East!

The Ukranins are funny (not an exaggeration). They have realized that they cannot start an offensive now, but after so many promises, this would mean to lose face. So, they arranged for a secret document leak (fake leak, fake documents) to have an excuse for not starting anything serious because “now the Russians know all about their plans.” What a travesty! The Russians have always known about their plans because they screamed about them not stop for monthsi. Man. Like it is ever going to work.

10.04.2023. Irving’s America of the 1970s is very similar to the one I know the most: the America in the nineties had pretty much the same way of life, same attitudes, same characters and dispositions. The Americans are indeed very much into status quo. Like the Brits are very much into retro. In contrast, the Russians always want a change. There are lots of things that make me proud about my heritage, but recently I have come to appreciate the most the Revolution of 1917. And it is for the same reason that Lenin is my favourite politician. In 1917 there was a full reversal of social order conducted by one man and a nation behind him. The partiality of the French revolution makes it a second cousin to the Russian one. There is much hoopla by the Russians about them defeating the Tatars in 1240 and the French in 1812, and the Germans in 1945. But all that was just big wars. That Revolution was something else. It was a remaking of the nation in all the wakes of its life. The sheer magnitude! Well, if did not work. At the end the new ways were worse than the old ways. Still, – the audacity, the gall, the will!

11.04.2023. In Russia I am often asked, Why did America not work out for you? Well, I think I did not work for it.

No, I was not better, just a poor fit.  I never considered it my new adopted home and it showed.

12.04.2023. Garp the novel has a reference to Dostoyevsky’s The Eternal Husband. In Losev’s The Dialectics of Myth I found the same reference which served to explain symbol. The same explanation is given by Tarkovsky in his book.

Watching TV (Tanja and the little ones are not here, I am often bored in the evening, and, no Squid Game could not quench the thirst).

I admire the English for their scientific and technological achievements of the 18^th-19^th century. Watching a documentary on BBC about William Smith, the inventor of geology. Of course, Paris Police 1905. Avatar (not bad the second time – the native is pretty well done. Still the same Indian, but with a twist).

To the question about why they take part in this competiton (Mastechefs), the contenders uttered an impressive amount of platitudes: from ‘test myself’ to ‘I am nervous but I am here, and this is what counts.’ Also, ‘I am a confident individual: I know I can win.’ What a mouthful of words. Just words. The question ‘why are you here?’ should be answered in accordance with the textbook on etiquette, starting with a praise to the host. Most basically, ‘I am here because Masterchefs is great, and just being invited here makes me so very proud.’  The Scottish woman Terry is hopeless. She drops things all the time. But she made great original ravioli with salmon and caviar. Cool foods: Jamaican, Thai, Italian.

A food judge is such a cool job. But then he must have experienced some shit plates. The problem is that he has to eat it even he dos not like the looks of it. Still, the kind of gustatory knowledge and a good taste, good ability to speak a discourse are impressive. By the way, the Thai guy did not do very well–he, oh god!–undercooked his chicken. He pocket broiled it and was very confident! Yeah, the ‘confident guy.’

Anti-piracy manager is a profession!!! And I have learned it from Masterchefs!. I have also learned that ads are as stupid as ever (not seen any for like five years. More, ten, I think). One guy made street food: chicken wrap. The older woman was super scattered and very English. She sounded like she was losing it throughout. The county manager Jenna made a haggis with Hollandaise sauce. The street food guy undercooked his main – whole chicken. Technology start-up proliferation (proliferation is good, unless nuclear) manager was making a Festive lobster (she has an Italian mate. Khm. An inspiration, I guess).

The 57 year old Recruitment Company CEO from West Yorkshire is making Champaign curry with rice. She rocks. She is a full body of cooking tricks too. But she lost, for everything she made was either oversalted or oily. There is a delivery driver too. He was born in Karakas but grew up in England (two thumbs up for the Chefs or two birds with one stone: he is low class and a foreigner, sort of, not to scare the local. He also has a sappy story about his life.  The two old women had to go. The foreigner stayed.

All this free-styling kind of writing is so very very uninteresting. Shiish!

14.04.2023. I was watching Squid Game on Netflix while Tanja and the little ones were gone. I found it sadistic and as was the case with The Games of Thrones unacceptable as a viewing experience. Until I read in Garp about his own ‘sadistic’ book The World…which has the first chapter on rape in the book. Irving wrote that this kind of experience does not have to lead to some gratuitous satisfaction of the deeply seeded desires but to an awakening of sorts. The argument is old an harkens back to the debate about Auschwitz being turned into a museum. Does the one who visits it now does so to experience the trace of the horrors past and be horrified or does one do it to wallow in the atmosphere of inhumanity to enjoy it? Wallace has a bit on the German guy who collected pictures of hanging made by the German soldiers during WWII. That kind of morbid fascination is properly sick (DeLillo has that too with the German teacher in White Noise). But one can also imagine someone collecting these pictures so that memory would never let go. Frankly, I am neither. When I watched documentary films about German atrocities I would always feel sick and scared and never wanted to return to the experience, make it linger. It would make me literally sick. With my hyperimaginative hyperempathetic self (not a virtue, nothing to boast of here, more like a curse, even this bloody war is too much) I cannot afford to watch or read anything even remotely horrifying. Even Dostoyevsky is a bit too much for me. My kids do not suffer from this affliction. Lucky buggers.

16.04.2023. Zelensky looks like a proper bum. A bum who is a NRA member. With a rusty Chevy pickup truck. I know a place in West Virginia where he would be supremely comfortable. Except that they do not like foreigners here. That would be supremely Karmic – Zelensky killed in brawl by a hill-billy in an American dive in the middle of f…nowhere. Stabbed to death by a screwdriver.

Saw a horrible Easter dream: travelling with my mother in a bus like ship with a bunch of downtrodden Chinese. I barely made it on the bus-ship; it was all very crowded, squeezy. It was all dirty (pissed over). There was a couch on the bus. It all looked like a morphinist den. My mom looked like Jenny Fields from Garp. The we got separated. When looking for my mom in a basement, I was attacked by Zombie looking young man in drags. I ripped him his trachea out and ran. When crossing the train tracks I almost got killed by what looked like a ship on wheels. I think the ship images come from me and my family watching Mandalorian. Oh. man! More appropriately for the day: Oh, Lawdy!

17.04.2023. Although not yet 60 years old, I habitually tell people that I am 60. Not to fish for a compliment like ‘You don’t look like 60 at all’ (ultimately what is there to celebrate if I myself know that I am not yet 60 and thus shall not look like that age?), but to prolong using the round number for a few years. This kind of over-aging started when I singed up for the senior membership at the gym. Well, they caught me today by wishing me Happy Birthday! Properly embarrassing!

For my birthday, I received a bunch of flowers! Tanja and the kids went out of their way to please me. I love freshly cut flowers. Nothing is more festive, I believe. Tulips, roses and lilies.

18.04.2023. Garp is done. Weird – it felt like the book would run for ever. I guess Irving had to do what he had to do to finish it (I am being enigmatic for Tanja’s sake, she hates spoilers). Moved to Nbokov. The Defense. Did not expect to find (read it ages ago) the bullying bit (it was after all written a hundred years ago), but the writing is very lucid. In The Foreword, Nabokov wrote that his first American editor (particularly pertinent character after reading Garp) suggested that Nabokov changed chess to music. Needless to say, wrote the Russian, I did not publish a single book of mine with that Publishing House. Frankly, again Garp comes to mind, I too hold rancor against some academic publishers and journals. Comes with the territory.

19.04.2023. Much to write about Masterchef. Still much fun. There are some precious moments. For example, a former Masterchef finalist who was invited as a lay judge and who as we found out was a vegetarian, which meant that she could not judge a single main. Funky. I cannot imagine a chef who is vegetarian unless it is a purely vegetarian restaurant. Meat eating comes with the profession, does it not?

The Ukranians struck again. Not, still only with words, with what they say. ‘A massive partial counteroffensive.’ What is it? A big small silent shrieking non-explosive bomb? A fierce penguin? Funky monkey! Miew.

20.04.2023. The selection of candidates in Masterchef is impressive as far as PC rules are concerned: more black and colored participants than white, equal number of women and men, equal number of gay and straight, old and young. Occasionally, there is a handicapped participant as well. As you get into the show you begin to watch for the telltale signs of incompetence, which typically results in first round eliminations: undercooked and overcooked meats and vegetables, strange combinations of items and ingredients, strange mixes of flavours.

21.04.2023. Not short and stocky but lanky tall strong flat boys I want to have as a father. Two qualify, Leon and Luka. But are they ‘genjuiune’? (spelling on purpose)? Are they ‘genjuiune’? As an accomplice, I would know. a genjuiune would come to me as an aside. No other role for a ‘genjuiune’. A properly exotic. In full yet detached flavor. Like a dish.

22.04.2023. From the Masterchef: ‘It is just a filled pancake!’ and also: ‘The only thing cookable is the basket, and you screwed it up!’

After long and somewhat tedious search, I found myself a new pair of trainers (snickers) on Amazon. Brooks, impressive looking, in black and grey, very much fitting my colour scheme. As always, the bargain hunter that I am, I paid less than half price. As soon as I put the shoes on, I discovered that they had a flaw: fitting perfectly, they were too comfortable. Padded all over, with a double cushion and side cushions, they were like a water bed. Actually, they are, for I cannot return them, having missed my window on Amazon: I could not figure it out what it was that I did not like. They also look a bit too mean for me, ‘Brutuses’ I call them. I wondered however about this excess of comfort and my inability to accept it. My train of thought lead me to recall my Soviet bound youthhood. I was an avid runner when a teenager. A wrestler, I was building my stamina that way (think Garp). I would run everyday everywhere, but preferred the industrial wasteland across the highway. running there was tough, but exhilarating. In addition to packs of wild dogs, there were wild men, a bunch of bums who lived in abandoned structures. I would easily outrun them except that I would have to clear the fence on the way in and out. It was tricky in the winter: the fence would often be iced. Now, in hindsight, I am sure that if the bums captured me, they would have had me for dinner. And the dogs too. My point is as follows: I did not have any trainers. My trainers for running and every other sports activity was a pair of Converse keds. Yeap, no solo to speak of. No comfort either. More like anti comfort. More like pain. And, guess what?, it was okay. So, now, in the face of my pair of 150 dollar worth of Brutus, I feel uncomfortable. I feel cheated of the original experience. Sometimes, I feel that when I drive my sister’s souped up Lexus. Too much comfort makes me uncomfortable, makes me miss my striped down to the ‘very basics’ Mazda, my first new car I bought in Boston for 6.5 thousand dollars in 1993 and remember only so fondly. By the way, Tanja was the second owner of that car. I sold it to her in Illinois in 1999 or so. Karma, you say. Okay, I say.

29.04.2023. More about karma or this time, the case of ‘beware of what you are wishing for.’ Exactly a week ago, I was telling my ‘buddies’ at the gym about my new resolution and my greatest wish: to get rid of the pudge around my belly that I have eaten up during Christmas and Easter (including numerous birthdays). It appeared that god heard my prayers. The very next day I got violently sick. I was throwing up and crapping around for three full days, running intermittent high fever, and aching like crazy. On Monday I slept for twenty hours. I did not eat for three days. I was thinking all this time: I guess the good thing is that I lost some weight. Mysterious are god’s ways. I should have been more specific. Indeed, perhaps a couple of kilos I lost. Four days later, week as a dog, I crawled out of bed, took shower and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw flabby hands, stooped shoulders, thin chicken legs and…you have guessed right…the pudge! The pudge was still there! Who said that god is a benevolent god?! God – two. Alex – zero.

30.04.2023. Continuing my self-conscious existence at gym, I have noticed that people look askance at the cover of Nabokov’s Defense, the book I am currently reading when exercising on the treadmill. The book – paperback – is the first US edition of Defense published in 1964. It has black cover that depicts a man and a woman (both handsome and stylish, aristocratic even) standing in half profile to each other. The cover looks like a stylized American film poster from the 193s-1950s. To the modern eye, it most likely looks like a trash romance novel, I say ‘trash’ but given the red color page trim, it can be thought as soft porn. Once I have noticed that, I began to place the book in such a way (I have to keep it on the counter when exercising) as to show its title and the author. Yet, in hindsight, I see how that would not help if the name of the author does not ring the bell: the title alone is not a bad title for a trash damsel read and the running head underneath – the author of Lolita – would only confirm my sleazy interests. I have dealt with the issue by throwing a towel on top of the book. Poor me!

01.05.2023. Nabokov is full of surprises: his Defense comes some place midway to the point that should have been the ending but in fact it is a strange flip-over and a new beginning. A very rare technique, in my opinion. What a master. Maestro! Really nicely written book.

02.05.2023. I had an Englishness test today and did not pass. Twice. There is a very nice gentleman at the gym who comes over every time he sees me and asks me how I am doing. This time I did not notice him to come over and got startled. To his question, I all of a sudden, to my own consternation, got into a long diatribe about my sickness. It did not matter how much I tried to make the story cute, quaint, odd, it kept on coming out as whiny, dull, and self-indulgent. I was standing there talking realizing with each passing second that my ‘friend’ is getting uncomfortable and impatient (his look of sympathy was slowly dissipating). I stopped abruptly and tried to laugh the whole matter off. The second non-pass happened at the end of my training when I was getting ready to go home. I cam up to the guy and told him that I was sorry about dumping, I joked: ‘It is your fault, Robert. You have such a friendly demeanor and open countenance that you practically invited this onto yourself. Kha-kha.’ He and I smiled awkwardly. The English do not like or do any of that: they do not complain and they do not apologize. I should have known better. I should go and buy myself a Lego set instead to make myself feel better. Kha-kha.

03.05.2023. Given the plethora of ‘freak shows’ on English TV (antiques, repairs, garden, real estate) where real people are selected with an eye on being odd and not in a very good way and not only by behavior but also by looks. It is this feature that makes them so appealing to others, I believe. I am beginning to suspect, after a month of watching Masterchef that the contestants on that show are also selected with an eye on some sort of freaky oddness. Well, the hell with that, it is still a fun show to watch!

04.05.2023. Masterchef: “This is not a meal. This is just food!”

05.05.2023. Prigozhin’s blackmail, the drone attack on the Kremlin, Prilepin’s blow-up, and The Walking Dead. The week in a nutshell. Prigozhin must go, the attack must be retaliated, and The Walking Dead is still (watching it with Luka now) a very well made thriller.

Lavrov: “Russia has elephantine patience.” Perhaps a little less could have helped bring about the situation in Ukraine faster.

06.05.2023. I did watch most of the coronation. I must say, it was the most boring spectacle ever. Just like Charles himself, who was visibly nervous and visibly strained. All of it was very sad. And boring. And tedious, very tedious. At Luka’s school, the coronation was celebrated with a special meal: fish and chips plus a very dry coronation bisquit. Children were encouraged to wear white, red, and blue. We did not find any…

12.05.2023. Luzhin’s Defense is done. What an ending. I loved it – revealing Luzhin’s first name in the last sentence of the novel.

13.05.2023. I dreamt about the war in the context of Masterchef: overcooked, undercooked, going with a bang, not rising, bland, zesty, wanting the weird guy out.

14.05.2023. Zelensky’s visit to Rome, Berlin and Paris – what a shameful display of European degeneracy and Ukranian dimwittedness. It is not accidental but entirely apt that the visit coincided with the ‘Ukranian’ Eurovision in England. The two events are entirely on the same level as well as the participants in both events: Scholz, Macron, der Lying and Borrell, they could have as well performed on that stage in latex and without pants. Zelensky’s award – the Carl the Great thing is of the same value as the Eurovision Cup. And he dropped it! I am deeply embarrassed for the Europeans. Rooting for that guy?! Really!

15.05.2023. It was the strangest dream ever: I was invited to an event to some magnificent castle in Austria (mountains, elm trees) where Putin was supposed to give away one reward or another. There were glamorous people, oligarchs, socialites, celebrities, but not all of them were Putin people. Other events took place at the castle as well. At first, I felt like there was a reason I, Alex, was invited but soon it became clear that nobody cared about me. Staff talked rudely to me and when I entered a hall where Putin was supposed to speak or appear I was chased away from the seat in the front (I took it because I was the first to enter) to the very back. Again, the organizers were quite explicit that I did not know ‘my place’ and that I had to wait for my turn. I did not mind but felt that there was one big misunderstanding, that I did not invite myself, that I was there for a reason, but nobody told me that reason and I did not know it – very frustrating! The same happened at the dinner where for some strange reason everybody spoke English. I thought: Aha, this is my ticket. I can show myself here, but everybody spoke better than me, and the waiter stalled with my order indefinitely. It was some elderly woman – symbolic – who offered me some of her food. It was then that the level of my humiliation reached its peak and I woke up. And now I wonder…

By the way, switching from reading Nabokov to reading Dostoyevsky was mightily instructive: Dostoyevsky is totally different bucket of fish! But it became clear why Nabokov did not like him and considered him a playwright rather than a novelist. In comparison to each other, Dostoyevsky renders all his ideas and emotions through the dialogue, while Nabokov does it through descriptions. For an imagist, Dostoyevsky indeed appears to be an improper writer.

16.05.2023. It is curious how the world history keeps on turning around, so to speak. I remember how when living in the Soviet Union I would be embarrassed by the images like the Deadly Kiss, a painting on the Berlin Wall where Brezhnev is giving a juicy hug and kiss to the head of the DDR Honneker. Watching Zelensky hugging Sunak, Macron and von der Lying is giving me the same feeling of disgust and revulsion, except that this time it is not my people that is implicated but the other I feel so very sorry for.

18.05.2023. Once in Berlin Tanja and myself had to pay a visit to Rathouse Steglitz to obtain some piece of a document. Leon was with us. The German official told us that we could not get the document which contradicted the information we had received earlier. A heated debate between the man and Tanja ensued. At the end, we stormed out. The verdict was ‘No.’ Absolute ‘No.’ later, after we have returned to the office, we took an opportunity, by skipping our turn, to get in when the official stepped out. A different official issued us the document straight away.

When reading Nabokov, I chanced upon the following passage which I quote in full. “..it reminded her of a certain little official in one of many offices in Berlin she had to visit in the days when she and Luzhin were being sent from department to department for the sake of some paltry document (ours was needed to help secure children’s money). The little official was seedy and touchy (ours was bespectacled and bolding and had yellow teeth of a heavy smoker), and was eating a diabetic roll. He probably received a miserable salary, was married and had a child whose whole body was covered with a rash. The document they did not have and had to get he endowed with cosmic significance, the whole world hung on that piece of paper and would crumble hopelessly to dust if a person were deprived of it. And that was not all: it turned out that the Luzhins could not obtain it until monstrous time spans, millennia of despair and emptiness, had elapsed, and the only means allowed one of easing this Weltschmerz was the writing of petitions. The official snapped at poor Luzhin for smoking in his office and Luzhin started and stuffed the butt into his pocket. They went away with empty hands, and she felt as if she had to do battle with a gray and blind eternity, which had in fact conquered her, disdainfully brushing aside her timid earthly bribe–three cigars. In another establishment they received the document instantly. Later Mrs Luzhin thought with horror that the little official who had sent them away was probably imagining them wandering like inconsolable specters through a vacuum, and perhaps was waiting for their submissive, sobbing return.”

19.05.2023. I am thinking my conflict with my sister, who supports Ukraine, has some of the makings of the war. At least it is easy for me to think about it using the discourse directed by the official Russian media against the dissidents: unreliable, untrustworthy, hostile, passive aggressive, hateful. Now that I have written it, I see that these words do not do justice to the intricacies of the relationship but they certainly reflect the feeling of betrayal, that is, her betraying me. There is an unescapable irony there: I, the remainer, is not there, living in a hostile world, while she, the leaver, is stuck in the world she does not consider home any more.

23.05.2023. Been long time. There have been topics but there have also been ailments and business (buying a new car for Tanja, for one). The latter took out a couple of days due to the Motor World, a used car company, not a small one to that. A bad business that hides its deception and incompetence behind the old fashioned ways. We did not buy the car. They mislead us to begin with and their refusal to accommodate out half-hearted offer only added to the overall disappointment. I forgot what it was like to buy a used car. With Internet ads, it appears that it is all resales. A private owner sells his or hers for say ten grand. A used car business buys it for that price and sells for twelve. Another car dealer thinks they can resell it for fourteen and so on. Yeak!

24.05.2023. I have started drying out. No, really. Literally. It odes not matter how much I train, my muscles do not grow. Sadly. I guess my meatiness prime is over. I do look like an old man. It is quite inopportune now that I have finally succumbed to wearing shorts. In Brighton it is stupid not to. The locals used to laugh at me for wearing jeans at 25 plus and, mind you, the sun is scorching! It is not about vanity though: I do not mean to strive for any kind of handsome figure. Just not having chicken anything would do.

25.05.2023. Watching MasterChef has become a daily affair. Recently, we have been re-watching 2017 plus episodes. Quite a different format: busy, busy. As a result, falling asleep means seeing all sorts of meshed up images, such as the war news, the anxiety news from home, other anxiety related images, bad memories, and a long procession of great and not so great cooks. Among them many failures. Last night I dreamt about a war over a giant stake. The action took place in a place reminiscent of Quantum Space from the film Quantum Mania I watched with the kids. Funky and not so peaceful of an image, you can imagine.

26.05.2023. I started reading Winnie the Pooh before going to sleep. Not an easy read if you read into Milne’s stories carefully. Especially when it comes to archetypes and those I have been very much aware of on account of my work on mythopoetics. Winne the artist, Rabbit the scientist and Owl the guru. The bouncy Tigger – a hipster and Piglet is that small guy we all know and some of us have been. Frankly, I admire English children’s literature. German is pretty good too, and Russian would certainly make it to the podium. My favorite are those worlds that have a minimum of humans. Antropomorphized animals are fine. Live toys are also fine. Alice in Wonderland is already a different cup of tea. Winnie reminds me of Cheburashka. I am sure its creator, B. Uspensky was ‘inspired’ by Winnie the Pooh in one way or another. Unfortunately, Winnie does not make me sleep better. My brain is too rotten to wade off all the nasty content that wants to barge in.

29.05.2023. I though that perhaps there is room for more character on Winnie the Pooh. I thought that I could put myself in the story. The question is what character could I have been? Most Milne’s characters are not entirely fictional: Pooh and Piglet, Tiger and Rabbit are modelled on compatible animals. There is also Owl. Given my association with the Crow People, I thought that I could a Crow: dark, somber, but also thieving and conniving. I would be more of a character from Alice in Wonderland then, but still a passable one. When reading the Pooh, I started thinking of putting this character into stories. Amazingly, it appeared to be working! On the margins, I made of notes of a potential dialogue. In general, I am very much in support of adapting literature (unsurprisingly, for it is exactly what my character Crow would have done). Let us see now how far this hobby can take me. Khm.

30.05.2023. I am praying that the recent escalation in Ukraine (drone attacks on Moscow) will result in a decisive and final action on the part of the Russian command. The war is getting supremely tiresome especially in light of the Ukrainian constant delays with the ‘grand offensive’ (weather, rotavirus, Zelensky’s bad hair day).

01.06.2023. Putin said he still did judo. I mean trained. I do not know. I am so past any kind of directed training. Especially in sports. Of course, with martial arts, one could still do serious, albeit highly routinized exercise, until a very venerable age. Take Joda, for example (just kidding). But I would not do wrestling, or rather, would not have been able to do wrestling even at the age of thirty. However, I wish Putin continued with judo training and be still as good as he apparently was at the age of thirty. In fact, I wish him to be so good that when meeting Zelensky in the dark corner, he would be able to throw him so powerfully as to knock him out and then catch him on the choking move or better a combination of choking and pain, or better…not catch him at all. But isn’t it bad luck beating up a clown?

02.06.2023. Like my mom, anticipating death, I have begun to throw things away. Not throw throw away like she did it, disposing of photo albums and souvenirs from travels, but pre-throw them away as in putting personal things in the attick and in the basement. Just yesterday I put all my CA and Law books in the attick (five boxes). For some reason I am not yet ready to get rid of my semiotics books; nor do I have the heart to consolidate lit crit. The current stuff, that is the stuff for work, includes phenomenology, mythopoetics, Tarkovksy, and play. Narrowing down my horizons feels good. Dostoyevsky called it ‘cutting the forest to the trees.’ The man died at sixty.

03.006.2023. Now that Tanja and myself are buying a new car, I remembered so very vividly how I bought my first new car in Boston (Mazda 323) and the other one in Illinois (Daewoo Spirit). The smell of a new car is incomparable (altho not long lasting either). I felt so proud. It felt as if now I properly ‘made it’ in America. Little I knew.

05.06.2023. Deadpool II is such a cool film! I watched it with the little and we were screaming bloody murder for the whole half hour before their bedtime (they go to bed at 8:30 and as it goes we watch some TV shortly before). Seriously demented! The premise is impressive: you have a hero who can not die and if you do not care about foul language and extreme violence, you keep on showing him very much dead in whatever graphic resolution you want: it does not matter if he is quartered or squooshed or drowned or shot a million times – he comes back and you are not upset. And some of the cameos (Brad Pitt) are just precious! A great spoof on DC too. Very very clever (if you are into that kind of thing).

06.06.2023. Another funky dream where MasterChef and war news blended into a long and tedious (not unlike the one with the actual war) sequence of ‘cooking the best stake.’ The four participants were not just cooking the stake; they were cooking it against each other. The fantasmic part was that for hours that the dream had lasted the stake was not finished. I pray this is not what is going to happen with the Ukranian conflict. I want my staek cooked!

07.06.2023. In order for the character of ‘Crow’ to be inserted into Milne’s narrative about Winnie-the-Pooh, it must have a counterweight from an adjacent mystical arena but confined to the forest – a hedgehog. Yeah, the grouchy prickly narrow minded ungrateful albeit loyal and staunch hedgehog. That kind of a friend. A dependable, a ‘heavy set and a heavy situated friend.’ A fancy gentleman, a servant of the Idea and the kind of a figure who his double, a guy, perhaps a peasant, perhaps a pleb – rude, crude, violence-tolerant, aggressive. Reduced to the requirements of a children’s story, this narrative is found in Chippolinno, that ultimate archetype of a moral system that was hedonistic and had to fail as such.

08.06.2023. Watching Masterchef messes me up entirely: last night I dreamt of making a desert (yeah, yeah, a desert) in the Masterchef kitchen. That being fantasmic in itself, I was making it dressed up in an elegant English suit (gray), wearing a black shirt and a black tie. Oh, the desert was chocolate almond fondant. In real life the only desert that I have ever made was that shortbread from the Domestic Skills all girls class I took in the 8th grade trading it for the Fix It all boys class. I failed with the cakes but learnt sawing (Tanja would most likely disagree-a button I can do fine but my kids’ trousers ‘repairs’ – khm, really!).

09.06.2023. I listen to Konashenkov like others listen to ABBA of Ed Shiran, playing favorites over and over again. These days his reports are music to my heart: properly dramatic, his voice rises when he mentions the number of destroyed tanks and Ukranian soldiers. I feel that in a day or two, if this destructive dynamics continues, and it all will be in favor of the Russians, he himself is going to start singing: “On the Zaporozhje front, the comprehensive strikes of the Russian artillery resulted…” He sets such a high standard to the other two Russian MOD reps with his performances that a few days ago they did not only change the pace of their reports, they deepened their voices and started making scary faces. Seriously, have a look! The entire discourse of the Russian MOD briefings is turning into an opera. Can you imagine? A few years after the war is over, the Bolshoi stages one such opera, featuring the leads like Putin, Zelensky, Macron, Scholz, Biden as well as some minor figures: Prigozhin, Gerasimov, Konashenkov, Shojgu. I will be the first one at the doors with a ticket. Not really. Hate opera. Bad memories. Just want us to win soon.

11.06.2023. The Ukranian offensive was a sham. I did not expect that. I hoped they would continue to the ultimate self-annihilation. “The stake (yes, I did misspell ‘steak’ earlier) drawn through the heart of Nazism,” as the Trump wanna be blogger Medvedev has said. His memes are so very pathetic. As pathetic as Putin’s feigning incomprehension at the shelling of the Russian border by the Ukranians: “Why are they doing it? There is no military presence.” Really, Vladimir? How about to make your people nervous and doubtful. Mate. Oh, well. The Russian leader is getting old. I am not sure he is keeping up. Yet, just to be absolutely clear: he is right: all this beating Russia back should stop. He set the global agenda correctly. Matvienko’s recent article, no matter how toothless, was also correct: out there in the West they do see us as a lesser civilization. My experience confirms it. Bzhezinsky was right: neither side understands weakness as a strength. Oh, well, enough said, time to watch some Masterchef knockout episodes.

12.06.2023. Speaking about Masterchef. I do behave like a jerk when I watch it: I put down the contestants and make fun of the hosts. I make not just disparaging remarks about the show but about the participants as well. Even my kids are sometimes schocked at my critical verve. Tanja typically keeps silence but occasionally, she looses patience and snaps at me. I then explain myself (certainly not justifying my wrong ways) that I perceive the show as catering precisely to that kind of bevahiour on the part of the audience and that the main category of the audience member for whom the show has been designed is a jerk. Masterchef is not a learning show. It is a visual feast that feeds on the darkest and lowest of feelings. Like similarly structured Gladiator or WordPuzzle shows it is not designed to show smart and beautiful people but weird people who are, as the show goes, get eliminated. The thrill is to view the elimination process and predict correctly. For that, one needs to be a jerk. Still sounds like a poor justification of my own low character. Oh, well.

13.06.2023. I am not sure that the West (despite all I have said before) is waning, as Putin put it today, but he shocked me when he used the term ‘passionarnost’ that belongs to the early 20th century philosopher of culture (ehtnologist) Gumileuv. So, he was well consulted. Of course, as time goes by, his discourse and the discourse of ‘his sources’ has been fine tuned to include philosophy, religion, and not just history as it was before. Of course, there is still undue, in my opinion, emphasis on ‘numbers,’ but Putin is a technocrat, he cannot help it. For me, it is the political will that is the cornerstone of the current situation. The USA and Russia have it, the rest of the world not so much so. Have I ever imagined years ago that I would become a patriot. Not really. I have always been the patriot tho. There was not need to attend to this quality before. I hated communism and the Soviet regime, but I have always loved my country. Plus, I did not know the post-Soviet Russia well. At this point in my life, I know the West very well and Russia I understand better. As I began to live there, I began to care. I am not unreflective. I understand the backwardness and the oafness of my people. I cannot say that I love them. But I do care about my place of birth. Call it motherland, I don’t care. It is already for this reason that I am surprised by the surprised Russians who believed that the Ukranian Russians would stop fighting and join the ‘aggressor.’ The irony is: they are exactly like us. The irony and the paradox, I guess.

15.06.2023. It has been supremely hot: the sun in Brighton, if anything, is very bright. The English over here wear sunglasses at all seasons as a result, but in the summer one needs them. Otherwise, one can get cross-eyed. Well, not really. When it is that hot, I drink bear. Twice a year I drink bear (I don’t like it – it is a depressant; it makes me headachy and dizzy). I drink Moretti – it is bitter and nutty. In this heat, 4.6 al. gets you cross-eyed very quickly. Then, I feel like laying down. Then I reminisce about my most heavy bear drinking in South Dakota. Me, Al, Randy, Tamra and Cabrini. I would go to the Dakota Mart and buy European bear because drinking that donkey piss they drink over there in the States is a waste of money (Bud Light!!!). Heineken was my choice (again, not a bear drinker, I would not know what else to buy – they did offer small brewerery stouts and other fancy bears, I remember, Blue Dolphin, something like that). Then, in that scorching heat, sitting with our guns in the middle of the prairie, then, still cross-eyed driving back. Then, drinking vodka on Al’s porch. Such a view that man had. Straight down on the river and the prairie. Quite an enjoyable and highly memorable experience, as it turned out. Twenty years have passed.

I have misspelled ‘beer’!! How funny. You see! That is the ultimate proof of my flighty relationship with the beverage.

16.06.2023. Germany was a challenge, speaking about drinking bear. At first, I liked to say: I don’t like bear. I said it to my colleague Kati on the first day in Berlin when she invited me to a bear garden after an orientation meeting. She ordered something special. I wanted to show off and ordered a glass of French brandy. I got very drunk very fast. The Germans were staring at me, as they do. Then, there were many bear gardens where I would order Asaki, or any other non German bear, jus to be different, but I never enjoyed the drink and more often than not felt a stranger. Berlin was tough for me. Too much alienness. And yet, understandable alienness it was. The Germans are not difficult to read but they are difficult to live with.

During the SPIEF today Putin showed his vulnerable side when he reacted to the question about the nukes. He is such a populist (not!). It appears that the turn to the East, as they call it has become irreversible. Good buy, America! Good buy, Paris! Will I miss Europe? Not at all. But I have seen it all. It is worth seeing but it is not worth living for. That’s for sure. Do I want to travel to China, Thailand, India instead? Not really. It is not about what is better. As Putin said (wanting so much to be a populist, just like Berlusconni, no wonder their friendship), “It is only at home…something and something you should be or something…

17.06.2023. Among many different politically motivated decisions they make on MasterChef there is one that concerns the place of a vulnerable person as a contestant. Today, in the beginning of the 2016 Season, they cut out two such vulnerables: a very cute old Scottish woman with a tremor and a sweet Welsh young woman. I was so sad, but the judges’ reasons were clear: they did not deliver! They kept two weirdos: a young man in love with his looks and an older gay man who called himself an experimenter. I did not like them, but apparently they could cook. So it seems that if one is both a good cook and a vulnerable, their chances to get to the finals are very good. In the last season, they gave the trophy to a vulnerable: a Thai woman who was pure vulnerability and therefore very annoying. I don’t know why I am writing all this – I guess I am passing time waiting for the Birthday Party at the neighbors across the fence to be over so that I could go in the hot tub outside.

18.06.2023. I need to make a retraction. Earlier, I have written that the Germans are difficult to live with. I was unreflective. I do live with a German who is very easy to live with. Tanja is tactful and respectful, attentive, considerate, generous, and in all respects giving. She keeps of her word. I know that. She is loyal. I think the war has affected me in a way that makes me often think in general categories, forgetting that most people I met in the USA and Germany are not the collective West who – allegedly – goes to bed and wakes up with only one thought – to screw up the Russians, but lovely and loving individuals some of whom I truly miss… Plus, to be fair, the Russians may appear to be as difficult to live with for a foreigner but also are in all honesty difficult to live with for myself. I am sorry about being so jugmental so unecessearily.

On this Father’s Day, the kids treated me to flowers (peonis are my favorite these days) and a gift. Tanja ordered food from Dennies (our favorite Chinese take-away) and bought all sorts of extras (appetizers and chocolate cakes – yes, plural, there are five of us)). After we feed the kids, we will be drinking Champaigne and what not. Earlier, per my request, we played Carcassonne. Tanja and the kids let me win. All this is to say that I may not be the best of fathers, but I am certainly not shortchanged on love and attention. I love my family.

20.06.2023. The day after was pretty tough: on Father’s Day Tanja excused herself early, and I was finishing by myself. The day after was pretty wasted. Staring into nowhere was its theme. Today, after a morning sweep in the lower conservatory (we got flooded – the weather warning came in too late), I went to the gym where Nik was supposed to join me. So, speaking of the Father’s Day and all the responsibilities of fatherhood. A pre-history is on order: I signed up Nik for the gym as a returned favor from the management. The boy does not qualify age-wise (he is twelve, while the gym allows only 14 year-olds), so it was something extra-ordinary. This happened even ahead of his 12th birthday in January. He wanted to be like his older brother and he wanted to tackle his weight problem in earnest. The boy comes to the gym after school and trains for about one hour and ten minutes. This is not particularly convenient for me, for I have to stay in the gym longer, but, he is my boy (back to fatherhood and all). At first, I set Nik up with a routine modelled on mine minus heavy weights. As time went by, I have begun to notice that Nik slacks out. He pretends to warm up, to row, and to run. He sits on the machines, just sits. Overall, per session he accomplishes half of what he should have accomplished. This would be in his character (slacking out, that is), except that his attitude offends me more and more so. He is wasting my time and my money. Moreover, by slacking out furtively, he is violating my trust, for I, per his request, do not hover over him. ‘Dad, I am a big boy, I know what I am doing.’ As it turns out, he does, but not in the way I think he is supposed to. Watching another father train his slightly older son, who is eager, makes it worse. I spoke to him not once. I explained and I threatened. For short periods of time, he gets better, then he regresses again. Here is my dilemma. What if he is too little? What if I give him some time off. What if he turns 14 and he becomes a different boy: motivated, focused, competitive. Well, I doubt that. Again, his character is what worries me the most. But then, does he not need this constant nagging? But I hate to be critical of him: he is too sensitive, plus I do not want to become one of ‘those fathers.’ Damn! One part of me want to cancel his membership and wash my hands. The other part calls me to dive into the problme even deeper. For now, I am just frustrated.

21.06.2023. My verdict to Nik – suspend his membership until further notice. I will take a week off with him and then give him one more chance to prove that he is serious about the gym.

Tired of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot: there is no action, just more and more of psychologizing, and Myshkin appears less and less appealing (I am at his prospective wedding with Aglaja).

For Father’s Day I received a manicure set from Tanja and the kids. It was an expensive one. I chose it myself – Zinger. Strange, I thought, for a German set, it was the only one on sale, and there was no info about it. It turned out that my memory was all skewed. Zinger is the Russian sewing machine and accessories maker. Dates back to the 19th century. That is how I remebered it! Ironically, once I found out about its origin, all my patriotic verve receded before practical considerations. Just like I would not want a Lada for a car, I did not want Zinger for my set. Will return it and buy a Zwilling instead (yes, a German one). Yeap, here goes my tepid boycott of the West: principles-shminciples.

The war has got to a standstill. Again! Phooh. More anxiety to come. All this pragmatism is really hampering the mood.

23.06.2023. 23-23. I love touching flowers. And trees. Unfortunately, here there are few touchable trees, but tons of flowers that grow everywhere. They are hanging over the ledge along my beaten path, and it is awesome to be able to smell and touch them.

Seems like sea swimming is going to finally happen: one positive side effect from global warming is that sea temperature is on the rise. It is just that the sun is yet to catch up. Pretty cloudy.

I am not very superstitious but I did remove a small mirror across the bedhead: I read that souls that leave the body during sleep get confused by the mirror and instead of travelling to a happy place bounce back to the body that as a result cannot sleep. A bunch of baloney, no doubt, but even a small placibo (sp?) effect that can help me sleep will be appreciated. Meant to write something fun, but forgot the topic somehow. Oj-wej.

24.06.2023. Another “history-maker” – Prigozhin. An insane ataman, a bandit with a small rogue army. Insane and subject to delusions of grandeur. Indeed. Putin’s reference to the Civil War was spot on, except that in this day and age, it is pretty surreal. Did not see that one coming. I thought the man was just a blogger with ambitions and some loyal armed men. But so loyal as to move to Moscow. What a suicide act is this? The Krondshtadt mutiny comes to mind. History does repeat itself – different times, different figures. Same ambitions. Same outcomes. An absolutely insane adventurism of the worst kind. And, as was the case with Ben Laden, a homegrown threat. I would eliminate this threat with extreme prejudice. And so it seems to be done. The whole event is exhausting yet exciting. It will affect the pace of the Russian troops in Ukraine but only so much so and only in the immediate time frame.

25.06.2023. I am deeply disappointed in the outcome of Prigozhin’s mutiny. Putin promised to drown it in blood. Instead, after a few Russian copters and planes were downed by Wagner around Voronezh, the President backed off. He is weaker than I thought and certainly much less in control of the situation, having allowed a dick like Prigozhin to dictate conditions. Prigozhin is a paradigmatic figure, no doubt. Lots of historical parallels can be evoked by his mutiny, but in this case, the way the President dealt with the situation is less than satisfactory. Other scenarios bore more and better fruit. I am not withdrawing my support of SMO, but I am withdrawing my support of Putin and his ‘people.’ He did not do well. Personally, of course, for a mundane little person who is not able to affect the course of events in any way, this only means that I will try really really hard to stop reading the news and anxiously wait for Konashenkov’s briefing. This is not a mutiny but a change of perspective. I need to adjust. By the way, my mom was entirely calm and more patriotic than ever. She should be my example.

26.06.2023. Putin had to speak and he spoke. He explained the ins and outs in the aftermath of the mutiny and made it appear that the order is fully restored. His emphasis on the avoidance of bloodshed is certainly appealing. Yet, I am not convinced that he has his hand on the pulse: too many questions that remain unanswered. Did he not know ahead of time? Why if he did not? If he did, did he decide to ignore the threat? Prigozhin will die. This is obvious. The guarantees given to him will last only so long. I can already see Putin ordering his liquidation. With time, no doubt. I was also glad to see that Kartapolov was wrong: Wagner will be eliminated in Russia. As for myself, although I am less disgusted by the whole event, I will make a significant effort to wean myself off the news. Twice per day should be sufficient. There are great books to read and wonderful films to see. Plus, the weather is properly summer: swimming is in full swing and the sun is forgiving.

27.06.2023. Actually, the mutiny is more interesting than I originally thought. Once the bad taste about it has dissipated, it showed many formerly hidden facets. Prigozhin rose to the role of Prometheus, Putin diminished to that of the aging tsar, Lukashenko (the third ‘non-hero,’ in his own words) made himself the man who saved Russia, and my mom turned out to be the most sensible of them all. Not only she stayed calm and assured, she was neither bloodthirsty, like myself, nor altogether pacifist, but well balanced. I was impressed.

The quote of the day. At the Home Office summit in Beijing, Lavrov, praising the Chino-Russian relations, said the following: “Our relationship reminds me of a boat that is peacefully sailing along a river ignoring the screaming monkeys on its shores.” What an image! Really subtle, Mr. Foreign Minister!

The armed mutiny, which is called by the ill-wishing BBC ‘uprising and rebellion,’ continues to call to itself. There are huge ironies in this whole thing. First, it is Prigozhin’s nickname – the Chef. More like – the Masterchef, more like – the mastermind. He may be a chef, but the person who ‘cooked’ him into being was Putin. The ultimate irony. Yeap, the Ben Laden or Men’shikov phenomenon. So, again, mythopoetically speaking, a non-god, a titan, rose against a god. He rose and that was sufficient for him to become doomed. He wanted to rose, that ex-con who used to feed the Russian army. He wanted to show himself. And like Berezovsky before him. And like Khodorkovsky, Nemtsov, and the blogger guy, was doomed to fall. Lukashenko told the reporters that when he spoke to Prigozhin, the latter was euphoric. I believe that was Prigozhin’s state of being for months before he

In contrast, Shojgu must be super embarrassed to show in public. Gerasimov simply does not show: drinks all day long, apparently.

Using an opportunity of having Tanja and the kids away, I watched Avatar yesterday. Well, just 15 minutes of it. What a talentless film. What a remarkable lack of story. Just a sci-fi Western. Indians, cowboys. Dancing with the Wolves. That film is the very meaning of mediocrity. One may ask, Why is it that you even wanted to watch it, Alex? Didn’t you, in all your righteous verve, meant to watch some fancy-shmancy artsy-dartsy film by Bunuel or Fassbinder? Maybe even in the original? Yeah, guilty as charged. Was too tired after a day of gardening (written for Tanja’s benefit, khm) and a bit depressed after the events I, unlike Lukashenko, did not participate in. I think my mistake was I was neither drunk nor stoned when I watched Avatar. I think if I were, it would have been just right. Like all other munchies one yearns for in that state.

29.06.2023. Watched Oblivion with Tom Cruise. Liked it a lot. Minimal actors, lots of good specs, a decent story. I guess during the next two days that I am going to be by myself, I should go all the way playing Russian films (both good and bad) and Russian music. I mean playing them loudly and at odd times.

30.06.2023. I feel like I am firmly in the pink or even grey zone when it comes to my support of the SMO. And I guess I am not the only one whose patriotic attitude has got tarnished by doubt in the wake of the mutiny. According to the official polls, Putin is supported by 5 per cent less of the Russian population (in factual numbers, just half of the country’s 150 million people support him). Well, again, it is tiring to pursue grand objectives at this pace. I am only human, and I am losing interest. An extra Leopard or NASAMS destroyed over there in the Zone matters less and less.

Playing Akvarium and watching The White Sun of the Desert. Imagining myself being a cosmonaut before going in the space on a mission (there is a legend that states that The White Sun was the favorite film for the Soviet space men. They made sure, for good luck and all, to watch it the day before being sent out). Silly imaginings of an old man. If I get sufficiently drunk (entitled on a day like today – cold and dreary), I will build something Lego, something for the old man Dumble D’Or to be proud of when he sobers up the next morning.

02.07.2023. Well, I did watch the White Sun and was properly thrilled to see my favorite characters: Abdulah, Sukhov, Petrukha, Vereschagin, Nastasja, Gulchatai. Wanted to write an article about it – a Russian paradigm for something or something when I worked in Edinburgh. Well, like many other projects, this one is most likely not going to happen. I did get drunk and I did built an extra car for Dumble d’Or. It was a spooky one – a grave digger with the tail of a giant serpent and a place for Dobby in the back. I was fretting – there seemed to be no good place for weapons, but then again, does Dumble d’Or need weapons. I think not, even his magic wand, he always carries it in the inner pocket of his lustrous jacket.

Today at the gym I was watching Dickinson’s Best Deal and saw, I shirt you not, an EU Foreign Secretary Borell’s look alike. The same prune like dog like face, the same aged lack luster. Bedraggled and disheveled. The man was selling some World War I postcards. How appropriate I thought. At the end, he got 55 pounds for his collection and looked disappointed. I can only imagine how the real Borrel (I know every time I write his name, there is a different spelling, as if the name itself is unstable – as unstable as the man is) is going to be disappointed when the Ukraine war is over. Him and many many others.

05.07.2023. Got very sad when I read about Vera Brezhnev, the Gen Sec’s daughter in Gazeta.ru. What a life! Sad and admirable at the same time: although she ended up badly, she did not hold back when she still could. For the fans of mystery, there is also the matter of her treasure. Worth millions of dollars by now, it was last seen in the garden at her dacha where she dug it in. And then it was gone. This reminded me of the long lasting speculation that the people who sold their dacha to my dad in 1989 were rich Jewish jewllery makers. Apparently, they kept their own stash (collection) at the dacha. Both died in the car accident years before their nephew sold us their real estate. On the sheer belief that there could be a treasure box, Max, my sister’s first husband spent a week digging throughout the entire perimeter of land around the houses. Needless to say, he found nothing. Well, not because he was not supposed to, as in reference to a silly legend, but because my sister would not have divorced him if he did. Yeap, the moral of the story…

It is not the war that matters (there is also a war here and there, in secret and in gest), but how it is conducted. That is one fundamental belief by Putin.

05.07.2023. Why did Stalin could not believe that Hitler was going to attack him while at war with Great Britain and the rest of Europe? Stalin thought that Hitler was more rational than he was. He thought that Hitler did not make rush decisions, that he was not passionate. Stalin did understand passion, being a Georgian, he just had it contained. and Hitler did not. It is not clear which one was more romantic and which one was more pragmatic. It is just that their respective thinking operated on two different levels. Non-coincident, the difference precluded anticipation.

06.07.2023. I got really so peeved by my barber Kevin, the one I described on one my earlier notes (he would close his shop at odd times, and he would have closed for days), that I finally jumped the ship and wen to the Turks across the street. It was a strange experience. Kevin fancies himself to be an artist, he is constantly looking at his work from a distance. If he could, he would even touch my head. This guy, let us call him Hammil, worked with my head the way one works with a football. He used twenty seven different buzzers and he really poked my head with them, like he was digging (looking for a treasure, no doubt). It hurt! Yet, he did not spend significantly less on my cut. He just did it differently, but the difference was worth the pain. When I gave him a nice tip, asked him for his name and walked out, I could not help but chuckle at myself: I was a bit whorish there. I abandoned Kevin pretty quickly.

I think Putin should read more Dostoyevsky and less history books. Too much history is not good for you. it makes you loose the sense of smell.

07.07.2023. This war should enter the history as the war of contradictions with consistencies. Just bear with me: Russia positions itself as a consistency. In all areas: politically, ideologically, militarily. Ukraine positions itself as a contradiction. It contradicts itself when it rules, when it speaks, when it fights. it takes pride in self-contradiction. it finds something passionate about it, and passion is quite a value. Wild at heart. In comparison, the Russians are entirely consistent, even in their deviations. Russian women are consistently demure. Ukrainian women are inconsistently actional. Actively involved. Extremely industrious but often without measure. I knew a number of such Ukrainians. They were very present being the closest ethnically and linguistically group, also being the largest Slavic nationality. My father’s mother was of Polish descent. She came to Moscow from Northern Ukraine which was annexed by the Russians in 1939. Similar yet different.

08.07.2023. My favorite photo (I do occasionally look through photo galleries on some sites, TASS and Kommersant most often) of the day was the one with a woman walking in the streets of New Delhi, which all flooded due to a heavy rain, up to her waist in water but with an umbrella over her head. Properly absurd and properly practical if she is going to visit a friend or returns home from work. It is one thing to wipe your legs dry with a towel and quite another to dry your hair which may take half an hour, if my memory serves me well (no, I am not talking about my own hair, or what is left of it))).

11.07.2023. This NATO summit is a proper gathering of inglorious bastards. I am absolutely shocked – These people?! Heads of states?! Really?!! Supporting this guy?!! Really?!! My support of Putin may have dwindled but even in comparison, he seems by far more stable than the collective West. American ass lickers! A dysfucntional family of hypocrites and liars. And the great American leader who barely knows who he is and where he is. One does not need to be a patriot to despise this bunch. A rational reasonable and intelligent human being would be sufficient. Absolutely degrading! Oh, yeah, to add: the backstabber Erdogan must be mentioned separately. Speaking about despicable. What a Turk! Turkish bazaar is where he should be.

12.07.2023. To add to my earlier venting – there was a TASS article about the Vilnus NATO summit. The article previewed by a photo of Zelensky at the informal gathering some place outside. The photo was undoubtedly selected by the TASS editors for one reason and one reason only: it was one of the least attractive portrayals of the Ukranian. Standing in the midst of the fancy crowd of the European leaders, Zelen’ looked particularly out of place, lost and dejected. Dressed up in a fashionable version of the North Korean military attire and featuring a peeved grimace, he looked like an autistic child who was invited to a birthday party only because he was ‘different.’ The way he was spoken to and patted on the back revealed the same kind of attitude: ‘Poor boy, you are not different, you are just not like us. We support you, poor retard. You can come and play with us or rather we can play with you when we wish. There is always a place for you with us. Just not yet but when you stop being a retard.’ Uhm.

16.07.2023. Every day over here in Hove in the summer is filled with weather concerns. Not that the weather is dangerous. Even winter storms are not a real threat (apart from an occasional flooding). The concerns are about swimmable weather. A fully sunny day is a rarity. A sunny but not windy day is an even greater rarity. It is for this reason that I am no longer surprised by the locals who do not care to swim in the sea or have swam there ever. Brits love to talk about the weather but they do very little to adjust to it. It indeed makes little sense to dress up for a particular day: it may rain, it may not, it may be colder, it may be warmer. A pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt is what the locals wear throughout the summer. A slightly unusual choice of footwear catches my eye now and then. Sandals are not common. It is either trainers or boots. Yeah, again, the locals prefer to wear boots on a hot day. I think it is sort of local fashion, for there is little practicality there unless the same pair of boots is being worn the entire year.

This not is a ‘just so’ note. It may have been caused by my frustration about a lack of consistency with the weather that disallows swimming but mostly it is written to cover the lack of insights. Fun thinking has been thick these days.

17.07.2023. The seagulls that took the roof of our house as their new home are properly party animals. First, they had a house warming party in the spring, then a wedding, then the birth of one-six chicks, tehn their first day at the flight school and now a graduation. All that above my head (the nest is literally right on top of my bedroom). They are the worst tenants. They have invited and uninvited guests, they party into wee hours and they get up so damn early (with first light – literally!!!) that I feel like it is I who is a vermin hiding in some inaccessible place away from the lawful owners – the seagulls! And they scream! Those screams are the worst (totally like some of that Alexa inspired ‘and similar songs’ type of music). Wait, my feathery friends, until next year. Next year I will be prepared. I will be up on the roof waiting for you with a blowtorch and a whip. Or a chainsaw (I am a proud owner indeed)) and a water pistol, or I am gonna buy myself one of them nasty battle drones and shower these pesky seagulls with paintballs. Better. I can buy myself an osellote on Amazon and settle it there (better a big exotic cat than flying rats). In any case, I promise to take measures. I will not let them terrorize me any longer. In fact, I shall entrust to my Ministry of Defence the task of preparing retaliatory measures. Yes, just like Putin. With this analogy, one shall clearly see my view of Ukraine’s current Regirung.

20.07.2023. MasterChef became a proper addiction. After Yet another season was over and we began to discuss what else to watch (The Bear, for example), I gravitated to one more back season of MC. The addiction is not to food making and not even primarily to the personal dynamics (quarks) or the interpersonal com models established dyadically by John and Gregg for the show, but simply to the benign. With the war news looming large like an ominous cloud waiting to burst down in some heavy rain, the benign is much desired. It is like a late afternoon cigarette for someone who struggles to quit. The upside of this addiction is a stylistic contribution of John and Gregg’s talk. Quite prominent in their styles, if not unique, they give a bit of oomph to the everyday and if one, like myself, imitates them during watching, the imitated content sticks. In the gym, I caught myself at doing both John and Gregg unwittingly when talking to an acquaintance. In the absence of a distinct style of my own in English, all these ‘acquisitions’ from the media help with an ‘alien identity’ that is both recognizable by the native and appealing (or so I think). I thought I would never say that but I should probably watch more British TV (naah, finding something as benign and yet entertaining is gonna take time and much unwanted stuff).

22.07.2023. In a conversation with God Luka asked for ‘a trampeline every 100 yards for the kids to get to school in a fun way.’ It is only with many prompts from an adult (myself) he agreed to ask for something like a dragon. He also told me about a liger. I laughed at first. But he proved it. A youtuber told him about it. For those who do not know, liger is a cross between a tiger and a lion. A proper animal freak, this thing is shown at county fares in the States. Also, in circuses and petting Zoos. A white lion with tiger stripes is particularly freaky. It is no wonder that Luka opted for the Jurassic Park trilogy for our next viewing experience. In Playmobil and Lego he always seeks out giants and freaks for the main characters. Not sure what to make out of it.

I am so close to finishing The Idiot. After almost five months I am still not done. Not, it is not boring or disturbing. Just not very inviting.

When trying to fall asleep I am trying to avoid negative imagery from the news and daily worries by positioning myself inside a ship or house or city with no people around. Like I am the last man on earth and all my worries are concerned only with my everyday survival. Typically, it is an appocalyptic kind of setting that I seek. A Spanish gallion in the midst of the jungle on an uninhabited island works. A city like New York as in I Am Legend also works. But the best is a space station. Since I used to be a sci-fi fan I can conjure up quite a number of such stations. Oddly, the most attractive is the station Solaris from Tarkovsky’s film. It has this homey kind of feel about it. Remember- the library, the dreams? The touch of a genius indeed. Still, sleep finds me only when I manage some kind of white noise. From that white noise my nightmares emerge.

23.07.2023. it was not true what I said earlier about MasterChef. I do get cooking tips and even manage to realize some of them. Frying duck and fish skin separately (Tanja is a big fan), reducing sauce (never thought of it being possible, thought it would just burn not thicken), refry fatty meats. Naaah, I am just trying to justify my addiction to the freak part of the show.

25.07.2023. I was sitting in the living room on the couch waiting getting bored looking at the books on the bookshelves next to me and all of a sudden my caught a red notebook. I recognized it as a book of quotes I used to collect from many many books I read voraciously at the time. The earliest of these quotes was put down on October 1, 1981, my first year in college. It was taken from some art exhibit and was dedicated to the female character, a portrait, I presume: ‘the artist gave her the eyes of a gazelle.’ Why did I get attracted to something as uninteresting or rather straightforward. Was I going to use this quote? Was I thinking about someone I know. Further, my quotes became increasingly better. I was reading good stuff too: Faulkner (‘Jones had transparent obscene eyes, yellow and ancient, like those of a goat.’ Never seen such eyes but this is the thing with great literature: unlike the eyes of a gazelle that I see around half a dozen times a day, these goat eyes I have never seen but could easily imagine.

Putin is the most brilliant mediocrity I have known in a politician. Idealist pragmatism is his other controversy. In general, quite a contradictory yet very stable character.

26.07.2023. When Nik started losing his milk teeth I bought a Playmobil tooth fairy with a small box for teeth (my mom has a silver one back home). Now that Nik and Luka are of ‘that’ age, they are losing teeth like crazy and the box is so full that their teeth are scattered all around. Creepy!!

The kids stopped playing Playmobils. The castles, the armies, the dragons, they have been soaking in the rain day after day. So very sad! Where is the little Alex who could spend hours playing just one horseman? A painfully rhetorical question.

When Konashenkov speaks during his briefing, at those places that feature particularly high numbers he raises his voice to a proper crescendo, as in ‘590 Ukrainian soldiers – aaahhhhaa.’ Or, as he did it today, ‘there, we destroyed 25 tanks – aahahaha.’ Back to that opera ‘Putin’ where he shall certainly appear as the ‘announcer.’ Ahhhahaha.

28.07.2023. Operation ‘Saving Jerry’ was an ethical challenge. Jerry is a seagull chick at about three months old, that is, the preflight age, who fell down from or rather was blown off the roof onto the ground and had to spend the night under the palm trees. The next day, Jerry came over in the afternoon and knocked on the door of the conservatory. At this point, we felt ethically obligated. I and the kids caught Jerry and put him/her on the roof of the garage. It was raining. We threw some bread on the roof and less ethical (than us) seagulls flew in and ate the bread leaving the poor chick (the size of a small chicken, mind you, – catching him/her was not easy) to sit on the roof all by himself. I was really nervous about Jerry – since he could not fly, there seemed no way out for him. What could I have done? I could have climbed through the window of my bedroom onto the roof, built some shelter and fed it till it got bigger and flew away. Or…well, Jerry (called so because of the bird we befriended in the old place) helped us out. He disappeared. Most likely, he jumped off the roof into the garden of the absent neighbors. I checked from the window however. He was not there. His siblings did not show much, so we cannot tell if he managed to climb up the roof somehow. I doubt it. Did we do all we could to a flying rat that disturbed our sleep night after night for more than months (you need to count the obnoxious parents)? I don’t know. Better not to think about it or you are going to end up thinking about Ukraine. Aa? Khm. Just kidding. Just think about dinosaurs.

01.08.2023. Khm, august already. Strange. Feels like it should still be july. Oh, well. Was in the gym when BBB showed the Russian strike on Krivy Rog. That they showed but not a word about Taganrog or Moscow. Proper one-sided biased coverage from the ‘most objective news company.’ The hell with them. Went to swim today – I have to occupy the kids in Tanja’s absence somehow – and I got really scared. It was sunny but the wind was about 20-22 miles per hour, and the waves were breaking way before the shoreline. This means that if did not ride them well, they would crush onto you altho you are well in the water away from the shore. Luka had enough sense not to go, but Nik went and did well at first, but he could not get far enough to avoid the waves and was pummeled badly. I barely managed to get him out. It was brilliant sunny though.

I am not a big fan of de Certeau, but his take on the average man made me think of Putin as the king of the average man and the essential average man. He is so ordinary that he fits all the academic designations: Freud’s gemeine Mann, Foucault’s Chacun, Russian ‘malen’kij chelovechek.’ With all that he became the epitomy of the latter and the ultimate Jedermann Niemand. That is why his biggest fear is not to make it in the history of civilization as the most charismatic leader but as the extra-ordinary man, the speaker for the majority of the average. All his aspirations are extremely average. Some of them are rather big – the Crimea Bridge, for example, but they are still average and practical. He is the opposite of thinker and artist. I only hope that this means that he comes out from the most practical and ordinary thing people have created – the war – victorious.

02.08.2023. Our artificial non-intelligence misbehaved oddly today. Most of the time she misbehaves by mumbling ‘I dont know this one’ or not responding. But this time, she started giving you wrong info but not as if she misunderstood you but as if she wished to burden you. I am telling you – a bonna fide IA it is and a trouble-maker to that.

We in academia are so used to academic conventions that it surprises us to see someone misuse quotation marks or references. The structure and composition are also something we take for granted. It is not a given that non-academic people would pursue a clear concise and logical exposition. Speaking and writing emotionally causes a raised eyebrow. Although, academic or not, I too tend to go into the emotional gear a lot. I mean with my academic writing.

Philadelphia, despite the film, was the least romantic city I have visited in the US. Oh, no, wait, Indianapolis still takes the cake. And Atlanta. And Ohio City and certainly Carbondale. I dont understand how I could even have sex in Carbondale – so a-sexual it was to me a stranger. Well, actually it was pretty gritty. It was erotic as in being dark, and the Shaunee National Park was associated with the dark forces for a reason. The local legend speaks of the Indian tribe that made itself disappear (most likely slain and eliminated – burnt).

I have no idea what ‘night wash’ as a washing machine setting means. I started it at 4pm and it washed just fine ;).

03.08.2023. I see crazy dreams. Lots of erotic content. Last night or rather early in the morning, I saw myself in a swimming pool with some ex from the studentship times. She looked very old (I have not seen her for forty years) but unmistakenly her. She was swimming toward me but I got scared and began to swim away. She was naked but so, all of a sudden, was I. I hope it is just me the vulnerable old man kinda dream. I am a decent man. Of course I woke up.

The news of the day was the report from MI6 about the ‘real’ reason the Ukranians are failing with their advancement plans – bushes and high grass. Like otherwise you can see a mine set up for you. Like all that prevents tanks and AVs from moving. What idiots! What kind of people work for MI6?! What kind of news is it?! (I should cut down on the use of exclamation marks). But really?!

08.08.2023. I was wrong: screaming at the kids for watching Youtube non-stop was wrong. Now and then ‘stupid Youtubers’ give good advice. They give good and prompt advice. They tell you not just animal trivia such as stuff about liger but they explain how to assemble a chainsaw, open a stuck hood of the car, replace a car key battery and fix a fish tank filter. I remember the times when one would have to call and ask around, sometimes indefinitely, the times when you had to walk to a store or a mechanic shop or ring the door bell of the rundown flat where the alcoholic ‘Uncle Valja’ lived and where, for a mere ‘quarter’ he would tell you how to fix your leaking toilet or come and fix (but that for no less that a ‘half’). All this means that the heads that contained all this practical knowledge are not needed any longer. They are a dying breed. All this small village ‘I can fix it’ Bob Builders are a matter of touch. They are all ethereal, pixelated they all are. Well, not that I am sad about it. A sociophob, I like the new way.

It was stupendously irritating to be talking to my mom today. Every time I would ask her about an event she herself mentioned, I would hear not an account of the event but an account of her feelings about it. It is quite painful as you well know to listen to someone’s feelings without knowing the circumstances of their emergence. I was quite impatient. Often, later, I feel guilty, but less and less so because there is something intrinsically selfish about the old people. Yeah, they love to talk at you, they cannot argue or play around, they just go on with their agenda. I am not saying this to criticize the old folk – I am becoming one of them and will be like one of them, I just want to postpone the inevitable.

09.08.2023. Accidentally, I got into one of those ‘war discussions’ at the gym (people there know I am Russian and, sometimes, tactfully mind you, approach me about something Russian, not necessarily the war, tourism or climate mostly). It started innocently, but quickly degraded into a face-off formed by two diametrically different discourse. One, let us call, ‘they invaded’ was so simplistic and formulaic, I was at a loss about countering it. I tried to explain about NATO and history but saw only some smirks until I got enough of it and laughed the whole thing off: ‘It is not working, is it? Kha-kha.’

From Musil’s The Man Without Qualities: “When one does not have what one wants, one must learn to want what one has.” From this perspective, the pleasure one gets from shoplifting is not much different from the one a rogue broker gets from making and squandering hundreds of millions. Is it the same pleasure though? Is it the same pleasure that one gets from living in a billion dollar mansion being surrounded by servants and being pampered in all ways imaginable and that one gets living in a log cabin in the middle of tajga, tending to the most basic everyday needs? The latter being the Thoreau kind of pleasure? I am inclined to say Yes.

During Tanja’s long absence, the little ones and myself began to watch zombie films. First the scary ones, like The Walking Dead, then the funny ones, like The Zombieland. As is often the case with the ‘lil ones,’ they played zombies by themselves and with me, mostly by runnign around with nerf guns and jumping at each other (and me) from hidden spots. It turned out to be a very simple and effective way of playing. Beats Cowboys and Indians hands down.

10.08.2023. An update from Dumbledoria. Now that Luka and Nik decided to virtually boycott Playmobil, resorting to Lego as their main small world play, things should have become more interesting in the Lego land. In fact, they did not. A complete absence of the ongoing narrative, even when it concerned the key characters – Luka, Darth and Dumble d’Or – together with Luka’s insistence of being a play leader, resulted in the slow degradation of games toward Luka’s character (never the same) demanding a challenge and having mostly Nik respond to that challenge: Force! Since saying ‘force’ is so much easier than deploying magic stones or pronouncing incantations, Darth positioned himself as a sure winner of any conflict with Dumble d’Or finding himself more often than not in Darth’s bar drinking potions and reminiscing about great battles with the evil bunch from Hogwarts. After Nik misplaced his hair Dumble D’Or got himself a stupid blue hat of a rogue magician and had to adjust his whole outfit to blue (borrowed from Superman). Nowadays, at the outset of any squabble, he simply drives his stupid Homer vehicle (13 horsepower 0.3L engine) to the bar and settles there. How very sad!

12.08.2023. Funky news: the Ukranians added Baccardi to their ‘Sponsors of the War’ list on account of the company’s refusal to leave the Russian market. How very ironic. Isn’t alcohol bad for your health, for the health of the Russians? Doesn’t it kill? They should pay to Johnny Walker and Jura to return rather than the other way round. The Ukrainian regime is properly demented. As for its people, the most recent poll by the Russians showed that there is a sizable percentage of the Russian people whose view of the Ukranians improved (15%) rather than the other way round. Yeah, sure one has to respect their stubbornness on the battlefield. I myself stand with the majority, and it is not about Baccardi type of decisions. It is about their hatred (rage), cruelty, and arrogance. These are the sins they will have to pay for.

A fitness trainer (actually squash trainer) shared with the boys and myself a bit of his happiness when we were leaving the gym. He was happy about him going to Majorca that he called his happy place. He was so psyched that I asked him about his other ‘happy places.’ He said, ‘walking my dog and swimming in the sea in the evening.’ I can identify with the latter: swimming in the ocean over here is one of my happy places as well. My other happy places? Many over here in England, but they all deal with the family, except for the gym (a semi-happy place, I reckon). My Russian happy place is one: the dacha. It is place where I can be alone in the rhythm and with the purpose that I alone command. Being there as I wish is entirely in my control. I cook for myself, I shop for myself, I watch whatever I want or take as many walks as I want. That is why I discourage my mother, who on most occasions wishes that she joins me there, to actually go there when I am there. I don’t like her being there with me because I don’t like her to be around me all the time (remember, the happy alone place). I am troubled by her expectations: ‘Sasha, it is tea time…’ ‘Sasha, when shall I be expecting you for breakfast..’ ‘If you go to the store, can you swing by the pharmacy..’ and so on. She is an intrusion on my happy place. Granted, I don’t like to stay at the dacha for more than three days – boring – but since I tend to combine my stays with the trips to Moscow (where I spend sufficient time with my mother), it works out perfectly, and it is this perfect scheduling that too adds to the dacha being my happy place. It is from this perspective that my sister’s depriving me of this happy place for the most attractive time of the year that I love the most in Moscow – early fall – by renting it out despite her promise and against my wishes is not a trifle matter of rescheduling but a direct violation of my happiness. It is a robbery, and I do not want to redefine her action as anything less. Moreover, it is a robbery of choice for what has been taken away has that significant symbolic if not existential value. I wrote this rather personal note because I often feel that for the other person my reaction (as in terminating my relationship with my sister as a result) appears to be excessive: ‘What, all this about some stupid dacha?’ But for the reasons stated above and also because this story has already happened once, not even two years ago, and then my sister was forgiven (everybody deserves a second chance, especially someone who just lost a child), I intend to be firm about my response now. Quoting from Big Lebowski, ‘This aggression will not stand,’ which returns me to the topic of Ukraine…Nah, just kidding, enough of that sort of thing for now.

17.08.2023. Just to spend a bit of time drying up from swimming I took Derrida’s last interview to the beach. I did not expect much for my last encounters with Derrida were less than to my liking, but one thing I did not expect from Derrida was that he would pull a Putin on me. No, he did not speak about Ukraine, but he did speak about the subservient Europe and the American hegemony. He also criticized – very much in the neo-liberal vein – international institutions such as the UN and IMF. He laid it thick on Israel as well. His central message about de-globalization and the multi-polar world was particularly Putinesque. Other than that, it was the same old Derrida except for one thing. Given months before his death, the interview was prophetic in one major respect: his writing. At the end of the interview Derrida expressed hop, no actually, certainty that his death will make him vanish. Him, the Derrida who was giving the interview, but not him, the Derrida-the-philosopher. Twenty years after his death, his words proved true.

18.08.2023. Speaking about death, I might have mentioned the cult of cemetery visits with my mother. Her mother died young: my mom was only five years old. As long as I remember, she would ‘visit’ her mother at least three times a year: her mother’s birthday, her day of death, and Easter. After my grandfather’s death, she added him to the list. Then came my father, who is buried at a different cemetery. This added three more visits to the list to the total of eighth a year. When my niece and her grandchild Sasha passed away, visits to her grave turned to an obsession. She goes there at every occasion, without any schedule and outside of any list. Only this past year, I have counted nine visits. It is quite an effort, is it not? This is so strange to me. Although I consider myself sentimental, I do not experience an urge to visit my dead relatives. I think that one should go when one feels like it. I visit my father’s grave once a year on his birthday. This upsets my mother, who thinks that I would not ever come. I assure her: Of course I will, mom. Once a year. Just tell me when. She does not find this response of mine reassuring. Not at all. Another thing – my mom likes to go to the cemetery with other people like it is some kind of an anti-celebration that requires an audience. She feels that these visits must be participatory. I on the contrary feel like it has to be a solo flight. A proper rendaiz-vous (sp.?) But frankly I do not get anything out of these visits. They do not give me any peace. They do not ground me in any way. Call me callous, soul-less even, but I think that the best place for me after my death would be in plastic container on a bookshelf next to some book or Lego set. No trouble to visit that dad, aye?!

19.08.2023. Three days to my mom’s 82d birthday. This is 30 years over her first claim that she was going to die (suspicion of cancer). during the next thirty years, there have been a dozen of such claims (heart condition, stomach problem, stroke, another suspicion of cancer). None of that claim has materialized. There were years she would spent months in a hospital, but more for minor operations. Nothing life-threatening. She has been dying preemptively. I have been keeping careful track of obituaries (celebrities mostly), being continuously surprised at how many rich and famous die in their seventies. So, my mom did not only outlive my dad (to his great disappointment), but a whole pantheon from her generation. Need to remind her of that more often.

20.08.2023. Watching Good Omens with the kids. An amazing show. So very clever, so well acted too (by and large – not a big fan of Tenent). Even the kids appreciate it although most of it flies over their heads. Started watching MasterChef Professional. Interesting set up. Unexpectedly, some professionals turn out to be less skillful than expected. Funky.

I have got a clearer picture of the war dynamics. Watching and reading and hearing. There is a slow demise and disintegration and degradation of the Ukranian army. I predict another year before the Russians reach the Dnieper along its entre length and another year before Odessa be taken. I know, I know. Such predictions were made before, plus the Russians have not even begun their offensive. Yet, my prediction is based on a conviction which in turn is based on a sense, and while this sense used to make me anxious, I am at peace now. It is all over, folks!

23.08.2023. Alexa just announced that a shipment is due to arrive. The shipment – a bunch of nerf guns – has indeed arrived. However, like in the case of my Ukranian ‘un friendlies’ – the guns came not altogether operative, defective even. What a disappointment. It is in those moments – God, forgive my levity – that I can identify with the poor wannanotbe brothers. Khm.

The fish in the fish tank that I observe for hours every day is intelligent. I am convinced of that. And not only intelligent but emotional and, primitive though they may be,, they communicate.

Reading Florensky’s memoirs subtitled ‘Dedicated to My Children.’ A fascinating, honest and poignant read (sounds like a back cover blurb). The best description of a sensitive child and his his world, which is the world of Nature mostly. Will be writing more about that – there are interesting associations. As a child I too was not into people but loved Nature above all. I loved my parents but I found them inaccessible. Nature on the other hand was fully accessible. Stones, clouds, sea, snow – I enjoyed them to the fullest and for along long time. When other children’s childhoods ended, mine was running strongly and unerringly. I was not in any conflict with Nature, not ever, and those mystical events that occurred to me and are worth reporting (miraculous escapes mostly) all deal with nature and its four horsemen – wind, water, fire, and air. Thus, once

26.08.2023. The sea was very rough today. It was fun but also very tiring. Tanja and the kids did not go. I was glad they did not. The color of the stormy sea is brilliant green, just like Ajvazovksy had it. Florensky wrote that this color was the color of mystery. It is also the color of the sea treated bottle glass, which is a material version of mystery. Recently, when going through some of the pics, I found several old black and white photos of myself at the age of five in the Crimea. I was holding a jelly-fish in one picture and a piece of smooth glass in another. I looked the happiest.

MasterChef Professional was very entertaining. It is odd however to see professional chefs being cut out for stupid mistakes or plainly for the food the judges clearly do not enjoy. Odd, a bit unsettling, and highly satisfying at the same time. All these emotions in their union are perhaps akin to those people experienced at medieval arenas.

27.08.2023. It is quite a skill for the MasterChef judges to deliver their comments (in praesentia and in absentia) as well as their verdicts. Much tack and consideration is required. But also the presentation of solid justification grounds. Not only as far as not hurting the contestants’ is concerned but also as far as the believability (trustworthiness) of the show. So far, all the judges have been extremely gentle. I am impressed and am looking into the discourse of judging more on MasterChef for it is transferrable to other professions: education in all its forms most of all.

Quite disappointed – after having been so elated – about the choice of replacements for actors in the second season of Good Omens. Understandably, after four years hiatus one could hardly expect the same set of actors except for the leads. Indeed, but giving fabulous Miranda Richardson a totally different character (bigger role) does not work well if one – like us – has just rewatched the first season. Her character of psychic is way too memorable to shake off and get into the new one (Brax-??) straight away. Oh, well, still a fabulous show!

30.08.2023. Florensky describes the atmosphere of hyper decency that had place in his household when he was a child. That atmosphere was maintained by all sorts of taboos. One of them was the prohibition of all sorts of ‘hysterics.’ The English model of behavior was very much a preference. Interestingly, the dress code too privileged that but more for men than women. Women orientated themselves to the French etiquette and clothes. It was a strange combination: men behaved properly and were rather prim, controlling their emotions, while women were flirtatious and sensuous. Men used English colognes. Women had only French makes. Literature was sanctioned similarly. Tolstoy and Pushkin were in favor and Dostoyevsky although present on the bookshelf, was not much read or discussed. He was definitely ‘hysterical.’ In fact, Florensky calls him the master of hysterics. I like that characterization. A lot.

31.08.2023. Tanja alerted me today to an interview with Don DeLillo, who, only days before the Russian invasion interpreted – in response to a request from the interviewer – the line in his Underworld that said that (I may misquote) ‘history is made by the people with a longing.’ He explained that lone by saying that ‘wars begin when there is a longing for a historical change, for example, the return of some lost territories.’ This explanation sums up pretty succinctly my attitude toward what they in the West call Putin’s war (actually have not heard this term much recently), which is for me both about Putin-the-history-maker and this very war. Importantly, not nostalgia but longing as in bringing the future around. Ultimately, Prigozhin was someone, who shared in that same longing, but did not have either a political vision or the smarts. He just wanted to be included in the moment, make history, and he did for no matter how a brief moment.

01.09.2023. Reading Gogol (Sorochinsky Fair-from the beginning it will be), who happened to be a subject of the Russian Empire, that is, not a Ukranian, who also happened to write only in Russian and did not speak Ukranian (the statement is directed to those concerned), and enjoying him tremendously. I am reading him for the book project Mythopoetics that shall effectively culminate my writing career (to be realized in four-five years). The project is actually titled Mythopoetics: The Russian File and features people like Bulgakov, Nabokov, Skrjabin, Vrubel’, Voloshin, Tarkovsky, and many many others. Gogol is definitely a big star in this constellation. Funky, but Tarkovsky, although a properly mythopoetic artist cared little for Gogol. I wonder. But, and I am excited to report this, the filmmaker did care about Florensky and, I am sure, read his memoirs. I also believe that he put lots of Florensky’s insights into his films.

02.09.2023. Not a very interesting note – above. More like, – old stuff. Well, just an update: in Dumbledoria, Dumble d’Or almost got bankrupt with his weapons store (nobody came – weapons were easily obtainable at the black market), and so he decided to focus on gastronomy, planning to expand his restaurant and two bars to a lounge or a club. Good luck, Dumble d’Or! In Playmobil, we have despair and abandon. Oh, well, nothing I can do but start playing by myself. Would not work – I am too old for that kind of playing. One needs to get identified with his characters, and identifying with a small plastic doll in my age – naaah.

The ending of Good Omens was a shocker. Danno wanna talk about it.

A curious piece of news (wanted to write something more important but too tired, it is half past nine, and it was a long day – work, gym, swimming, watching MasterChef, watching the rest of John Carter – yes. being self-ironic): Health experts warn people that books about mushrooms self-published on Amazon may be dangerous – people died tried to following advice from those authors about collecting the right mushrooms and about cooking them right. Khm, go figure! And, by the way, today MasterChef made me learn that the translation of the Russian ‘sobirat’ griby’ that I dealt for years and ‘collecting mushrooms in the forest’ shall be rendered by simply foraging mushrooms. What a find!

05.09.2023. In the news the resignation of Director of the Institute of the USA and Canada M. caused but a ripple. I however got quite affected by the news, it appeared to be a significant event, that resignation. M. worked at the Institute for twenty years. For those who do not know, the Institute was the primary vehicle for developing the global international policy of the USSR and then Russia. it was not just an academic think tank associated with the Academy of Sciences. During the Soviet times, it was a place of privilege and power. The Institute’s head for decades then was Academic Arbatov, whose name was as known as the names of the head members of Politbureau. He advised Brezhnev and Gorbachev and was in many ways more powerful than the key players of the Home Office.

In the 1990s the role of the Institute was much diminished. the USA was no longer the ‘enemy.’ In fact in the 21st century, the Institute of Oriental Studies took the decisive lead. Yet, it continued to serve the interests of the State. Most importantly, it was not an independent entity. Director Garbuzov was fired three days ago, apparently for a critical article he wrote for Novaja Gazeta, whose head editor Nobel Laureate Muratov was announced to be a ‘foreign agent,’ a designation used to indicate that foreign interests are served by its bearer, who is also financed from abroad.

06.09.2023. This means that when Garbuzov put his article in NG, he knew what he was doing. Now, I stand in firm opposition of any kind of witch hunt, but I did not feel bad for Garbuzov. In his position, the person who would criticize the government (the hand that feeds him), would only be admirable if his was the response to the ‘call of conscience.’ Like he awakened to the horrible reality of the misdeeds by the rulers). Well, let us look at the article. Its crux was the claim that Putin and Co are building some kind of a utopian consciousness based on made-up values (read: patriotism). Well, well, well, Garbuzov, you really nailed it. The master of the evident said what all of us, thinking people, have known for decades. So, you have just noticed. Good boy! For twenty years, you had no clue, fooled by the ‘totalitarian propaganda,’ working for its masterminds, and Ooph, one day…Wow! A scientist, you call yourself, right. Now, be as it may, I for one think that it was the only way to take the Russian people out of the slumber they have sunk themselves into. The lost generation of the 1990s produced an even less concerned generation of the 2000s which not only retained its main purpose – money – but was for the most part ideologically and morally deprived. I saw these young people in Russia when the war was much in progress. Where to run? was their only interest. What country to go to. No sense of duty or moral obligation. In any case, leaving this soppy colloquy aside, I do firmly believe that the war is meant to produce a shock, a wake-up call to ultimately wake up intellect, morality, but more importantly the sense of a nation. Putin has been doing the right thing.

When later, Garbuzov called his forced resignation the result of anti-Western course of the current leadership, he missed the point again. Russia wanted to be with the West, like the West, but was not accepted like that big boy, too big for his age, who nobody wants to play with because he is awkward and loud and has a crusted piece o snot under his nose, and simply not like other little clean boys and girls. The turn away from the West was predictable.

Statistics: “67% of the Russians support the turn to the East but do not feel any cultural affinity.”

What could have made me feel for Garbuzov? I would have felt for him if he wrote an article about Putin’s army being made into an instrument of war. Today, it is Ukraine. Tomorrow, Kazakhstan. I would have written that Putin’s investment, his money, his golden hen is the Russian military industrial complex. That maybe Putin has colonial aspirations himself. Or something to that effect. But write that propaganda is bad is to be oblivious to the effects of the BBC, CNN, RTA, etc., etc. It means to be stuck in the 1980s and that is enough to free his position for a sharper mind.

By the way, on a more humorous note, in MasterChef, one of the judges called the food served by a professional chef ‘a nostalgia for the eighties.’ Needless to say, he did not like that sausage.

Finished, with a great effort, The Idiot. Want to quote the last sentence of the book. Seems fitting for the above discussion: “Enough to be carried away. It is time to listen to what your brain is saying. And all that, all this abroad, this Europe, all this is but one big fantasy, and all of us, Russians, are also one big fantasy…Mind my word. You will come to see it.”

08.09.2023. I was walking with Nik from the gym when we caught up with an old gentleman (in England, they don’t say ‘guy’ or ‘man’ but ‘gentleman’ – I like that level of formality) who was carrying two heavy bags from a local grocery store. He was wearing a tweed jacket and high dress shoes. He was also masked. When we were passing by him, he said this weather is the end of us (it was about 30 – unusual for this time of the year indeed). I slowed down and said, ‘Yeah, it is all messed up – was not above 21 all summer long and now here we are – thirty.’ ‘I am spotting a bit of an accent on you, sir, where are you from?’ I said, ‘Do you care to guess?’ He said, ‘Hungarian?’ ‘No. A bit farther East.’ He said, ‘Polish?’ I said, ‘No. Farther East.’ He said, ‘Litvanian?’ I said, ‘No. Your knowledge of geography is enviable, but I see that you are resisting going all the way East. Russian.’ He looked stunned, ‘Dear, oh, dear!,’ he finally said and then added: ‘I support Zelensky.’ I decided to go on: ‘Do you care to say why?’ ‘Because he is a hero.’ Typically, I would not continue at this point, but there was my son Nik with me. I said: ‘So, let me clarify. You support a Nazi hero who stands at the head of the heroic Nazi regime. Dear, oh dear.’ He did not expect that kind of response and quickly said, ‘We are all going to die in a hundred years from global warming anyway.’ ‘That is undoubtedly so,’ I responded, thinking: ‘And you perhaps even earlier if you continue to wear this stupid tweed jacket in this heat.’ That was the moment Tanja pulled over and picked us up.

This incident made me reflect on my response in the context of such encounters as they have become quite frequent. Okay, my response to the old gentleman was a bit cheap. The rhetoric of ‘Nazification’ on the part of the Russian leadership is overdone and is not perceived by me as the primary reason for the invasion (okay, being true to the discourse of my ‘side’ – special military operation). And so I reflected, and then had an opportunity to practice my response in an identical situation not even a day later. Since the gym is my broadest social millieau (sp.?), this encounter happened there.

09.09.2023. I was coming in the locker room huffing and puffing from walking for forty minutes in this astonishing – for the time of the year – heat. A middle aged man asked me if there has been any relief. ‘Not anywhere in sight,’ I responded. The rest followed the same pattern as above: ‘I am hearing a foreign accent. Where are you from?’ TBC

Just a quick aside that deals with the Brits and their ‘oddness’. From the news: The British Chief of Staff told the reporter that he was “shocked and shattered” to find out that British Challengers got destroyed in Ukraine because, I quite, “the British Army has a great fondness of its military hardware.” Well, they should have kept it under the pillow. Bizarre but entirely in line with the British fondness of all things retro, be it a two-century old pothole in the middle of a London street or the inedible English breakfast.

12.09.2023. Back to the incident. After a few minutes of the guessing game about the accent. This time, the middle aged English gentleman did worse than his predecessor: he placed me as Turkish and Iranian (East too, no doubt). Having realized that he is going nowhere (like, literally), I revealed my identity. He was not surprised but managed to produce yet a strange response: ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘Yeap, quite all right,’ I responded hoping for the end of the conversation. Maybe out of politeness, maybe out of curiosity, but he continued. ‘So,’ he said, cutting to the chase, ‘What do you think about the war?’ The man looked innocuous, but I still hesitated: ‘It is a tragedy,’ I threw out a banality. He took the bite: ‘Do you think Putin is going to win?’ I was getting annoyed. ‘It is not just Putin,’ I said, ‘It is not HIS war, it is the war of the Russian Federation against Ukraine. It is my war as well. And for this reason the Russians are going to win.’ The man made sly eyes and, after a pause, continued (to provoke me, I felt): ‘You seem to be supporting him.’ ‘Yes, I do,’ I said. I felt like it was my opportunity to nail my position. My reflections on the earlier incident were still fresh. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I consider myself a liberally minded, highly educated and very well travelled individual. I left the Soviet Union for the United States when it was still the Soviet Union. I hated the regime. After the Soviet Union collapsed, I did not care about the leftovers. I saw the suffering of the people, I saw the devastation and lawlessness caused by the collapse, but I did not feel connected. My soul was elsewhere. It so happened that Putin was the President when I began to care. I realized that it was my home and the only home I have ever had and will ever have. I began to say ‘my people’ and stopped pretending that I was from elsewhere.’ I paused – the man was still listening, and so I went on: ‘As for the war, there is no reason this war should not have happened. In fact, there are many reasons but I will be brief: the attempts to keep Russia in check and prevent it from developing into a major economic power, aka the US hegemony – check! The expansion of NATO – check! The persecution of the Russian-speaking majority in Ukraine, aka Ukranian Nazism – check! Finally, the historical Russian territories – questionable from the perspective of the international law, but I want them back. I want my country back, and Ukraine, well, it chose to stand in the way. It will fall. I used to care about it falling earlier, but later is still okay.’ I stopped. ‘Fair enough,’ said the man under his breath, got up and added ‘Time to get back to work. It was nice talking to you.’ The English – polite to the last.

Does all this sum up my feelings about the war and my country? Not really. They are too complex to express them as ‘reasons.’ But overall, even with the sorrow over all those who died and will die in this war on both sides, I want Putin and the Russian people to finish what they have begun. I want my historical subjectivity restored. For this, I want this war to be won by ‘us.’

13.09.2023. A clarification: after thirty five (actually forty) years of having lived abroad I cannot in good conscience call myself ‘a person of the world,’ like one decorated Russian athlete Isinbajeva did. I think this designation is naive. The person who denies his genus, his people, is naive. This is not the reason to punish this person but is the reason to treat them as such. Even the most recent statement by Mask is a case in point. Those who accuse his of ‘treason’ are simply naive. My sister is also naive. Naive people cannot be taught not to be naive. But they shall be avoided for as the Russian proverb goes: ‘simple-mindedness is worse that theft.’

I loved the pics from Kim Chen Yn’s visit. I felt so very nostalgic. It was a proper whiff from the past, not just any past but the deep past, like the 1950s. His funky generals in stylized but recognizable Soviet style uniforms, his demeanor (liked it – he did not appear a degenerate fool to me), his rhetoric of ‘the sacred war.’

Some recent news: the British trade unions failed to sign a joint petition condemning The Russian SMO. The firemen and the transportation workers refused. This did not mean that they supported the war, it only meant that they did not approve of sending weapons to Ukraine. Respect!

15.09.2023. With Putin, one indeed needs an interpreter (discourse analyst). Andrei Kolesnikov from Kommersant, for example. God may have given Putin the mind of a fox but none of the verbal abilities. Putin is mirky as mirky perhaps as his KGB training taught him to be, although as his biographers say, it all began in his childhood. Not a Lenin, for sure. Zero charisma, as my children say. His recent press conference in the Far East is a case in point: unless there is a direct answer prepped for him, he starts wandering around the issue trying ‘not to say things’ rather than saying them. His analogies are also ambiguous. Instead of disambiguating them by drawing a comparison between tango and gopak (in response to Blinkin’s ‘it takes two to dance tango’, he ended up saying that it is the Russian barynja that Ukraine and the USA will have to dance at the end of the conflict. Perhaps, but where is Ukraine’s gopak there? I am confused. Not even interpreting but decoding Putin is what Kolesnikov does, noting along the way that very ability on the part of Putin to send mixed signals. We, those who support, are tired of hearing ‘all the goals of the SMO are going to be achieved.’ We want to know when and at what costs. We also want to know about the plan (I feel like I have already written about all this – Oh, Dear! My head is filled with garbage, old and new garbage. I go to bed and I wake up with the same unrecycled garbage. It only accumulates. The Kingdom for a dumpster!).

Masterchef Professional is a proper revelation. Like in every other profession perhaps, not all professionals with formal training know basic things! I am a bit ashamed to admit that I like to watch them struggle. Like in professional sport. Also there seems to be such a wide array of personalities with amateurs in comparison. More likable people is seems.

I feel like I am looping. Same notes over and over again. Need to focus on the expression more and less on the content. The content has been disappointing, whether it is the war, the people, the reading, etc.

18.09.2023. After we have swam amidst an expected heat wave last Saturday, the heavens broke down with torrential rains flooding the lower conservatory and causing angst. Sadly, the summer is over. Actually, not really sadly. Just over. As of the last Saturday, we have swam 35 times in the sea! It is the absolute record for our family over here. And that is despite the sucky weather throughout the summer. But it was this lousy weather that made us realize that we should lower the plank of enjoyment to 19 degrees air temp., 16 degrees water temp., and under 20 m/h wind. Occasional drizzle should be ignored. With such low expectations, one can swim for whole three months here. Funny-funny.

19.09.2023. Some funky news: there was a poll in Russia about who the Russians wanted to see as their President – Winnie-the-Pooh, Cinderella, or the evil puppet master Karabas Barabas. Most people voted for Winnie. I would have too! He likes to eat and to hum. He is neither aggressive nor meek. He neither talented nor dull. A bit slow and a bit dim, but that is precisely the upper margin of the average folk. I vote for Winnie.

Guess what was the first thing that was announced in the wake of Kim’s visit to Russia? No, it was not some tank making factory or an oil terminal that is going to built asap in this communist heaven. No, it is going to be a vodka distillery. Apparently, Kim is a fan and wants to have his own brand. A really urgency to the plan too! So, the Russians moved in to help.

21.09.2023. In New York’s Times Square, Zelensky was welcomed with the electronic announcement ‘Glory to Urine!’ Apparently, the AI program made a mistake, associating the yellow strip of the Ukrainian flag with piss. I don’t think that this kinda ‘mistakes’ or ‘slips of the tongue’ are accidental however (like Biden’s confusing Ukraine with Iraq). It is this very kid who is screaming: The King is naked!’ ‘That country and its president are urine! Another such ‘error’ was Check’s (shit – could never spell the name of that country – not an accident either, I am sure!)) President’s attempt at justifying Zelensky’s erratic statements and moves (about suing Poland) by saying that he ‘lost his head, and who would not, given everything that has been done to him!’ On the mark, Pavel! The open brain operation is never without consequences.

Getting a bit nervous about my trip to Russia in November. Moscow airports delay and divert flights daily. I hate sitting at small airports. Tula. Novgorod. Get very claustrophobic. Sucky weather in Moscow too. My sister sucks! She stole my Indian summer! (I am being coy – the weather here in Hove is quite summery). Just pack a pair of duck boots, Alex.

22.09.2023. Biden, when meeting with the press, told the same story word-for-word twice with an interval of thirty seconds, meaning that he forgot after thirty seconds that he has already told this story. Alarming? Yes. Embarrassing? Yes. But, frankly, I too when I write worry along the way – have I not already said this or that? Fortunately, I don’t, but the suspicion tends to linger and, as time passes, get stronger. Still, a thirty second reset! That is something!

I wish Tom Cruise made it to Marvel. He could have been a cool superhero. Strong, agile, and a bit teary. Could do very well next to Keanu Reeves. The sad and the sadder! The ultimate most humourless tandem.

26.09.2023. I have not written because my SONY Vajo crashed and I lost all the pics for the Playmobil book. The event showed that my relationship with my computer was personal: I have got so disgusted with it about the loss that even after I managed to reboot it to the pathetic Windows 8 I did not feel like using it. Plus, I had to install a shitload of programs – more disgust and disappointment. The lesson – keep your data saved elsewhere (like I have never learnt that lesson many times before – stupid bastard!). Another lesson – forget SONY Vajo. It has already failed me once – let itself be stolen in Berlin. Anthropomorphizing a machine… What’s new? The main running narrative of the 21st century is about that.

Read in Tynjanov (one of the major Russian formalists) the following: “I had a childhood, and so I Iearnt about history. I experienced a revolution and so I learnt about literature.” Paraphrasing Tynjanov: “I experienced immigration, and so I learnt that I had a home. I had a war, and so I learnt about being Russian.”

Reading Florensky about Armenians: “The most rigid nation which is doomed to perish because all it does is preserve what it has.” Judging by the recent events, indeed so.

Reading the very early Gogol for the Mythopoetics project: there is an inordinate amount of russophobic statements about moskal’ (Muscovite, essentially a Russian). Moskal is greedy, deceptive, and violent. A taker. Khm. The other two ethnic groups slandered by Gogol are the gypsies and the Jews. I don’t know how Nikolai is even published in Russia these days – the Russian censorship is overlooking the obvious, it seems. Just kidding! Still my absolutely favourite writer. What a stylist! Just yum!

Trying to compartmentalize my anxieties by putting them in imaginary chests (essentially, pandora boxes), but they don’t want to stay there. Last night I had one dream after another with all the demons coming together to haunt me. I dreamt that I was travelling by Moscow subway with Peskov and Putin. When I gallantly let them take a carriage, the next train took me to a different location, and I lost them. In the next dream, my sister drove me and my mom some place in the middle of nowhere and then said that she would pick us up but never showed up so my poor mom and myself had to go through the snow at night to get out. In the early morning dream, I lost Luka. And all that in one night!

I don’t know how to tell my mom that when I will be in Moscow this time I do not want her to go to the dacha when I am there. I don’t know how to tell her that seeing her every other day in Moscow is good enough for me. I don’t want more of her because she stresses and annoys me, but I cannot just say it. Yet, I want her to understand that she affects me adversely. A toughy.

In the gym I met this guy who I call ‘cancer dude.’ He had some kind of melanoma and had it removed. He made sure that he told about it to everybody, claiming that he had a new appreciation of life as a result. At first I was empathetic, but when I found out that it was that kind of insignificant cancer, I started ignoring him – it was too hard to pretend empathy. Now he makes sure that I too am ignored by him. Man – what a kindergarten!

27.09.2023. I have surrounded myself with books. There is always a pile: Tynjanov, Florensky, Nabokov, Representing the Post-Human by Graham, Chorology by Sallis, Gogol’s Vol. 1, and Experimenting with Ethnography. There is always Little Giant Encyclopaedia of Palmistry next to my bed. By having so many books to read and consult I remind myself of the child I used to be. I would always read several books at the same time and in the States added to this multitasking the pleasures of having the TV and Radio in the background. Radio in this country sucks. Like – really sucks. TV too, and I have already written about it. Trying to wean myself of Internet news, I have decided to simply have a book around at the time when I would want to have a break and distract myself. it does not work 100 per cent – the habit of opening the computer is too strong, but sometimes, especially when I am sitting in front of the desktop monitor, I do. The payoff has been instantaneous. For example, Tynjanov’s essay on Nekrasov fed straight into my thinking about an article about Tarkovsky’s cinematic genre, and Sallis who I used to dislike for his performative (read – pretentious) style gave me ideas about how to read Platonic dialogues or any other ancient text. Very nice. Gogol has never disappointed, and the Ethnography book too generated a few insights (use of diagrams for one). I connected Florensky to mythopoetics and am thinking of that project (long to gestate) that pleases me. So, working.

By the way, after that note about my mom, I have realized that one of the reasons I never look forward to our conversations is precisely because she stresses and annoys me most of the time. Sometimes, after a conversation with her, I come to report to Tanja about it and say: ‘She was in a good mood. A relief.’ But a lot of times, I carry a bad aftertaste for days, like it was yesterday. All day long I had a conversation in my head about this or that I would not want to talk about with her in person. Not a pleasant feeling.

One thing about the Ukraine war – whether we want it or not, it is the main event of this century. So, enjoy being a part of Big History, while it lasts! Kinda sad statement though…

30.09.2023. The last day of September. Over here, the fall has not even begun. At this time of the year I would be in Moscow already. Leaving Heathrow all dressed up for the Russian winter being steamy hot all the way due to 15-17 degrees outside. Today, it is 20 plus. It is as if the summer missed a beat. Very nice. When I walk to the gym, it is all I say to myself – so very nice, so nice.

Reading all the various books I have mentioned at the same time proves not just fun but beneficial: although very diverse in styles and topics, these books were bought for a reason. They must be some intrinsic similarity between them. Last time it became clear what it is. Florensky talked about symbol and the in-between the material and the immaterial (in all definitions and respects). Graham talked in turn about Foucault’s archeology and genealogy as a method to study the in-between the human and the in-human (post-human). Sallis blared about chora (a kind of in-between), and I wrote about the in-between the static and the genetic method, empirical and transcendental. Even Gogol had to say something about the in-between nigh and day when drooling over the magnificent Ukranian pre-nigh or post-day. My favourite in this bunch is Tynjanov however who focused on the in-between (mixed) forms of verse. Perhaps it is as a result of this ‘synchronicity’ that I slept so poorly last night, trying to reconcile all these in-betweens in the images of the dacha, which is an ultimate liminal space for me.

in the beginning the Russian pro-Putin media was unsure about how to name the war in Ukraine because the term ‘special military operation’ was not convincing for the West that insisted to call it ‘war.’ Now, the term ‘proxy-war’ came to the forefront of the war discourse. Although it does reflect the current state of affairs (as in Ukraine would have surrendered after two weeks if the West did not support it), it still does not explain whose war it actually it. I think the war between the West and the East has never ceased. The end of the Cold War was not the end of the war, just a temporary truce. From this perspective, all that has changed are the means of the war. What is not clear to me is whether this war is ideological, political, economic, spiritual, or other.

My negative attitude toward the Russian celebrities who jumped ship in the wake of the war is already so very negative because they assumed themselves to be so significant as to turn their fear or anxiety into a gesture. They thought of themselves to be on par with Brodsky, Solzhenitsyn, Rostrapovich. What nerve, for they are but small actors and small athletes and in general ‘small’ people whose expression of civil disobedience is akin to an inappropriate clearing of the nose during a performance in Bolshoi or Putin’s speech. I pity them. They who ‘do not wish to be a part of all this’ (an actual statement from the Russian chess champion who changed her Russian citizenship to Swiss – Kosteneuk is her name) miss the very point of an enormous significance of being a part of all this. They are like ostriches who know only one mode of defending their principles – to hide their heads in the sand.

02.10.2023. Speaking about those artists who left the country in the wake of the war, in Timeus, Plato insists that only politicians and philosophers ‘have the right’ to condemn or pay tribute to the city at war because ‘poets are sophists. they do not see straight on account of them being immersed in imitation.’ They only see secondary appearances and not the truth. Altho Tanja came up with a corrective, saying that Plato’s statements about poets shall be read as ironic, I like the flat interpretation. It is for this reason that athletes, artists, businessmen, and least of all bloggers cannot say anything that remotely reminds of the truth. Their protests are as fake as their convictions. I mentioned Brodsky, Solzhenitsyn, and Rostrapovich before. Ironically, and not in the Platonic sense, only the latter immigrated at his own will and only the latter chose to lead the dissident campaign. More ironically, or fitting to my position, only Rostrapovich had absolutely no claim to philosophy, the other too could qualify as philosopher-artists, and so they kept their mouths shut most of the time when it comes to denouncing even as tyranical a regime as was the Soviet one.

On a larger and more significant scale, only in the States where politics is imbedded in the showbis, an actor can be a decent political leader. Yes, the conclusions about the comedian Zel are obvious.

03.10.2023. More of Timeus – in the ideal state procreation must also be ideal. This means that the gym which is place for ideal bodies shall also be, thinks Plato, a place for procreation. Yeap, the naked bodies of men and women (all races and ages) shall exercise and have sex together. Go figure.

Another bit: in an ideal state (polis), the highest passion is war. An ideal state is only great when it privileges the guardians as a social group, whose only business is war. Basically, we are speaking about North Korea. Still, this whole business about ‘every US President needing a small victorious war to justify his rule and the enormous military expenses’ is not incorrect.

Yesterday, I received the weirdest compliment from my barber Kevin (not real name). He is a peculiar chap, a bit weird, a bit off, very awkward and quite English in that he ‘avoids drama at all costs,’ in his own words. Old fashioned and a bit shabby, he cuts hair like my grandfather did – one cut with two variations. Yet, I like him. I like him already because it is not only drama that he avoids. He also avoids small talk. And, so I sat down in his chair (we were the only ones there) and I tell him that I appreciate him accommodating me this time (his lunch time) because I find him very comfortable and of course I like his work. I said that his Turkish colleagues around are good but they stress me because they find it necessary to jabber. And I told him about my experience in Berlin, where I would avoid going to the barber because I was so self-conscious about my German and there barbers (women mostly) were so friendly that they would talk to me and I would say ‘Ja,’ ‘Naturlich,’ ‘Genau’ and feel like a stupid schmak on a stick. Kevin responded: ‘Your English is better than my German.’ I said, ‘Oh, you speak German. Did you study it or did you live in Germany?’ He answers: ‘No, I meant to study it in school. They had, but I chose Spanish. But I can come up with a phrase or two.’ And he says: ‘Danke schon.’ So, after fifty years of studying, speaking and writing in English, I have an Englishman assess my level by that. How very very sad! The worst compliment ever!

To add to the note about ex-Russian chess-player Kosteneuk’s statement ‘I don’t want to be a part of all this’ before she changed her citizenship from Russian to Swiss. I would understand her position if she claimed the Ukrainian roots. After al, I am writing about self-identification non-stop; it has been the main theme in all my writings. But to run away from a changed circumstance to the ‘enemy,’ is nothing short of betrayal. I despise that response to the situation.

05.10.2023. A very exciting day. In all respects, but also politically speaking. When Peskov announced Putin’s speech at this year’s Valdaj get-together, I was sceptical: after Putin’s fantastic speech on March 16 of last year, he has not spoken well. I don’t know who wrote his speech this time, but it was even better. Not that he said anything new apart from announcing yet another super weapon, but it is as if he rounded up his previous theses even more so. The discourse was as smooth as silk, as they say in Masterchef, and all the elements fit together beautifully. For me, the speech was about Russia’s special mission, actually a very special revolutionary mission, except this time, unlike a century years ago, it was not about the revolution within but for the outside world as well. You could hear in Putin’s speech that very register from 1917: ‘We will raise the old world to the ground and build a new and fair world again.’ Putin’s press-conference was candid and to the point. I doubt it will be read carefully by those prejudiced in the West. Even less so – understood. But, again, after a long hiatus, I have come to respect and trust Putin again. Even his mis-spoken proverbial ‘Look who is talking’ aimed at the EU head was sweet (the Russian saying has a cow mooing, and Putin said an old horse mooing) and perhaps even more meaningful than intended as a result. All in all a good day of happenings. Will go to sleep with sweet thoughts. Good bye, anxiety and stress! Even if for the night!

In light of the recent events back in Russia, I am trying to cross out my sister as an active participant in my life, leaving her only the historical and formal function. Not easy – my mom stands in the way. My sister continues to live through her. Well, I guess it is just a matter of time then.

08.10.2023. As it was expected – the only mention of Putin’s ‘programmatic’ Valdaj speech was the one about Burevestnik (the new nuclear powered ICBM). Pathetic American and European journalism. The rocket and the way Putin spoke (well, in my opinion, although he traditionally or habitually misspoke a couple of times, but then again, it was a long marathon like press conference that lasted over two hours, and he is 71 after all). Disappointed and angry I am. was more annoyed at the gym where they showed the gymnastics world cup. Just like yesterday, it felt half a competition without the Russians. It was painful to watch, and so I looked away for the most of my session (which was not easy: they have screens all over the place). As for the front, business as usual. By now I am not sure what it was that Putin promised Balitsky – the fall is on the out, and nothing ‘interesting’ has happened so far.

It was a remarkably good week: I received author’s copies on my last book, Tanja sold the by now teenage kittens and the Home Office granted me the infinite right to remain (it took me three years to get it, but it took me 13 years to get my US citizenship – oh, well, good things come to those who wait, I guess). My work was also pretty substantial, less in writing and more in figuring stuff out. Reading was good – mostly Gogol, but also Tynjanov and Florensky. I started working on Kubrick, bought a couple of books. From his biography he appears less interesting than as a legend, but don’t they all?! I am reading up on Kubrick for the sake of comparing him with Tarkovsky (article or chapter, I don’t know).

Oh, yeah, and we swam today. All of us but Leon went and enjoyed it. Was a bit colder (it is autumn, after all), but swimmable and even suntanable. It is indeed an anomaly. We have never been in the sea that later. Weird! Weird and exceptionally pleasant. One but substantial benefit of not being in Russia at this time.

The recent events in Israel have left me indifferent. Too much ado, not so much at stake (I mean globally, for I have always said that any war is a tragedy, when people die, it is a tragedy, and it does not matter if they die heroically or not).

10.10.2023. British MI6 struck again: after having slept over the HAMAS attack they announced a sensational news! The best kept Russian secret is exposed: there will be presidential elections in Russia on March 15 and Putin is going to run! Oh, man, these people, these Western analysts, they work, they work day and night and here are the results. The world is barely breathing from excitement. I have no idea what the Russians are gonna do now. They’d better pull the troops back and surrender the Crimea! How more incompetent and idiotic can an intelligence service be? Seriously. After this other piece of work on the bushes that, according to MI6, stopped the Ukraine’s offensive in Zaporozhje, this one is a proper gem. Gogol would not have thought up anything as nearly as fantastic. I am going to go and throw up now.

15.10.2023. It is a sign of age: all little deviations from the pre-established routine are taken as disastrous. When the gym closed last Tuesday due to the rapid disintegration concrete (raac), I was shocked and then depressed for days. It felt like something was taken away from me against my will. It was as much an affront to my whole way of life as the Western sanctions on their precious vehicles (German, French, Korean, you name it). No, seriously, just like that. Except that with the foreign cars there was at least a reason (actually, more than one), but here, some stupid public safety alert and as stupid the engineering decision to use this type of concrete. Man. Yet, apart from a tremendous discomfort over the cancelled preference, there was another component to my upset. The gym was my properly social context and the only one outside of my family. It is from this perspective that it became irreplaceable. Again, the analogy with the war situation comes to mind. If I were to visit my friends and relatives some place Western Europe or the USA on a regular basis, I would have also been deprived of that. At this point it may appear incommeasurable, this comparison, but isn’t the sentiment in the heart of the beholder? It felt massive, and it still feels big, but as all things, including this war, it will pass and be repaired, this sense of a loss. Plus, I will be in Moscow on November 1st, and there is this very analogue of a gym (a better one in fact) there and perhaps when I return this one in Hove will reopen (mythmaking in action – never mind). One advantage of this closure however was an inordinate amount of freed time (the gym and all things around it take over four hours on a gym day).

By the way, speaking about the war, I mean the Ukrainian war and not the other war, which is not a war, but indeed a special military operation in comparison, just as Putin said. Now is a good time to remind myself that the man indeed fulfils his promises. Earlier, I wrote a note on one Balitsky (head of the Russian Kherson) quoting Putin who said that there will be ‘interesting things happening in the fall.’ The way I see it, they are happening, these things, and there will be more of them coming. Other than that…

18.10.2023. An old Englishman at the gym (this other run by the council gym I used to go to when we lived at the old address) told me that my accent sounded Swedish or Finnish. I laughed. That was the first one. I have never been placed so much up North. Another year and someone will take me from an Islander. Yeah, the gym debacle is weathering out: the old gym, although expensive and crammed, is passable. It is also run by the council, as I have mentioned, and this means less care on the part of the staff, which in turn means a possibility to sneak in unnoticed. We will see. The son of mine who appreciates all this sneaky projects the most is sneaky Nik or Nik-the-sneak, as I call him. My baby!

Was walking along the esplanade on the way to the gym. The sea was stormy. Like – really stormy. It was so majestic: heavy massive unstoppable waves. I got soaked of course when I arrived. Bummer!

In Asoha (watching with the kids), I want the villains to win. I really like the Admiral. He is a very good bad guy. Slow and meticulous, not at all haughty, and his pace – mesmerizing. He is blue with red eyes, but I forgive him that little bit of kitchness because he is also tall and well paced. A teat.

The Masterchef winner of 2014 was a treat as well. Ping was very good. There was something so very genuine in her, so very touching. A full time mom from Malaysia who rose to become a star. I rarely like Asian cooks on Masterchef, but Ping was exceptional. Even Tanja squeezed out a tear at the end when Ping emptied a glass of champaigne in one go and got immediately tipsy which prompted the lascivious Gregg to give her a wet kiss straight away. It was a good ending. The world was young then.

20.10.2023. A new batch of contestants on Masterchef 2017. A few total loosers who got cut out after the first round. Always the most entertaining thing to watch – the prelims. At times you jsut know straight away who is gonna get axed even before you see them cook. But there are surprises, as always. Like this smooth and self-assured young man who moved and cooked as if he knew what he was doing but all that he had made was crap!

They moved Konashenkov to weekly updates only – a good idea, for the man did these briefings for the Russian MoD for a year and a half every day and looked properly downtrodden recently. Finding more and more similarities with Florensky, except that he was a huge talent, and I am not. But I have never been envious of other people’s talents. I have always perceived myself as different and perhaps even unique on a good day, but never talented. Yet, his fascination with nature and its mysteries are what I certainly share with him and my other ‘double’ – Tarkovsky (really want to write more about him – a huge urge).

Dumble d’Or is also getting ready for the Russia trip. Luka insisted that I would take him along (he is so small, anyway)). So he put him on the bike and gave him a French bulldog ‘for fun.’ Let him go there and do some magic, help Putin win: the old man needs a bit of assistance, it seems.

21.10.2023. The church of Lulu is a shipskin that sits on the couch in the living room. Lulu has habitually come to the skin and bowed and slowly petted it with the front paws. Now, her young apprentice Blue does the same thing. When they pray – and the activity indeed looks like praying – both she-cats half close their eyes and maintain complete silence. The entire ritual, which we observe daily, lasts for about thirty seconds. Blue seems to miss her ‘sisters’ from her adopted family. Misses some, not too much.

Another update from the animal world concerns the fish. Now that the bandit barbs are gone, the only drama that takes place now and then concerns one of the barbs who seems to suffer from some spine deformity. It is the smallest fish and it eats very little. What is interesting – speaking about fish empathy (sounds odd) – is that the biggest fish of the pack of five watches over the dwarf and when the feeding takes place, it ‘calls’ the dwarf and clears the way for it, so that it could eat in peace without competing with the others. Much impressed.

Still looking for a good Halloween film for the kids. I like Friday the 13th, Texas Chainsaw massacre, The Night of the Living Dead, Psycho, The Shining the most. I am not sure they will be suitable though for the little ones: cinematic aesthetics of these old films is quite old fashioned. I would hate to seem them bored. After all, I was properly scared when I saw these films in the States. My first Halloween in 1983. Man – the number is so depressing. To think of it, Tanja was ten years old!

22.10.2023. I always get excited before going to Russia. Excited and a bit anxious. It is different this time. I am only anxious and my attempts to reframe have not been successful. I feel like I am surrounded by conflicts. Literally and physically besieged. Not only the war in Ukraine and that skirmish in Israel (the semitic theme is quite strong with me these days), but the current conflict between my sister and myself and the latent conflict between myself and mother. Each of these conflicts feed into all others creating anxiety filled horror images during the night. Being stranded is still the predominant theme, but if in the past it was one kind of a setting (say, a railroad station or a construction site), it is a sci-fi horror mix of the real (memories, news images) and the fantastic. There is a proliferation of anxiety. It comes in waves like the ones I see everyday on the way to the gym when I am walking along the esplanade. My attempts to conjure up ‘sweet and fluffy’ images that deal with my trip fail, for I know that staying with my mother will be tough (she started forgetting things at the speed that makes me very worried), and the relief I typically received from being at the dacha will be put in question by the unpredictability caused by my sister’s instability. I wonder in this respect what it is that I am going to write first thing from Moscow, and if this first note is not going to be all a joyful one. I truly hope for it.

24.10.1023. Just to give an example of a classic anxiety dream that would be travel specific. Last night in the early hours of the morning I dreamt of working with a group from Russia. I was their interpreter. Like in good old days. At some point my driver (we were traveling by bus) refused to drive us claiming that he had amnesia, as in he forgot how to drive. I had to step in. Yet, before we drove off to our destination I wanted to practice since I never drove a bus before. My practice took place in a large room (yes, room) on the second floor of a building that faced the Kremlin. It was dark when I was practicing so I could see the red star on the Spasskaja Tower. I had a difficulty manouevering the bus but low and behold, after a few awkward tight turns, I got satisfied. I got out, folded the bus (like a partition of a theatre decoration) and went to my group to let them know that we could continue our journey. All of us (ten or so people) came to the bus only to find out that the wheels of the bus were gone. Completely gone. It was at the same moment of shock that I discovered that my backpack was gone as well. I got so anxious that I woke up. So, is it a classic travel anxiety dream or not?

Blue that has come to replace Lulu is quite a purrer. She is dainty, bony too, but she purrs like Myshkin has never purred. If she were a human girl, I would have signed her up for singing lessons.

27.10.2023. There is a certain calm about my trip to Russia. Very few loose ends left. All options, even the most unpleasant ones considered and accepted. The only thing unpredictable is my mom’s health, but then again she managed to reach 80 and go over, so maybe not any time soon, as it often feels. There calm and a greater awareness of my continuous upset and aggression over the world affairs. Even when watching Masterchef, I now and then feel ashamed and embarassed over my excessively ‘personal’ comments. My kids (I was watching The Haunted Mansion with them) noted that as well: ‘Kha, strange, it was not really racist, dad!’ Kha, I guess I am mellowing down.

28.10.2023. I understand better now that I am following Tanja’s process of evaluating applicants for the position in her department that all my life I studied not because I enjoyed the activity so much so (there were times, most of the time in fact that I hated it) and not because I was good at it (I have always been a B student) or was competitive (thanks God – never!), but because I could easily forget all that I have learned. Indeed, this allowed me to study until I was in my fifties. And what I do now, this so called research that I write, is a testimony to that. I did not have to unlearn. I would simply start a new as if for the first time. What an amazing gift! I wish that there was a name for it (lernus something). Perhaps my ever strong attention to detail over the whole and the priority given to the human factor helped. Who knows?

It is nice to see the US in the minority with this UN Gen Ass resolution. Not just the usual minority of the big 7, but in the company of Fiji and the Czhec (what a pointless name for a country – you cannot even spell it out without hiccupping..).

At the gym (the new old one at King Alfred’s Freedom Leisure), they have these old-fashioned posters of the ‘before and after’ kind. Curiously, hence the old-fashioned bit, the change is not as nearly as drastic as they typically show in these posters, but the most amusing thing is that the guy who was transformed as a result of personal training depicted there did not only turned from a white skinned flabby bolding chap into a darker skinned somewhat muscular one, gaining with all that quite a bunch of hair! Both on his head and on the chest! No, no, same guy!

30.11.2023. Sometimes I feel like God is not watching over me per se, but just hints watching over. Like giving me a taste of his(her) presence. I called it providence or the hand of God, but there might be another name to it. For example, for the last two days, when I would go to this gym of mine (yes, the one with the hairy guy), I luck out either by being given an opportunity to sneak in without paying (I know, but 8 pounds per session in a run down packed up room…Really?!) or by making a mistake and coming over earlier only to find out that the gym is having a short day. An accident? Perhaps, but accidents have a different sense to them. Lucky accidents do happen but these ones have the kind of finesse that does not appear random. Well, I am only saying this because I am secretly (or not so secretly, now that I am writing it for those ‘out there’) hope that the same providence will accompany me on the way to Russia tomorrow. I have already written that I am a nervous traveller (skittish, in fact), but I am pretty calm now. Too calm; hence, my need of insurance. The belief in God’s hand seems to be such insurance. Let us see then, altho my next note will unlikely happen before next weekend: when in Moscow, even when Internet is working, I have to reset every single password, and last time WordPress refused to let me on the first go. Again, we will see.

07.11.2023. Every year adjusting to my mom requires an extra effort: she does not hear well, she gets hurt instantly and she argues badly, but she does like to argue, for I think she feels most alive when she does it. In turn, with each year I am more irritable than before, and I am less tolerant, especially when it comes to what I deem my mother’s provocations.

Oddly, a different topic, when I am in Russia I care little about the news. Even MOD briefings do not attract me. They are not as relevant somehow. There is also much less anxiety about the war. Like the war is normal here, and it is only from the perspective of the home that it is okay. I remember reading in Gardner’s Resurrection about the mother who was getting mad trying to get to her son who was injured in a freak accident, but once she reached the hospital, she got completely calm. Something about being there, I guess.

In Malakhovka, in the evening on the way from a grocery store nearby the train station I saw a kitten. Not very small, four months or so (now I know). It was standing in the middle of the street looking at the people passing by. I had a mild empathetic response. I felt like it would allow me to pick it up and carry it home. But the night was very warm and clear. There was no sense of emergency or danger, and I passed by. Later at night, I dreamt of this kitten, wishing that I picked it up or at least attempted to do so. I imagined putting it in the old mice infested house, giving it milk and the remains of the fish I had, making it a litter box with old papers. I would have to give it to my mom eventually or let it go, I don’t know, but I could have come up with something. Today, on the way to the station I was on the lookout but did not see it. A lost opportunity to do some good.

10.11.2023. I have never seen such amazing trains that run to the dacha (Malakhovka) every ten minutes. Not even in Germany. They are super spacious, clean and leather, color, screens and all that kind of stuff. During the ten months that I was gone, the platforms along the route I take got all renovated cardinally, that is, new platforms, new supports, modern materials and non-stop announcing. Very impressed. To the point that I started missing the f…uped East German monsters that smelled like garbage and very super uncomfortable like all of them were heading to GULAG. Fortunately, one can still ride these trains. One day, a few days ago, by mistake, I took one of those nostalgia trains in the wrong direction and trust me was quite scared when I found myself on a dilapidated platform next to the train schedule that said that trains here run every hour. That was a good sobering up. Nostalgia-schmoltagia. I prefer back to the future.

It is quite peculiar that at the super duper gym (Manhattan Fitness) of mine I see the same people I have not seen for ten months. Guess what! They have not changed. I remember them well. I even remember their routines, and none of them have moved up. Those who looked good look good but not better. Those who had saggy bottoms still have saggy bottoms despite all the exercises they do there. Those who had bear bellies continue to have them, while those who had thin arms do have thin arms ten months later. Long live consistency! That’s on the bright side. On not so bright side, is it worth it? All this fitness without progress, is it worth the time? A rhetorical question of course. It is an addiction but unlike other addictions, it does not take away anything. Even time is well spent in contemplation and creating nasty verses about nasty people (that is my past time))).

13.11.2023. Dog owners in Moscow have always been sensitive to trends. If a big dog, it is Wolfhound, if a small one – Mittelshnauzer. This year it is not even dog but fox that is in fashion. I have seen two only in the course of the last week! I saw a video too: a happy family on a large bed next to two foxes. Weird. Perhaps we shall catch a few in England (they are plenty) and bring over here

I was listening to the radio this morning, and it was then that the Russian MOD announced that they have left their positions in the South and moved back. Immediately after, there was a correction: ‘a provocation carried out by the Ukrainian hackers.’ Yet, I did experience a scare.

16.11.2023.

In pursuit of some vague idea of reading discipline, I have begun to read, whilst in Russia, the first seventy volumes of the World Compedium of Literature. Having mastered Gilgamesh and other Ancient Egyptian and Messopotamian literature, this year I took upon myself the task of re-reading Illiad and Odyssey. Despite it being infested with proper names, Illiad turned out to be a fascinating read. Translated by Pushkin’s friend Gnedich, it is masterful rendition. Its plot, its description of the main battle, its detialed, if not graphic, scenes of jousting are a massive joy. The heroes, the Gods, the Kings and all their emotionality mixed up with ruses, plots, treachery, strategy, tactics, changes and heart, broken hearts and a lot of death reminded me, unwittingly, of the current conflcit and the face-off between Russia and the West. Illiad as a paradigm of war and interpesonal, inter-godly conflict. Achilles and Agamemnon, Hector and Dionidos, Odyssesus and Nestor. Pretty neat…

The weather in Russia has not decided yet if it wants to be winterlike or not. Today was the first `near-winter‘ day, as they have announced on the radio.

One way for me to deal with my mom, who does not hear very well, choosing to scream from the far end of the apartment and expecting my answer, is to repeat every thing that I say three times even if she does not ask for clarification. I do it by changing my intonation, speed, and volume, and sometimes syntax (when I feel particularly playful) so that I would not upset her. Like in a refrain in a song: “I have not seen the broom. I..I..have not..seen.. the brooom. The broom I have not seen.” Seems to be working. Still a waste of time.

I cannot say that I miss my gmx account (the Russians seem to have blocked it as ‘unfriendly provider’), but deep inside I wonder if in the meantime there is not a fab kind of news sitting there, waiting for me to read it. When I return to England in a month there will be a thousand good for nothing messages and not a single one qualifying as fab, I am sure.

There are not longer train schedules posted at these new super duper train stations. One has to download an app to get to the schedule. I feel like my resistance to the smartphone is futile. But not yet, not yet. My worst experience over here was when I caught a fifty percent off sale on Cava at a local chain liquor store. It turned out that in order to get it one had to download an app of some kind (physical store cards were phased out, I was told). I was disappointed but not enough so as to reconsider my aversion. When they asked me why I would not, I threw out my usual: ‘for religious reasons.’ I sometimes add: ‘devil’s work.’ Thi s weirds people out, but I do not care.

17.11.2023. The neighbor upstairs in Moscow, once drunk, starts building something, sometimes deep into the night. He saws, he hammers, he clinks and clanks. When less annoyed, I imagine him building an airplane, fixing the wings, attaching the propeller. I wonder about his destination as well.

Greek gods are not mean, but they surely manipulative. They are also very jealous and quite reactive intrigants, which makes them super dangerous. And stubborn. Homer describes lavish gifts given to Athena and Apollo. Yet, they do not always accept. Finicky…

The weather is properly winter in Moscow: minus 4 and snow. Finally.

23.11.2023. Very pretty. I love this weather. It is…ah…romantic, but in a different way than the late fall, which takes my breath away: the decay some of which I saw and experienced in Berlin but nowhere else. When it is snowing heavily, it gets fuzzy, the horizon fades away, and the people move to the background even if they are standing right next to you. When I come home (dacha), I am still fresh from the walk, but not cold. That cup of coffee minutes after feels soooo good! It is such a shame that neither Tanja nor my boys have experienced this time of the year in Russia. One day, I hope.

Speaking of which. All last week (several days in a row) I watched all sorts of talk shows which became to blur into one non-stop narrative about the corrupt and stupid West, about the corrupt and stupid Ukranians, about the evil Americans. Although I typically agreed with this narrative, I have developed a horrible headache less so from listening to not at all stupid people but from the people themselves. They were not very pretty people. Their actual selves were quite distracting. And so I switched to listening to the radio. What a relief! Same narrative but well presented (mostly) and a great background. I remember how I tried to replicate this experience in England, even bought a nice old-fashioned SONY radio set. Maan! It was horrible! It was not at all better than TV but worse. On TV over there you see handsome people. By and large. What they say is mitigated by their appearances (I don’t watch English news for the reasons stated above many times: they are viciously one sided and rarely interesting). So, it is the other way round. Could it be that I deal with a different speaking/talking culture here in Moscow? In either case – quite enjoyable.

The Illiad is still a massive hit with me: so rich! I drink it like I drink kefir (rjazhenka – curdled milk). With sugar. Like and with. I even have the best time for Homer – before going to sleep. I love the images. They help me sleep.

24.11.2023. I got absolutely bonkers shopping last night fr Black Friday Deals. Had a horrible headache and couldn’t sleep. When I thought that my mom could give me for Christmas yet another pair of deeply discounted shoes of the brand I have six or seven pairs already and slyly asked her if she had a Christmas gift in mind, she said: Yeah, sure, if it is not shoes…Sadly, I tend to buy the same shit, even for the kids.

Yesterday, on the way home o my mom’s flat, a kid called me ‘dedushka’ (old man). I was shocked and yelled at him: ‘Look, where is dedushka, who is dedushka, open your eyes, punk, where do you see dedushka?’ (not quite the dialogue, but the emotion was true). It was embarrassing. When I told my mom about it, shes said: Of course, you are an old man and you’d better get used to it. Look at me! (She is eighty two). I guess there is more to the ‘new reality’ than the war in Ukraine and global warming((.

27.11.2023. Time flies – I am getting into ‘getting ready to leave for UK’ mood now that there is less than three weeks left. Will not miss shoveling snow over here for sure – so unused of that activity in the UK.

It appears (a fact in fact) that Leon (the oldest – 17) broke up with his g/f. The second one in the course of one year. After just only four months. But why ‘just only’? Wasn’t it when I was 17 that some relationships lasted only a few weeks? Well, for some there were very short, for others long. I remember it being super varied at the time. Oh, well. The funky thing is the reason – moving too fast. Funky not in itself, and not even in relation to Leon (he is totally a creature of the routine), but in relation to his 12 y.o. brother Nik, who broke up with his g/f because – hold tight to your chair – ‘she was not ready…nothing was happening…we just aid Hi to each other…I need someone more proactive.’ Proactive? I am glad you are not Leon, son. On the other hand, really? As a worrying father, I guess I prefer Leon’s response to the situation. Shall I stop worrying about Leon’s heartbreak and start worrying about Nik? And there is Luka in the approach with his karate addict Emmy. Maan.

As a reason for his break-up Leon said ‘I am independent kind of guy.’ You should have seen the pile of dirty laundry, unwashed dishes and a mountain of dirty shoes that belong to the ‘independent kind of guy.’ From this perspective, I’d rather put my money on Nik.

29.11.2023. Putin has done it again: he upped the ante at the All Russia Forum. One may benefit from reading A. Kolesnikov’s interpretation that found the President’s speech ‘confrontational, value setting, and more isolationist that ever.’ I think it is a correct interpretation, and it works. It works already because for the Russians ‘the war is going well.’ Yeah, it is going to be long, but the results are beginning to show: as a sovereign state Ukraine does not exist any more. Nor does it exist as an economy. Its political regime is about to fall, and its demographics will not recover any time soon. And I am saying all this without much satisfaction because it has become exceedingly clear that the actual conflict, which is between Russia and the West, is going to happen and it will be more confrontational than ever.

02.12.2023. Saw a curious design flaw with the garbage receptacles at all these fancy newly built Moscow radial stations (I use the line – 3d – when I travel to Malakhovka). It appears that the team that designed these stations (basically, the platforms) chose to install tiny long bottle shaped garbage receptacles using the same principle symmetry as was used with the overhead lights at these stations. Visually, the receptacles look great, but practically, they suck! Not only it is impossible to just throw garbage inside, they are so tiny that they are always already overfilled. It is physically impossible to empty them in time. I can imagine the early crowd during the rush hour. The Moscovites these days travel armed with a paper cup of coffee. All these paper cups would have ended up the trash, but now, they are the trash all around these little pretty vases. Quite weird to see such an obvious oversight. What kind of a dreamer designed these things? I wonder.

Weekends are the gym are always replete with memorable encounters. There are truly weird people who come over. Today, I saw a Gru. Yeap, the character from the Minions, or rather the master of the Minions. A copy. Believe me. The same figure (thin legs, narrow heaps, wide shoulders, and a belly), the same boldness, the same black outfit and the same attitude (grouchy). It was uncanny. He did some boxing, then some heavy stick exercises, then some heavy weights. Only once he took off the hood from his head (this is how I know he was bold). Another attraction was a jumpy guy who would do two jerks on one machine and then run to another, do two there and so on. Also a middle aged man. Bolding. There were others but I am too tired now: had a visit from my nephew and his wife (they have a small boy as well). I tried to play with the boy but he was not into me, and I was sad. Sad and a bit embarrassed. Me, a play expert, who could not excite a three-year old. Time to go cry and eat worms.

After my mom’s herring, pickled mushrooms and shredded beats with garlic I am super thirsty at night. My mom knows that but insists that I would drink boiled water from a special glass bottle. I hate the taste of this water and I hate the bottle – I always hit my teeth at night in the dark. Yet, she hates to see me spend money on bottled water. It is unfathomable for her. And so the good son of sixty years old keeps on suffering. Oh, well! I shall stop now and read some Illiad – Song 16: more blood and gore, more fallen heroes and more treachery of the gods. That shall put me to sleep in no time))

03.12 2023. By the way, I too look weird in the gym – I am too neatly dressed. I mean ‘dressy’. There is a category of gym goers who get annoyed by it. I also project arrogance – never look in the eye of another when I am there. You can picture that, don’t you? I want to smile more, but I cannot rely on my old mouth – I am afraid my smile would come around as a grimace. Well, worth trying nonetheless. How about in an hour or so…

05.12.2023. Tanja sent me and my mom a couple of We Transfer files with Luka and Nik singing Christmas carols. When I tried to open the files, I got the following message. ‘These files cannot be downloaded in the Russian Federation. We Transfer refuses to support the war in Ukraine.’ What does this mean? This means that Kozin has promptly added the company to his long, long blacklist. It is growing indeed. Most importantly, my grudge over the shameful behavior of the West has no expiration date. Yet, there are exceptions. When I travel by train, occasionally there is vendor passing through selling batteries, socks, nuts, plasters, books, seeds, toys, Japanese needles, etc. Now and then I would buy something. Less and less so, but I would. Typically, it is an impulse buy, but one item I buy all the time: pens. The person selling them (four for 100 rubles, or 1 pound) poses to represent the Society for the Blind. Well, not that he does and not that it matters. Even if he did, I would not support the Society. I just like the pens. These four pens are typically marketing merchandise from large companies, most of which left the country in the wake of the war: Pepsico, BMW, Fiat, Bayer, Siemens. Big companies that tend to go expensive on their merchandise. I imagine that they sold off this kind of supplies for pennies or just gave it away, and so here I am buying it, foregoing my principles. I love these pens. They are sooo cool! Fiat makes the best. They are shaped like their little fat 500 cars. Most importantly, they write pretty well. Kozin is happy)).

I was in the grocery store tonight buying stuff for the return trip to Moscow – two one litter bottles of vodka. I was exceedingly sober. In front of me was a woman who was shit-faced drunk. She was buying lactose-free milk. Four bottles. We were looking at our respective selections with great suspicion. Is this irony or what?

08.12.2023. I was travelling by train from the dacha to Moscow. It was freezing cold. Minus 15 but with the chill factor – minus twenty. Half way when the train was pulling to the platform I noticed a man (peripheral vision has alerted me, plus some oddness) in a T-shirt. I saw the red arms (totally chilled) and then the rest of him. In addition to the T-shirt, he was wearing a pair of jogging pants and a pair of high snickers. His clothes was well selected but old and cheap, especially his backpack. He had long hair, trimmed beard and mustache. He was about twenty five. Looked like a muskitier (the one in the service of the King) or a musician (guitar player). He looked confident and utterly all right; yet, I began to imagine the circumstances that resulted in this strange outfit. I imagined him having had a fight with his girlfriend and leaving in a huff. I imagined that someone stole his clothes. I even imagined his fleeing the scene of a crime. Then, I began to project his state into the future. I imagined him getting pneumonia and dying. I got totally uneasy. I started thinking if I should do something. Offering him money seemed wrong: it was an emergency after all. By the time he makes it to a shopping center, it could be too late. Plus I could never give enough for him to buy a decent coat – in fact, I had only two hundred rubles (two pounds) in my wallet. Then, I began to think about all the things I had I could spare. The only thing that seemed givable was a sweatshirt I was wearing over a turtle neck. I liked the sweatshirt – it was Brax. I bought it in Berlin and wore during my short tenure at the University of Edinburgh. I also imagined how I would be walking home from the gym (half hour in this weather?). I had a good winter coat but only a thin turtleneck underneath. Of course, I could put a t-shirt under or over at the gym. Still. When it was one train stop before mine left I made up mind. I came over (he was rummaging in his phone) and said: ‘I am sorry. You seem to be very lightly dressed for the weather. Do you mind if I offer you my sweatshirt?’ He barely looked up and said – with explicit scorn – ‘No. Go.’ I did not expect this kind of answer. Frankly, I did not plan for an answer. I did not expect any. I decided to play my role to the end. said: ‘I am really sorry that I disturbed you!’ and added for some weird reason: ‘God bless!’ I must admit, I was not upset. I felt like if I did not offer this man my sweatshirt, I would have regretted it. Secretly, I was glad that he rejected my offer: I like this sweatshirt!

I read at the dacha (I take a natural science journal from them; it is called Knowledge is Power; it is like Discovery) that two-faced Janus was the god of passageways and doors. Not at all the symbol of hypocrisy and lies. I liked that. Lots of Russian gods are the gods of house structures. They include the god of basement, even the god of dark corners. They are minor gods, of course, but generally benevolent, albeit tricksters. These gods of the domicile like to be buttered up. Or just let be. Khm, the god of the doors. The Doors. Janus’s fan club.

09.12.2023. A nice piece from A. Kolesnikov (Kremlin’s pool, Kommersant) about all the Princes Putin received and visited in three days. Not as funny tho – not as caustic. A bit sad even.

I got up early, but my mom was not up. I looked in her room and saw a bulge on her bed. I presumed it was her. I presumed she was sleeping, but then I began to wonder about the other option. She was very quiet; I wished that she snored like always. I realized that I do not know what to do, who to call, how to make arrangements. I also began to think how it would be, in this horrible weather, to go through all the rituals. Oddly, in my family, all the members who have died, chose winter for the occasion. Speaks volumes about this time of the year in Russia and its effects on the weak body, but also about it being quite opportune – not for the living obviously. My mom sleeps so badly that waking her up would be cruel. I guess I will just wait.

I was finishing The Illiad when my mom woke up. I will miss Homer or shall I re-read The Odyssey? I guess. An amazing piece of literature. I must admit, at the very end, the scene when Achylles and Priam met about Hector’s body I got so touched, a tear rolled down my cheek (that old man is quite sentimental).

11.12.2023. The guy from “The Society of the Blind” recognized me today when I was travelling to Moscow and gave me one pen for free. I got so touched that I bought yet another four-pack. What a sucker! I am drowning in pens. And shoes.

In Moscow it gets dark at 3pm, and I love it: the color palette is totally mine. From gray to black. It is particularly cool for romantic get-togethers (not that I have had any over here): you can dine early and still have a whole evening for ambling around the city.

Funky-monkey news channel: I saw a house on an odd Russian Tv channel. It is made entirely of doors. Looks super uncomfortablae except for entry/exit purposes of course, but the guy who built it (he lives deep in the Siberian province nearby a pre-fab house building factory that makes doors) was totally psyched; he kept on saying: “It is excellent panneling. These panels are sound and water proof. I doubt it, but Janus would have loved to reside in this house, no doubt. I think a house made of windows entirely would not have worked as well, but then again, there must be glass houses otherwise why believe in the proverb? Just kidding. I am not an idiot. Not yet, anyway, but looking at some old folks – yes, Biden, for example, I shall be wary of the number 80 and beyond. A bit more about houses: Milne’s Winnie-Pooh had a tree house (doesn’t work in reality) and Eoyre had a house made of sticks and so did some of the piglets from the fairy tale. A cardboard house on the outskirts of Adis-Abeba. What is it with my spelling today?! I have all these pens and nothing correct to write? On that note…

14.12.2023. Tried to write a few times, but couldn’t connect to WP. Must be the saboteurs from the ‘unfriendly states.’ Did not want me to express my admiration of Putin’s press conference. Well, I will be brief. At the event, the Russian President handled himself admirably indeed, and although there were no spontaneous questions, he did not falter. Not even once. He was very well prepared. He looked and sounded together. He was polite and respectful even of those questions that were annoying and plain stupid. He joked. As for the content, well, take the questions: egg prices, auto prices, war benefits, roads, pensions, housing, some war. He did not have it easy, but there were no ‘sharp and biting’ questions. No questions about the runaways and no questions about the elections and the lack of opposition, well, even alternative candidates. No questions about the Russian casualties and the prospects at the front. Yet, I liked what I saw. This is very briefly. Maybe indeed the unfriendlies are right: I should not have bothered; not even worth writing about.

22.12.2023. It was just long, this trip back. And I was just as sick as last time. It is as if my body’s inner clock was set for the time of departure. Exactly three days before the flight my organism became weakened. On purpose, I presume. It was as if it thinks that it is a cycle of some kind, and it is I who set it up. And so, it allowed for the flu. I like having the flu. Not being sick but precisely having the flu. I like the fever (not so much the cough and the sniffles). But most of all I like the delirium, the heavy dreams and the surreal images. Now that a week has passed and I have pretty much recovered I still feel sleepy, and I like that too. I like to sleep here in Hove. What I don’t like is the blandness and flatness of recovery. In the next two to three days after the crisis I don’t care much to work, to read, to play (except for an occasional board game with Tanja and the kids). Without exercising or some strenuous physical activity that works as a catalyst, it is hard to get the juices going. There is also the matter of rhythm, which is very different here, even when it comes to evening activities (watching Loki, SII with the boys and MasterChef Professional with Tanja). More Internet news and less TV news. Feeling quite removed when it comes to the war. Nice to be back.

23.12.2023. Playing Stupid Deaths with Tanja and the kids. Not an unworthy game when it comes to the development of the sense of true and false and intuition.

24.12.2023. I would like to use this opportunity and wish all my readers, whomever and wherever they are, a very cosy and sweet Christmas and a super happy New Year!

27.12.2023. Sadly – when Tanja and the lilones having left for Germany I thought that I would have a ball watching anything I wanted. Guess what I watched during the first night on my own – Wallace and Gromit! Guess what I watched next! Another Wallace. Yeap, the Masterchef! This time – Masterchef Celebrities. Super pathetic it was. No, not me, but that too! Just all these British unknowns (frisky in their ambiguous glory) making stir-fry chicken and mash! Sad as hell! Went to bed early as a result. Argh! Better catch up tomorrow!

28.12.2023. I love looking at our Christmas tree – so many memories! The toys have been collected for years. Actually, decades. There is one (German mini train) that I bought in New York in 1990 and then in Boston in 1991-1993. Then I added toys from Illinois. Then came Germany. After my father died, I brought toys from my childhood (only few left – Lena’s husband left a box outside on the sidewalk when moving out, and it was taken – bastards! I hope this thief never got gifts for Christmas!). Recently, out of pure nostalgia, when I was in Moscow, I went to Vernisazh (open air flea market nearby) and bought a dozen of Soviet Christmas toys. Just like we used to have in my childhood (all Christmas trees looked alike then)).

As for my viewing experience, I am catching up tonight. Deadpool! Not a fan of Renolds, but like the American blunt humour mixed in with special effects. Good for munchies.

29.12.2023. All this food that Leon and myself have in the fridge, it is a proper race against time. leftover turkey, leftover beef roast, leftover Cumberland sausages and more turkey. And now, the gem in our refrigerator wasteland – backgammon on the bone with honey glaze. It is absolutely insane! Leon, an eighty kilo two meter boy (I am about that weight but much shorter), he eats two portions just fine, but even his heroic efforts have put but a dent in our supplies. I just read that the Dutch were advised by their Minister of Defence to hoard food just in case there is a war with Russia. That is where we shall be sending our extras. Not some wanna-be poor African country, but Amsterdam. I bet all their local pot heads would kill for a piece of our backgammon, a war or not!

31.12.2023. For years, while living in Moscow, New York, Boston, Chicago, and Edinburgh I would go downtown to see Christmas lights on the New Year Eve. Also in England. We did go to see the lights in Brighton a few times, although never in London (Leon went last year with his friends). This year, going downtown was not on the agenda at all. Yet, I saw a better thing today: the Christmas sea. On the way to the gym, while walking along the esplanade, I saw the most beautiful sea. If only I had (used) a smartphone, I would have made a picture – so beautiful it was! It was milky white and with the sun shining like it was summer, it was so brightly lit, it appeared as if it was illuminated from the inside. The waves, given the 40 km/h wind, were gigantic and with the high tide, crashing onto the esplanade covering it with foam. It was a spectacular sight. it was also very Christmas somehow. Lots of people were there as well, creating a festive feeling. I truly like the sea over here.

Tonight, for the Christmas dinner, we are going to eat Chinese. Like in the film The Christmas story. We had to order the food two days ago because we would not have stood a chance (as the delivery man confirmed) to get it on time on the day. Now, Tanja is making quarkbaelchen (mini ponchiki) for the kids, and I am resting from the trip to Tesco (we ran out of eggs). Kidding of course – ordinarily my sense of humour is better. Looks like I am running out topics. Oh, no. There is one: I meant to say that Homer rocks! It is such a joy to read Odyssey. I am savouring reading it, only one Song per day. I read it as a child and did not get it: the story was relatively simple but Homer put it in sooo maany words! Now it is not the story that matters but the sujet, the way of telling it. So freaking poetic. There are lines that make me gasp! What a treat!

Okay, and now, Happy New Year! Let its dragon be victorious! By the way, it is my year as in the year I was born, the year of the dragon, which reminds me that I am actually turning 60 next year. Shit! I certainly feel and look like my age. Never mind. I have been waiting for the fifth cycle, hoping it would be the luckiest one (all the previous 12s were such indeed). Since life is supremely good, I have no idea how much better it can even be! Always ready for a surprise. Okay, and now it is time to go and put the appetizers in the oven. Till next year then!

02.01.2023. I barely made it until after midnight on the New Year Eve. Was super tired celebrating. But we did keep up and kept the kids up as well for the fireworks. What a disappointment! Bombastic, chaotic, poorly orchestrated, meaningless. It was like for year the Brits collect everything that fires and then fire it on the Eve. Endless stream of explosions without as much as a thought of the end result. Just shooting up as regular folks around here where we live would do. Just for the sound and colour effect. And this barge, this barge on the Thames that is but a barge and made look like a barge with the lights around it. Maan! I hated the fireworks when I was a kid. My dad would always drag us all to the balcony (9th floor) to see them. Out balcony faced the Vorobjeuv Mountains from where they were shooting the fireworks in Moscow and the view was unhindered (not any more with all the construction going on in Moscow), so one could indeed enjoy all these fiery skies for ten minutes. It was a sight I did not care about then but now I feel like it was something so very special in how it was done (no laser shows, remember) and the variety it features, that it was an unparallel event. What I saw in New York and Boston was something to remember; yet, it was hardly a match. I know it is nostalgia about the younger years and the times gone by speaking, but there must be something objective there. At least significant enough as to justify this old age whining of mine.

08.01.2024. Been long time. Waiting for the end of school break. My waiting bore fruit – it is snowing! The first time this winter here in Brighton it is actually pouring down snow. When i told my mom about it, she was not impressed not in the least. For most English, snow is an impediment – they are not used to drive in it, and so life stalls. Luka lucked out on the other hand. The boy went to the mudcamp for five days. It is sort of a meet the nature project where kids spend their time not on their devices (not allowed) but – literally – wallowing in the mud. To send a kid there means not just to pack a toothbrush but five full changes of clothes. It is an English idea of the end of the primary school’s ‘rite of passage.’ Nik went as well and liked it a lot. Luka, who is a much more outgoing child with a ton of friends, is gonna love it. For us, it is one child less, one mouth less to feed, one backpack less to prepare. Tanja of course will miss him the most, but Nik too – he was very sweet saying goodbye to Luka this morning, being sentimental chap that he is.

12.01.2023. Luka is back. He arrived a bit disorientated and began his re-entry with crying: apparently, in his absence, his German language program stopped working and deleted all his stuff. I was particularly sympathetic. Nik was very happy to see his brother and so was Luka but soon after they took a bath together, they wandered away from each other and settled in their separate rooms which was a bit strange. At the camp, he wore only half the clothes Tanja had packed for him, and his most serious upset from the trip was that on this unique opportunity when there was enough snow for a snow fight an some snow sculpting, there were not allowed to do it straight away under the pretext that there would be an opportunity later. Of course, all the snow melted away within days. Somehow Luka’s return was a bit anticlimactic.

Ganungan is a new word I learnt on Masterchef. You are such a ganungan, Alex!

Soon, in a couple of weeks, I shall return to Russia. I cannot say that I look forward: too short of break!

16.01.2024. I just read that yesterday was the most depressive day of the year (according to the Canadian scientists, no doubt), and I could not believe it. For me it was the happiest day of the year. No, nothing happened that qualified as happy: my work was spritely but unremarkable, my puttering around was within the normal range, my conversation with my mom was neither here nor there, my walk in the downs did not yield anything new, but throughout the day I was feeling quite happy somehow. It began in the morning. Instead of the usual migraine-like symptoms and joint aches, I woke up rested and energized, but that still happens, altho more rarely than I wish. The day was sunny, which is usually not to my liking – I prefer my winter to be drab and cold (would not be able to live anywhere near the tropics (we once considered buying summer property some place Greece or Spain, even Abkhazia, believe it or not), but the thought alone detracted me and then it all went away. My strangely happy day did not find a reason to be happy; yet, it was. Perhaps, I am thinking, happiness is supposed to be exactly that – unexplained and very mild. Otherwise, it would be experienced as elation, which is secondary to happiness, as I found out yesterday, for I was super hyper by the end of the day. During the Masterchef episode I was so chatty that Tanja started giving me dirty looks. I just could not shut up! I even continued with my monologue when I was left alone with the cats watching Mandalorian. My head was still buzzing with excitement when I went to bed. And then I discover that yesterday is supposed to be the most depressive day of the year! Weird! What does it tell about me! Weird..

An aside: still thinking about Berlusconi’s collection of worthless art. A sham of a life. I wish I could write about it. He could have made a great character in a novel or novella. Even a story. Stranger than fiction indeed.

Back to the topic of Masterchef. My Masterchef addiction has two components: the first one is betting as in wanting to know if you judged the new and ongoing contestants well enough to be able to predict if they are going to make it (again the Hunger Games type of a show). A betting element. The other element is to form some kind of like or dislike of the contestants on the basis of what you see. The same applies to those who are always in the show, such as Monica and Marcus or Gregg and John. Commenting on all the developments within these components is like the child’s egocentric speech that apparently, according to Piaget, helps the child resolve some task at hand, the task being the task of prediction.

18.01.2024. In my classification of days, the day before yesterday was a Mercury day. Things went array: a broken tooth, the thwarted entry to the gym (had to pay((, and the ongoing fatigue and a hint of depression. My supper did not work out either. It was like I had to pay for the ‘happy day’ with Athena by having a ‘stupid day’ with Hermes. Would be consistent in Greek mythology. Like Athena was busy (so many clients, so many lives to govern) and the only god on emergency duty was the cheeky Hermes (what a great choice of actor for the role of Hermes in Konchalovsky’s Odyssey!). Then, a secondary nameless god took over yesterday, and things got steady but boring. A good day for cleaning!

It is so much fun to write the intro for the ethnography book. It opens with a long narrative about my childhood experience of being a part of the ‘history club’ with Piecukh, a young history teacher who introduced us, eleven year old boys to the excitement of history by replaying it. All the personal memories that have not been in use are coming to the surface now. Happy memories too! Being a member of the history club and its president for two consecutive years in the fifth and sixth grades (best history too – Ancient World and Middle Ages) was the pinnacle of my schooling. Things have got only worse after that (I had to work and study more and play significantly less((.

Nik’s school had a big fire. He is staying home. Hope – not indefinitely!

19.01.2024. They arrested a 16yo girl in the wake of the school fire. She is accused of arson. Weird. I am curious. There is much potential for a good story. Yesterday, Tanja and myself celebrated my imminent departure. I don’t think I have ever had such a merry celebration. We laughed non-stop. What about? I don’t even remember. I only remember how much fun it was. I think we laughed about the kids. They went to a trial session at the local junior ping pong club and came back with a negative assessment. Their complaints were legit (poor organization, lack of attention to them the newcomers) and some flaws in teaching. At first, it appeared as if they rehearsed their comments on the way home from the venue, but it turned out that they did not. Still, Nik found it in himself to tear up and Luka, who is a super-empath, especially when it concerns his older brother (always gets upset for him) got gloomy. We did not mind.

22.01.2024. With two days left before I depart to Russia, I am getting more and more anxious. Not because there are lots of problems waiting for me there, but there are complications: bank, my mom’s documents, state of the dacha, etc. Yet, by now I have begun to be able to distil the biggest anxiety: the encounter with the old age. It is not meeting my mother but meeting old age that depresses me.

For Kazantseva, the wind of change will not happen. She could not bear the surge of nationalism and patriotism and decided to hang out in the glorious Tbilisi. Sounded like a regular female Soviet intellectual from the eighties. Full of herself and playing coy.

‘You were an odd child,’ my mother told me once. I knew that I was odd but I thought only to others, not to her.

The young Zelensky is the pair part of the old Yeltsyn.

Lenin did not ‘plan it all’ with the Revolution. He was a romantic. It was just that he began as a romantic and ended as a pragmatic. I think this transition is particularly swift for the romantics. And romantic here is a leader who acts on the basis of inspiration. A pragmatic is someone who acts on the basis of need. Putin went the opposite route. He began as a pragmatic and slowly turned into a romantic. Old age, you know.

25.01.2024. An attempt at poetry: A sharp angle. A sharp angle no doubt. Irridecent life. No doubt, a concept, – less so a spelling. Coming to end. Coming rough and sturdy. Coming nonetheless. The touch with the surface anticipated.

24.01.2024. Right – that what it is like to write when you are heavily under the influence. Oh, boy! I also love the projected date. Well, it is still the day after that one needs to worry about. Every ‘celebration’ (with a seedy name libation – not an attempt at poetry!) that Tanja and myself or just myself have over here ends with a tinge of depression the next morning. The more alcohol consumed the stronger the effects of depression. When we celebrated the day before yesterday it was already heavy because of my imminent departure. I was pretty under the effects all day up to the point when we decided to pay a game of Carcassone before dinner. Our playing this German strategy-and-luck game goes back to the pre-children times and is typically very intense (we play fast – I do!) and an average duration of a game is 1.5 hours. Occassionally, we invite children but, although they win often (on an odd chance and children luck), they find the game boring and wind out within half an hour. We don’t like to have them around after they start complaining. Moreover, if they leave the game early (as they do), the board becomes messed up with their abandoned build-up. Well, to make a story short, we had fifteen minutes left and I was winning. All Tanja’s meeples were tied up and she just lost the biggest ‘lawn’ to me. In turn, being hangover and all, I started loosing concentration and, with five minutes to the end of the game, lost the very lawn that could secure me victory. Just goofed. Like in chess.

When I was trying to fall asleep, the remains of my depression got synced up with the loss in Carcassone and for two hours, I kid you not, my game was still playing in my head, creating bridges and blocks, moving cards around. I was buzzing in a bad way. Attempted to get out of the loop but couldn’t – depression threw all sorts of badness at me. I finally fell asleep but was awake at six. The same thing began to happen but milder. Finally, I fell asleep and saw the funkiest dream ever. It was supposed to be depressing but it was not. Here how it went.

I saw myself and Tanja and the kids living in a semi-German, semi-America, and semi-English house (more American in hindsight). We just ‘partook’ when a delivery guy came over with a huge bag. I took the bill and went to get the money. It turned out that we had none. Once we discovered that, we decided to get a drink and smoke a joint. When we finally remembered the guy, like hours or minutes later, he was still standing there. I walked out. He was very angry, and we had an altercation. I gave him the money that miraculously appeared in my hand (like David Tenant in Good Omens would produce it), and he left I went inside to ask Tanja about the food and found her in the boys’ room, where a strange little girl was trying to stick one of our cats in the drawer. I told her of and then her mother appeared: all dressed up like the English do it when they go out: made up, high hair, the whole galangang. I was then they I realized the the house was full with children and their parents and that there is birthday party going on. Obviously, ours. I got petrified. Not only I was not in a condition to host a party, I was dressed like shit: dirty sun scorched hoodie, some t-shirt form the last century, food stains, tooth paste stains, smelling like Myshkin. Yeap, the whole humiliation package. I began to look for Tanja to scream at her for not warning me and found her outside with some new cats. She was holding one in her hands. Those were adorable. They were like Russian Blue, but chubby and smallish, like teddy bears. I was about to say how unhappy I was about the situation when a big English woman with wide hips, wide face and bad teeth came to her and began to talk to her, cutting in. I got annoyed and went inside. After the incident with the little girl, the parents were shunning me, and so I sat down at the bar (miraculously, there was one) to get myself a drink. At this point, a nice bolding man in Hawkins’ glasses sat down next to me and a white woman with braids sat down on the other side. The bolding man asked me about my work. With a heavy tongue I said ‘conversation analysis.’ I don’t know how I even pronounced it. He blinked. The white woman laughed and started kissing my face. I got embarrassed and woke up in a splendid mood!

26.01.2024. In order to understand Putin, one should indeed listen to what he is saying. Listen carefully. Listen not just to the words but to the slightest inflection in his voice. At the same time, there are obvious allusions. For example, one can easily understand how he views himself as a political leader if he considers his use of idioms, apharisms, and quotes. In his latest presentation yesterday, he quoted Churchill who allegedly said that a politician thinks and acts with an eye on the next election, while a statesman thinks and acts in terms of generations. It is obvious which category Putin attributes to himself.

27.01.2024. I was managed to convince myself that the biggest anxiety about my trip to the dacha this January was snow; the record snowfalls made me believe that the entry would be exceptionally difficult. I knew that after a month and a half of absence I would not be able to open the door (opens inside) and would have to climb the fence as it happened two winters ago. In fact, as I was approaching the dacha, even before I saw the door totally blocked from the street side, I realized that it was not the packed snow but the possibility that someone was inside living in the house, someone let in by my sister without warning me, and that it was that possibility that caused my anxiety. Fortunately, there were now visible signs of life, but, as I was about to breath out, I was approached by the neighbor who lives across the street. He told me about ‘loud noises’ coming from the dacha. He asked me it was me who made the noise. I told him that I was gone since December. I also told him that the ‘new house’ was alarmed, but the old one was not and that perhaps that house was burglarized. I rushed toward the ‘easy door.’ When I unlocked it, I could not open it at first, but after a mighty push, it gave way and opened in about a foot. I squeezed in. I grabbed the shovel left next to the door and made a clearing big enough as to allow me to open the door from the inside. When I walked in I saw that there were no footprints on the snow that was about waste deep. I was relieved: the burglary was excluded. Yet, the possibility that the gas heater had blown up remained. [In the past the burglars came from the neighbor’s half house. Indeed, the fence was bent. But that has already happened when the snow slid down and hit the fence and the shed that the Jewish neighbor built in such a way as to have the lower part of the roof over our fence. The non-Jewish god punished her. Every winter when it gets warmer and snow slides, it hits the fence and the shed, mangling the roof. It was then that I realized that it was the snowslide]. Repeated for Tanja. After an hour of shoveling the snow I made my way to the old house. Inside I found everything as I had left it. [After a close inspection I discovered that on the side of the house the snow had slid down massively damaging the fence and the shed on the neighbor’s side.] Shall I be omitting this? That discovery effectively ended my investigation. When darkness fell, I settled happily in the new house. Oh, how my back is killing me!

28.01.2024. Winding back to the trip to Russia. As always, in its contexts – packing, taking the train ride, airport, flight, another airport, another flight and another airport, and finally the taxi ride – all sorts of things may happen at each segment of that sequence. When you travel frequently you don’t want to attend to these things but rather want to ‘unsee’ them. For me, a journey elsewhere takes place relatively seldom, and I love to gawk, so I was hyper attentive to the people, their appearances, behaviors, their actions and reactions, their ‘personas.’ One such persona I have been looking into when living in England is a stereotypical Brit. This category is not homogeneous but includes the young woman Brit, the child Brit, the older woman Brit, the worker Brit and the businessman Brit, etc. There is also such a famous category as the excentric Brit and standing close by to it is the pseudo excentric Brit. I met the latter as I was sitting at the gate waiting for boarding. I was early and was sitting quite close to the door. Slowly all the seats next to me were taken. I had my backpack on the seat next to me. I was texting Tanja when I heard ‘could I?’ I looked up and saw a strange looking guy with long face and a big nose. He was wearing a cowboy hat. I took the backpack and put it down. It was then when I saw a pair of badly worn out cowboy boots. To complete the picture, he was wearing a black leather vest. I recognized him from lining up to the Turkish Airlines check-in. He had a ton of luggage and was moving slowly showing himself and talking to attendants. A regular. As soon as he sat down he began to tell me how much he loves to fly for free. It turned out that he is on benefits and loves it. He has a free (counselor) flat he rents out to students when he goes away, and he goes away every couple of months: Turkey, Greece, Croatia, Macedonia. His hobby is to find ‘burning’ deals and he is quick to take them. He was so comfortable with that narrative that he barely saw how unattractive his whole ‘use the system’ philosophy was for there was nothing of the actual experience of travel – only the excitement of grabbing a freebee. As someone who loves the same, I should have appreciated that but I found his superiority, his flaunted smarts, and his ‘Look how I figured life out’ repulsive. I prayed he would not be sitting next to me on the plane. He wasn’t. He was sitting at the best seat in the entire economy session of the plane – emergency exit 1, the largest leg room space one could get. He was taking this seat in the same way business class people are taking theirs, meticulously slowly. He took his watch off. He took his thermos out. He also had bag of snacks from other airlines he offered to his neighbor (I was sitting right behind). That poor man! Fortunately, the plane was half empty and after it took off I moved one row down just to avoid hearing him jabber non stop about what and how you get whatever for free.

31.01.2024. The next leg of my trip was the train ride from Portslade Station to Gatwick airport. The train ride is relatively short, about half an hour, but as it goes with English trains – unpredictable. Cancellations and emergency stops are common, so there is always some anxiety involved. This time all was good. An announcement was made midway about some signaling problem but that did not concern my route. When on the train, especially on the way to the airport, I tend to stand – not surprisingly with hours and hours of sitting on the plane and at airports, so I put my suitcase next to the door and snuggled comfortably next to it. It was then that Myshkin hit me. The musky smell of cat pee has become utterly recognizable for all of us; yet, as it is sometimes the case in the house, not particularly easy to identify. Typically it is a clothes item. I smelled my coat – the immediate suspect, no, it seemed to be all right. I smelled the suitcase, also fine. I smelled my hat, my gloves, my backpack, took off the coat and smelled my hoody. They were not the source. The train pulled to the station. Low and behold I was moving through the airport stations: check in, passport control, security check, etc. The smell was following me sturdily. Once I sat down in the common area, I resumed my search for the source. The smell did not abate. I opened my carry on and took everything out. I smelled and re-smelled everything. The guy sitting next to me got up and left. I kept on searching. It was when I put the backpack down that the smell hit me afresh. I lowered my head to realize that the strange discoloration on my shoes was not the worn-out leather and that Myshkin visited my shoes not long time ago, perhaps even the day before my trip. After a packfull of wet wipes Myshkin was gone. I was free!

01.02.2024. It is quite a change to see the new trains I take to and from Malakhovka to have very few peddlers. I can explain it by the commuter police (every such train has a team of two) who chase them away. I miss them (yes, more pens, please), especially the musicians. Some of them are quite good but not many. Yet, there are usual suspects: the old woman who paints in acrylic on pressed wood (10×10 shebs) in the ‘naïve’ style. I am sure she does not know in what style she paints, she is just not very good, but once I did contemplate in earnest to buy a sheb or two. I hate her colors however: too bright for me. There is also a new regular who I have seen twice of thrice: a nicely dressed young man of about 28-29 who talks on the phone while walking the entire length of the train. It takes him about ten minutes to reappear. When he passes by, I hear a whiff of strong cologne not unlike what Leon likes to wear. It is as if when he reaches the end of the train he refreshes for it is indeed quite an odor (back to the earlier entry)). Let us call him the Russian pseudo excentric type (just to be fair – see the earlier entry)).

04.02.2024. Reading a biography of N. Rerikh, the early 20th century Russian artist who has a gala exhibit in the Tretjakov on account of his 150th birthday (I plan to go this month). Rerikh’s teacher was as famous ‘magician of light’ artist A. Kuindzhi. At some point, he said to Rerikh when the latter was just his student: ‘It is one thing to explain. Another thing is to go and win.’ I think it is a splendid way to describe the current situation with the war. It is one thing for Putin to give yet another explanation about the war. It is quite another to go and win it!

07.02.2024. What a beautiful snowfall! Absolutely fantastic! Like in a fairy tale. The weather is mild (-5C) and there is no wind. And the snow is fat and slow and seemingly endless. It has covered all the black melt-outs from the previous thaw and it is pristine all around again! Virginal. Like some elemental wedding. On the way home from the gym I ran into a family of three Indians. They were standing on the curb next to a highway entirely lost. They were looking for their hotel while standing next to four 30 floor towers up on the hill unable to see them because the snow was so very thick!. I had to actually walk them to the hotel (not much of a big deal – 200 meters) for them to believe me. Funky. The dacha is at its beautifullest as well! Unfortunately, my excitement evaporated once I saw my mom. She hates this kind of snow seeing in it the ultimate impediment. She also hates it when I am in a good mood, or so it seems. All grouchy and pouty. Poor old mom. She did not age gracefully. A jealous and petty old woman who has lost her abilities to walk the world steadily. Or something like that…

09.02.2024. Today, at 16:15 MT, they registered a powerful magnetic storm caused by the explosion on the sun. It was given X-3 which is category ‘high.’ Many people reported emotional and physical unbalance. Personally, my mother and myself experienced intense pain (my mom) and depression (myself). I also experienced headache, joint ache and stomach ache. I was much better today. Normal, I would say, but I still slept like shit – the side effects. Getting old and frail.

10.02.2024. I do feel guilty having said what I said about my mother. She tries to the best of her abilities to make me comfortable. Not happy but comfortable. She cooks what she thinks I like (not at all sometimes that I like), and she washes my bedding. She asks me questions about myself and my family (not interesting questions, granted). She tries to be in sync. Alas, she could never do that. Still, I should not have…

Today, a great part of South East Asia celebrates the Lunar New Year. I celebrate it with a verve. It is the year of the dragon, and this means ‘my year.’ It is thus supposed to be lucky for me and benefit me in a variety of ways (I wonder tho – what ways?). I have been waiting for this year for twelve years. I also believe that it is the last unit of twelve years that is given to me. Why do I believe in all this superstitious nonsense? First of all, I am lucky to be born at all (I was two months premature). When I think of my first twelveth year, I see the happiest year of my early childhood as it opened the world of play and history to me. My twenty fourth was the most successful year of my life – I was made Junior Professor at my alma mater and began to study at the Highest Courses for Simultaneous Interpreters, and all that was happening at the height of perestrojka. I had the best time. My thirty sixth was marked by the millenium. I was about to obtain my PhD in the States and was planning ahead, being as excited about life as twelve years prior. My forty eighth offered me a full-time job, and a move to Edinburgh. And this year shall…I don’t know…Shall it be another book? A bit boring. Well, something. A surprise! I guess each twelvth year for me was not just about some sort of achievement or success but surprise. A good one. I think I will start archiving the events of this year. Otherwise I may miss the surprise. Or is it really how it works? I am confused. When I told my mom about my ‘believes’, she called me an idiot. Well, no harm done, right?

11.02.2024. I dreamt of the Arendt family tonight. It was a very happy dream: Al was at his most giving, the boys at their sweetest, and only Cabrini was grouchy (upset that I did not write, I presume), but in a cute performative way. Al invited me to a fancy restaurant and offered me a ride in his new Ferrari. David told me that 25 dollars could buy you a ton of pot. James was sporting his charming smile throughout. Then, a fire broke in the hotel where we were staying. It spit out wax lava. I got hit. My black suit melted in several places, but I was not hurt. I was still happy when I woke up.

14.02.2004. Ooph! It took me forever to get to the end of my notes. Man! I cannot believe I have written so much fluff! Well-well! Now first things first. Happy Valentine’s Day! To everyone in love! This is not being romantic or sentimental, but practical – what can be more reassuring than celebrating your feelings)). My mom, who has never celebrated this day asked me about how we do it. I sad, ‘With great pomp!’ but in Russian it sounded weird. Like it had ‘pump’ in it, which I imagine an alternative celebration to have 😉

I shall watch a good tear-jerker lovey-dovey film at the dacha. No foreign films there, except for Roman Holidays with Audrey Hepburn, so it has to be an old Soviet one – The Beginning?

Weird news: the Polish announced the greatest level of stress among the EU countries. Experts claimed the diminishment of the human capital and told people that given the state of the economy (deplorable) that they could battle stress by taking walks in the forest where they could ‘collect beautiful autumn leaves.’ I am off to the forest first thing in the morning.

(I don’t remember if I put the weird news above in my notes or noit. In any case, I love this news. No harm done).

14.02.2024. 14:44. How did I celebrate this Valentine’s Day? I celebrated it by writing a sweet message to Tanja and a general one that I published on WordPress. At the gym, I was thinking about the weirdest Valentine’s day but could not remember on. On the train, I read Franzen’s The Foreign Language from the selection of autobiographical stories about the author’s coming of age. It told a story about the first lust that began as follows: “I was introduced to a foreign language by a young blond woman, Elisabeth, whom no word smaller than ‘voluptuous’ suffices to describe.” That I could identify with: I have always been a lustful little shit. On the way to the dacha, I splurged and bought an expensive bottle of cava rose, my favorite. I am typically quite frugal when in Russia, being on the budget and all, meaning that I buy cheap Cava and do not miss a sale on the Russian sparkling wine (okay quality). At the dacha, I tried in vain to find something Valentiny in the science section of the Discovery Journal which I read with a cup of coffee and snack after I arrive. Zippo. Surprise! Instead, I read Russian symbolists, poets Tsvetajeva, Block, and Yesenin (just a poem or two – for taste). Then, I went to the other house and searched for a good Soviet romantic film. I found five and decided to run them one after another in the manner of some kind of love marathon (did not happen – my 1991 TV/DVD refused to cooperate). I hand washed my clothes – much needed. For dinner, I made pork roast with apples. Yuam! After dinner, I put on Comedy Radio (parallel to the films) and started drinking. By 10pm I was properly Valentined (soused up and mellow). In bed, I jerked off and went to sleep. It was the best Valentine an old man could wish for! Well, given the circumstances of course))

15.02.2024. In the news, I found out that 3% of the Russian population suffer from mental illness. The severity was not mentioned. This means that every group of 30 plus has one madman. In hindsight, during my school years, there was always one such person. Actually, a couple. Here, in Malakhovka, the numbers climb up. When I was in the library the other day, I was rummaging in the stacks of ‘free books,’ that is, the books that people bring over but the library does not want. Occasionally, I find excellent volumes, but rarely. When I was going through the new additions, taking out those I would consider again before taking, a mean looking old woman with a cane sat down next to me. She smelled like rotten fish. At first, she was just watching me, then, at some point, she took all the books from my pile and put them in her bag. I was stunned but did not say or do anything just raised my brows, took a book and left. When I visited the library the next day, I saw my selection (Olga Forsch and Lubok Tales) on the bench. I think the Russian Stats Agency should reconsider the 3%. I would say it is 5% in general and 10% for the provinces.

18.02.2024. It is quite funny to me that Odysseus who is the ‘man of many wiles’ could not make up a story that would be accepted as a truthful one. Not only could he not deceive Athena, all right, she is a goddess, but he was exposed by his own men, the daughter of the king, the king, and finally and most humiliatingly, his loyal old servant. Some paragon of slyness, cuningness and deceit. Khm. Funky-monkey.

19.02.2024. My mom and myself are going to the cemetery tomorrow. It seems like all my relatives (father, grandfather, niece) associated with either death of birth with February (now that I have said it, my sister also is born in February – a sign?). It is the worst time to visit, especially this year when snowbanks are about 70 cm (I bought a child’s plastic spade to make my way to my father’s grave. Like I stand a chance), and it is all packed snow! As it is common, we are bringing ‘gifts’. I bought an artificial cactus and stuffed it with coins (my father was an avid collector of coins and a very successful cacti grower and collector).

20.02.2024 (I like these twos a lot!). I left my USB with the new wordpress entries at the dacha, so here is a bit from the intro to my new book:

My playing became organized and turned into a properly social activity when I was about ten-eleven years old. In the Soviet educational system, this age corresponded to the fifth grade. In the beginning of that year, my otherwise unremarkable school was blessed with an unusual hire – a new history teacher walked into our class on the first day of school in September, and he was a young man (for a kid, every person over twenty is old; in fact, as I put two and two together later, the new teacher was thirty years old). In my school, there were a few young teachers; all of them were recent female graduates and interns: a mathematics teacher, a physics teacher, and a PT teacher. All of them were about 23-25 years old.  The rest of the faculty was composed of middle-aged and older women, who, like ourselves, the kids, were thrilled to see a male in their midst. The history teacher’s name was Vjacheslav Aleksejevich Piecukh. Despite his age he too was a recent history graduate from the prestigious Moscow Pedagogical Institute. Before he received his diploma, he served two years in the Army (as was mandatory for a Soviet male), worked in construction, drove a truck, and took part in several prospecting expeditions to Chukotka. His father was an Air Force officer. We liked the new teacher from the word ‘go.’ When he walked in the class for the first time, we saw a thin short man with unusually long – for a highly regimented Soviet teacher – blonde hair and well-trimmed debonair mustache surrounded by dimples. There was a birth mark on his cheek that made him look ‘like an actor,’ as the girls in the class used to say. He had a sharp sense of humor and delicate, slightly effeminate manners. I remember him being fashionably – for the mid 1970s – dressed. His most common outfit was a pair of brown bell-bottom corduroys, a white cotton turtleneck and a coffee-colored tweed jacket. The girls in our class found him overall irresistible. Vjacheslav Piecukh was not just charming. He was an energetic and highly knowledgeable (in hind sight, after thirty years in education, I would say ‘talented’) teacher who came into my life when I was at the proper – for the wonders of history – age. In the fifth grade, the Soviet educational program prescribed the Ancient World, that is, Shumeria, Mesopotamia, Ancient Egypt, Persia, Ancient Greece and Rome. However, with Piecukh, to the utmost frustration of the didactic part of the class, especially the ‘know it all’ girls (the Hermione Granger from Harry Potter type), it was not the Ancient Greece and Rome by the book (in the Soviet system, it was the same book for all school children), it was by the primary sources: Herodotus, Tacitus, Plutarch, and Polybus. The names sounded exotic and enticed us to go beyond the dry and curt descriptions of the Greek demos and Roman emperors to the living and breathing world of history. The outpour of this extra curriculum knowledge explained itself quickly. It turned out that Piecukh was a member of the celebrated Moscow Historical Society. More importantly, the society had a historical reenactment club. Being a member of that club meant both dressing up and going out to, say, Borodino to reenact some minor skirmish on the right flanks of the Napoleonic defense, as well as creating elaborate panoramas with handmade tin soldiers and papier machee landscapes and structures. It was the latter that Piecukh brought to the class. At first they appeared by way of glassed exhibits in the Teacher’s Room and later, following our curiosity and admiration, by way of anecdotal asides during regular lessons and finally as afterschool lessons on how to make these soldiers using a wide variety of colored plasticine, the thinnest cigarette foil, wood pencils, metal pins, cloth and colored paper. He taught us sketching and diagramming. This is when my ‘little men’ turned into an ‘art.’

20.04.2024. I was walking out of the grocery store located next to my mom’s house in Moscow and saw a man who looked insanely familiar. So much so that I could not help but greet him. He did not respond. I began to wonder where it was that I had seen him and then, after a memory jump, remembered. He looked like the guy from the King Alfred’s gym, the guy Tanja and myself call the ‘dumb guy.’ Short, stocky, beady eyes, big head, and small sharp nose. I was stunned to realize the man I had just passed in the street of Moscow was not that guy – they looked identical! This realization made disorientated in the same way one gets disorientated when one wakes up half way and feels like he does not know where he is.

21.04.2024. I have decided, upon Tanja’s request to document my being in Moscow and at the dacha experiences. So that she would see how it is. I dug out my old SONY camera and began to make pictures of the dacha. I also decided to make pics of the Moscow flat and my route. As I was doing that, I got very sad, depressed even. It was as if with every picture, my actual experiences of traveling back and forth, of exercising, shopping, simply walking, was fading away, getting corrupted and alienated. Even more strangely, I did not mind, having already ‘lost’ the dacha and my mom in my mind. A few days ago, on the train, I read that ‘epoch’ as a concept is entirely social, and it is with the change of the socium not individual that is considered to be gone. As a social being, an individual senses that way before it is gone. Seems like it is what is happening with me on the personal level. A different epoch is being gone on the social level as this conflict between Russia and the West is slowlyu erasing the sense of security and common general wellbeing that was characteristic of the 2000-2020.

22.02.2024. The 24^th shall be my lucky day! From listening to the Russian media: patriotism is being constructed as an ideology with heroism as its basis. Heroism is thus selected to be the glue for consolidating the society. Kinda Greek, isn’t?

On the radio, they were talking about mountain climbing which was called a ‘form of overcoming.’ Importantly, it ‘overcoming vertically.’ Swimming long-ditances in the open water is also a ‘form of overcoming’ but a horizontal one.

I must say, so far, my lucky Year of the Dragon is dragging (khi-khi, pardon the pun!) its claws. I don’t see any particular ‘benefits’ or ‘surprises.’ So far.

I think I’ve got carried away by writing my ethnography. I am fictionalizing it. I guess I missed the creative part of this research. What am I talking about? Below is an excerpt.

It was raining. ‘Bloody rain,’ muttered the King as he was turning the corner near the enchanted forest riding slowly toward his castle. His old horse was moving out of pace, jumping ever so slightly, like it was tiptoeing (appropriately, her name was Ballerina), and the King was uncomfortable. He was old as well; his wooden leg kept on sliding off the stremja; his back was hurting, and he was annoyed that he had to pay attention to his dog Nash, a huge black wolfhound with ominous red eyes. No, the dog was not possessed; it had conjunctivitis, – the poor old thing did not see very well and thus tended to wander away.

The castle was well hidden behind the forest and to a traveler coming from the West it appeared all of a sudden, on the verge of jolt, making him (no ‘her’ would ever travel this journey by herself) want to say ‘Ah!’ but the King did not say ‘Ah!’ Seeing his home should have filled his heart with joy, as medieval novels often intimate (take Walter Scott’s Kventin Dorward, for an example, my favorite Scott), but instead of joy the King felt sadness. For many years now, he has repeated the same cycle: when the rain season began, he, together with all the inhabitants of Elgan, all the animals and all the kings, and the trolls and the fairies, and the pixies, and the soldiers, and the bandits, and the dragons, and the magic folk would migrate, go in retreat, which was but a huge dry cave in the West the size of his entire kingdom, where they hibernated until the rain season ends, but does it ever in Elgan? It was the sun that gave the sign. It got brighter and persisted. The time has come to wake up and the King, according to the ancient ritual, was the first to return. Like the sea captain, who is the last to leave his ship, he was the first to come, albeit in reverse. The thought amused him. “The upside down King you are,” he chuckled to himself.

23.02.2024. Today, Russia is celebrating Feb 23d, or the Defender of Fatherland Day. It used to be called the Day of the Armed Forces. I don’t like either name, and if I were good in Latin, I would have given it a latinized name with ‘patria’ in it. Patria o Muerte Day. Patriotica. I should announce a competition for the best name. Please send your suggestions to this account under ‘comments.’ Something like that.

Sometimes, I want to scream at my mom: she does not remember anything! She does not hear anything either. And still she argues with me all the time. Our communication has been reduced to the continuous stream of corrections on my part at best and my ignoring her at worst. I am embarrassed of course to say this, I know she always means well, but it is very very tiring to be around a very old person. I do need to make arrangements((

24.02.2024. The Defender of the Fatherland Day was celebrated modestly – my relationship with the military comes about mostly through my grandfather who fought all the three wars – the Finnish, WWII, and the Japanese – and my dad who was a decorated officer (he flew combat sorties during the Yemen war in the early 1960s). Although trained as a military interpreter, I did not see any action and did not serve (after my year abroad in the States I was deemed ‘potentially disloyal’ and my attempt to join the Military Interpreter Core Abroad was not successful). It is ironic from that perspective that I have turned into such a flagrant patriot of the country that did not treat me nicely and which I barely know. A bottle of cava, a couple gin and tonics and two good Soviet war films (They fought for the Motherland and Only the Dads Go to Battle), and I called it the Defender of the Fatherland Day.

25.02.2024. I don’t want to be critical about my mom without presenting my audience with an example. This morning my mom mentioned the store she called Hobbit. She claimed that it was located across the highway ‘on the other end’ and ‘to the right’ (she waved in the window in the direction of the store). She also said that I was there. I had no idea what she was talking about. I told her so. She insisted. We began to argue. It took me twenty minutes to establish that both the direction she waved at and the name of the store were wrong. In fact, it was called Hobbyland. So, she wanted to say ‘hobby’ but thought ‘habitat’ (also a store but in a completely different location) and said ‘hobbit’ ( I dismiss the possibility that she knows what hobbit is). Once we established the name of the store my mom said that there was a coins collector shop and that it would do her good if I went there to find out about selling my dad’s silver collection. I said, “I have already been there, don’t you remember?” “No,” she said, “What did they say?” “That the coins are worthless.” “It cannot be. Your father knew what he was doing collecting those coins.” I said, “Apparently not. Or, rather, he was a collector, not an investor.” We continued for ten more minutes along that route.

26.02.2024. My mom told me a funny story (like, really funny – for my mom). She has a school friend called Nina. Nina is 81. Before retiring Nina was Vice Minister at the Ministry of Food (sounds like Orwell’s 1984, and it was exactly like Orwell). She was in charge of meat and milk. Nina lives alone. She shuttles between her Moscow apartment and her son’s dacha located in a prestigious area but not easily accessible area. Her son is a new Russian who made a fortune in the 1990s re-selling oil and later starting up and selling businesses. He lives in Spain with his wife. His daughter is in a boarding school in England. To make a long story short, my mom was highly amused at Nina’s insistence that she ‘works.’ “What is work for Nina?,” said mom rhetorically, “I will tell you. She shovels snow every day, she says. What does it mean?,” I asked. It turned out that she comes outside and bossed the dacha’s guard who is the one to shovel the snow. Then, today she said that she was tidying in the living room upstairs. I asked, “What does it mean?” She says: “Well, I brought the mobile VC robot and watched it going around.” My mom adds, “I saw it myself that when she say that she works in the garden, she ends up cutting off a couple of twigs that she thinks are at some conflict with each other. This is ‘work’ for her.”

27.02.2024. The best day at the dacha: super quiet, gray and relatively warm. There is silence out there. Catch it if you can. I did.

28.02.2024. Glad that February is over. Still no remarkable gifts from the Dragon((

29.04.2024. Putin’s speech – top notch. Not much new. But to the point: more children, better life, things to do and things that have been done. A few threats and promises when it comes to the war and the Russian military. The emphasis on the non-reach. Defining the West anew: as moral dwarves. A good president Putin is. When I wrote his name in this entry, I misspelled it. I called Putin Pukin (the one who farts). I corrected my error. Putin is not someone who is blowing air out of his ass and certainly incomporable by magnitude and intellect to any Western politician. I do not regret that I was not born in this new country, but I am certain it will do well.

01.03.2024. The next book about Tarkovsky could be titled “Andrei Tarkovsky. Fragments.” The previous title was suggested to be Andrei Tarkovsky. The Philosopher-Artist.” I think something ‘fragments’ has already been used many times. I need to check. It may be okay if it is something not too obvious. I see the new Tarkovsky book to be a collection of essays. When watching Tarkovsky’s Mirror, I realized that I dig bullfighting. On some non-empathetic level, if I exclude the fact that bull is a life-form, I could see the art in its bloodthirsty purest. In his Diaries Tarkovsky wrote that the quality he hated in him was impatience. I suffer from the same illness. Illness of patience. It gets worse with age. When I am in the store I get Ironic isn’t it for the Soviet boy who spent years standing in lines. Not ironic. Tragic. I did not lose just time in those queues, I lost patience. It was waited out of me. That and many other things while living under the tyrant (I mean the generic tyrant – communism). I got deformed. My constitution that had been molded abroad did not hold in the actual encounter with the totalitarian regime. I could not fathom that I would leave my country, but I always wanted to move to another city, Leningrad or Tbilisi, move far away from the nomenclature and hautiness of Moscow. It has always been very difficult for me to bottle up my emotions. Perhaps that is why I was seeking the company of girls when I was a boy.

I remember how I saw Mirror for the first time. It was at the dacha. It was the last Tarkosky’s film I saw. I remember postponing it to the last. For the book. I remember that when the film was ending I cried. Since then I have seen it so many times that I can quote it from the beginning to end, but I lost that first impression. I wish I did not rewatch Mirror. It was precious, that immersion.

07.03.2024. Yesterday, I saw a dream. I was dreaming that I was sleeping in a huge bagette (or was it I who was so small?) in the manner of a sausage (like pig in blanket). It was warm and soft and smelled awesome!

08.03.2024. I wish all the women that I know and love a very happy Women’s Day! I wish their feminine self to be properly titillated (not even on purpose that I used this word) on this day. Well, every day, as my mom likes to say when I congratulate her. I hate this day, she says. I know she does – my dad would give her a generous gift and then use an opportunity to get shit faced drunk. His son has taken a different route. I did give my mom a generous gift, but all I am gonna get out of it is blinis with red caviar and salmon. Not too shabby, frankly speaking! My mom asked me to buy a bottle of Prosseco, but I hate to drink with my mom: she drinks very little, and I usually leave the rest at home ‘for later.’ I will use an opportunity too, but tomorrow.

The blinis that my mom makes have yeast in them. They come about thick and taste a bit sour. I love them. The caviar was okay but not the best kind. Same about salmon: not lax but a different fish (we call it keta). It has a ‘thick’ texture and it tastes bland. Some people love it. I prefer a stronger taste of nerka.

I have been slacking out with my Homer. I have only two songs left, but the ending in Odyssey is basically the home massacre staged by Athena, Odysseus and Telemachus. Neither pretty nor exciting, but from the literary perspective – an excellent composition and sujet.

My mom is watching a Women’s Day film – Love and Doves. It is a perfect melodrama, very fit for the celebrations. Speaking of which: I have never sen so many inadequate men as I today: they are all out, the screamers and the cursors, the stinks and the drunks, the losers and the failures. They are are out demanding attention. And that is on the day when the chances of them getting it are rather slim, I must say. Today, they had but women in the gym. Go, figure!

11.03.2024. There was an event that I deem lucky and attribute it to my ‘lucky’ year or my guardian angel. I had a wish, and I feel like I was heard, and the wish was granted. The wish was simple: actually, it is a bit embarrassing – I may or may not write about it.

13.03.2024. With only a few days left before my departure, I have a whole bunch of things to do, as always. My least favorite is the move from one house to the other. This means that I have to move all my stuff that I have brought from the old house: pots nad pans, bedding, tv and dvd player, books, clothes, trinckets, etc. The actual transfer, although tedious, does not bother me as much as the cleaning part, for I will have to basically clean the entire first floor plus the bedroom. Yeak!

My poor mom was so thrilled that she was contacted by ‘her doctor’ from the past right at the time when she needed him. She looked like a proper third-grader when she was talking to him on the phone. As for the doctor, he moved to the private clinic and was calling around trying to woo his old patients to his new place (for a significant fee, I must add). My mom realized that. Still, the fact that he called and listened and was a doctor and expressed the kind of interest in her ills that I, her son, will never show, will not be able to even fake it, was sufficient for her to melt. On the bright side, she did not just melt but mastered enough energy to persevere with her treatment plans. Good for her! And for myself!

You may or may not believe me but the best conversations I have with my mother I have when I am stoned. We laugh at each other jokes and our exchanges are fluid. I wonder if this coincidence means that my anibriated state is nor her normal state. Khm.

Watched the Russian Sherlock Holmes. Oh, man! A great miniseries but the most unexpected insight this time was that Sherlock was indeed an ultimate nerd: all his hobbies and his communication style – a total nerd!

14.03.2024. I will certainly go to vote, and I will vote for Putin. The polling station is right next to my Moscow flat. It will be interesting. Friends say, Why does it matter? The outcome is predictable. Be as it may, I do this for myself. In light of my inability to make a contribution of support, I think that my vote will stand for some sort of supportive action.

15.03.2024. The marching spring is turning into a joyful rather than depressing event. It is warm, sunny, and there is a sense of something new coming. The smell is also different: not rotten but flowery. It is the first time that I liked this season. Spring made me remember the most impactful film, in my opinion, about orphans: Makarenko’s The Pedagogical Poem. I wish there was someone who would get interested in that book and write a dissertation.

I had a conversation with an older guy at the gym about the gym and fitness. When describing my relationship with the gym I blurted out that gym for me is a form of relaxation. It was unexpected that answer because I thought it was more about vanity than anything else.

I did vote. It was super easy, super fast and super secure: there was a ton of police and national guard. I had a chance to see my old school – it became so modern! I envy the kids who go to this school, altho I certainly did not mind and considered it as modern! In fact it was brand new when I started going there.

25.03.2024. I have not written much: travelling was long and tedious and put me on the verge of getting sick (but I didn’t! – for the first time, I believe). In part, it is stress, and most of it lies with cleaning the dacha, but my mom managed to add some as well: she believes that she is about to be paralyzed (pinched nerves in the spine and the leg). To mitigate this possibility, she gets special injections. They are very expensive and do not necessarily help, but her piece of mind is more important – for decades she runs on all sorts of beliefs in all kinds of pharmaceuticals. The placebo effect.

The trip back was not as interesting as the one to Moscow. The flight to Turkey was packed and given its time – 2am, quiet. The flight from Turkey was half full, but the passengers (mostly Turks and Africans) behaved as if they owned the plane, so it was fanthomly crammed)). One such passenger was sitting in front of me; he was by himself occupying three seats, and he managed to lower the back of each one of them, making me move. Quite oblivious and righteous (when boarding the plane, one of the Africans refused to let a flight attendant pass because he ‘also needed to go.’ Pushy.

Being back was nice – it felt like being at home away from home.

Nik had his birthday yesterday. He is 13 now. The budding teenager. His birthday coincided with a performance from a theatre group called Stage Coach (both Nik and Luka have attended it for years). I like their performances now and then, but this time, the venue was not a proper one (Newman College) as it had a small hall and no stage. It also felt like the children did not have the oomph for something that was inherently quite confusing. Nik’s birthday party was a low key one (his choice). We had pizza (his choice) some bubbly. While the kids were playing, Tanja and myself were drinking bubbly and watched Masterchef. So, back to normal.

26.03.2024. It pains me to hear how awkwardly at times the Russians defend their position about the war and how ineptly they explain the West and its actions (statements). Zakharova, Lavrov, Peskov and even super cautious Putin still do the old-fashioned narrative. I very much wish for something new and potent, something that would strike a cord amidst the Russian intellectuals, especially those who have left. I am too old-fashioned myself to offer anything of that kind, but too Westernized at this point not to see the need for such a thing.

27.03.2024. Every world of mine has a distinct rhythm. At his point, it is clear to me that the rhythm in Moscow is determined by my daily travels and shopping, while in England it is familial: work in the morning at the desk, gym in the afternoon, dinner-making in the evening and watching at night. There is also some gardening, although admittedly very mild, and some cleaning (which does not happen at the dacha). There used to be playing outside with the kids, but it is less in demand on their side, so, this activity is clearly fading away. Adjusting to the transition from one rhythm to another is not particularly easy. I always feel unsettled, especially when it comes to work concentration. At the same time, every time I arrive in this or that context, I begin to design a self-improvement plan; to read this, to do such memory exercises, to dip into this or that context (arts, for example). But things distract and time demanded for self-schooling is short. Sadly. This time, I will begin with reading on the treadmill at the gym (anything! – must be a small book tho) and memorizing a poem on the way there and back. The rest: palm reading, lit, paraphrasing and reading out loud shall be imposed as a daily routine. Also watching – not only Mandalorian, but something decent, even if the House of Cards or Bear. I will report later on how it went))

28.04.2024. Even numbers again! Meaning what? Numerology has never been my strongest suit. I remember how shocked I was once when crossing the border to Russia. A border patrol officer told me that my birthday numbers – 17.04.1964 – were ‘numerologically magical.’ Not only did not expect this statement from an official, I was not sure how to take ‘magical.’ Was quite pleased nonetheless. Now that i write about ‘magical folk’ I do think about this incident and even consulted my Numerology book, but alas nothing indicated ‘magic’ about my date of birth. I am sure he knew what he was talking about, that man with the blue eyes in the green uniform)))

28.04.2024. I am a bit depressed about the loss of the usb with my work done in Russia during the two months of my hiatus over there. It was a lot: 35 pages of analysis and ten more pages and finalization for the intro. Regardless of my own stupidity with not saving on two usbs (this trip was the first one when I did not take two or three) and not sending the files to myself via e-mail, I relied on my ‘dragon year’ to make sure that these happenstances do not happen. Unless there is a lesson (of course there is; there is always a lesson). I even know what it could be, this lesson. There is still a way to obtain the lost files before my next trip, but it will require my mom to go there with her grandson or Andrey (my sister’s ex) and trying to find it there or passing on my dad’s computer to them. I will keep on working on the book in the meantime, editing it and writing bits for the analysis chapters. Yet, I am disappointed by my guardian angel. I tried to call him, her, it out to discuss this matter, but they did not respond. A Masterchef finalist from Nepal said before the last trail for the crown – there are thousands of gods (read: angels) out there. I hope there is going to be a free one to help me out.” There was none free, and he lost.

For the first time in ages, I enclose some pics (see in media). They are of the dacha. Made this winter: old house, new house, inside the new house’s kitchen, library where I found the Pushkin collection and get free books, commuter train and the bridge I cross to get to my favourite grocery store.

31.04.2024. Happy Easter! I ate a ton of lamb today and feel properly dizzy! Love lamb but tend to underseason it. Started watching Masterchef from the very beginning – twenty years ago they launched the program under the name Masterchef the Sizzling Delight (actully, do not remember the exact name, but there was something of an extended ending there. What can I say? The two ninkompoops – Greg and John – were quite inappropriate in their comments, attitudes and behaviours – excessively performative, flirty, explicitly masogynistic, arrogant, and uneven in their roles – John was the boss. The staging of the show was a bit cheap and the camerawork not too great (unsteady). Yet, it was remarkable to see how quickly they have learnt from their mistakes and improved (apart from the really annoying habit on the part of Greg not to wear socks and on the part of John – opt for an incredibly old and broken pair of leather loafers.

Reading Tynjanov (literary studies), Mann (Death in Venice), and Grendel. The latter is one my favourite John Gardners. I planed to translate it years ago but had to postpone several times – very dense and sophisticated writing to allow me to do it in one go. I think over the years I have translated about ten pages((. Tynjanov I read just for fun, although his stuff would excellent for a Tarkovsky project (especially on the subject of poetics).

Luka has got his own Playstation 5 and a new TV set. Boy, is he excited or is he excited! Feels like he is the youngest recipient of that kind of a device (Leon was 14 and Nik was 12). We will be seeing him even less now((.

(picture removed)

When I go to the gym I take a poem I like with me. I memorize it on the way and occasionally take it with me to exercise. I must be looking ridiculous, taking a crumbled piece of paper out of my shorts, inspecting it and then putting it back. Perhaps to the other folks it looks like my training chit-chat.

It is unexpected that the war would become a given by now. I feel like my interest has dwindled and although I am not anywhere less patriotic and ill wishing for the other side, I no longer look up news just for war news and do not expect much from the news in general.

01.04.2024. I figured it out! So, that is how one does pics. All right. That is something and something. In either case. This is Blue, the new mama and partner for Myshkin. She has come to replace Lulu who is getting old and at times disinterested in child-rearing.

04.04.2024. All these ‘fours’)). I had a strange and pleasant encounter yesterday at Tesco in Portslade (aka Big Tesco). I now stop by there on the way from the gym and look for clearance items (meats mostly). As I was walking through the meats sections I saw a hunk of pork (pork roast) and it was on some promotional sale. Remembering how I made this type of meat at the dacha (roasted in an iron cast casserole), I took it. When I was checking it out a lovely plump and heavily made up English girl, smiled at me and said: “That is pretty cheap!” Yeah, I would not have take it otherwise. “Okay,” she said, smiling slyly: “Let us see if we can make it even cheaper.” The she got on her phone and entered something. As a result, it came out half price on the sale price. I only found it out when I got out of the store and looked at the receipt. It was not that she entered a promotional code of sorts, but simply checked out my pork roast as pork chops. Most likely she did it because she took pity on an old man who doubted that he could afford such an expensive item (in Russia, a lot of times, young people pay at the cash register for the old people who are strangers; my mom was a beneficiary of that kind of kindness not once), but I really like to think that she did it because she wanted to fuck with her employer for whatever reason. Good girl!

05.04.2024. Here is Myshkin and Lulu and also the new kittens. For what it’s worth))

06.04.2024. The curse of the old age is not dry and wrinkly skin, atherosclerosis, low body and muscle tone, high blood pressure, flatulence, incontinence, prostatitis, poor vision and hearing, bad memory and repetitiveness, ADD, irritability, nervousness and anxiety, brittle nails and hairs (if at all), but that you are made to wear the wrong face (Wrong Trousers), and that is the last of your refuge – your face. When your face starts doing all sorts of things, when your lips move uncontrollably (the muttering to yourself syndrome), when your squint and twitch uncontrollably, when you look like shit in the morning and only slightly better in the afternoon but again like shit in the evening, you are OLD.

Having said that, I feel like the only way to arrest (slow down) aging is to exercise extreme attentiveness to detail in every activity: when watching, when listening, when talking, when picking your nose (otherwise you can hurt yourself), and by doing so find the pleasure not in the activity itself but in that focus. The same can be said about controlling the ‘new face,’ finding ways to do things with it. For example, smiling and moving it in meaningful communication-wise ways. I must learn not to be afraid of it; hence the need to see it and show it. ‘This is the way!’ (I mounted a Mandalorian poster in my room; it sits right under the buffalo skull I brought from South Dakota what seems to be centuries ago (see the pic.). I am in the middle. Yeap – the old chap me, trying to be cutsie.

And this is Luka’s Lego in my room. Very much in disarray. If you look carefully you can see Dumble D’Ore sitting on top of the structure (Upper Caffe) in the castle on the right (under the elephant). Recently, he has gone a bit mad or perhaps he is on some magicos (he is holding two spoons in his hands and is singing obscene songs while beating the spoons against each other rhythmically). How very sad!. Nobody comes to play with him any more. Nobody heeds his advice. The wizard is properly depressed.

07.04.2024. Some weird local news. A few days ago there was a group fight in Portslade. Portslade is a poor working class town down on the other side of the tracks. The fight had ten people in it and ended in four of them being sent to the hospital. As such, bar fights are quite common all around England, especially in Brighton which has quite a number of night clubs. In Portslade, nastiness happens as well; yet, nothing like that. When the local media reported on the fight, it was weird because of a large number of people involved but not as weird when it turned out to be that the people who fought were “from two rival barbershops.” Yeap, not some local gangs, not even rival drug dealers, but barber shops! I just imagine these guys, these gay guys in tight leather pants and studded facial protuberances swinging at each other with electrical cutters and stabbing each other with scissors! Mate..

08.04.2024. Last weekend we had the Annual Brighton Easter Marathon which is a big event with an inconsequential outcome. Thousands of people take part. They run all around the Brighton-Hove area. Hangleton they do not reach but they do reach Portslade whey block the Boundary Road all the way down to the seafront. Not an annoyance. Just a local thing.

There is always someone at the gym you don’t like and there is always someone who does not like you. Unlike the Russians, the Brits are very good about not showing you their bad feelings toward you, preferring to exercise avoidance. Me too. Yet, there are people you cannot avoid, not easily anyway. One of them is this Indian guy of about forty. I call him Jerky because he moves jerkily, he speaks jerkily and he exercises jerkily. He does ten of so very fast movements and then he drops the weights, making a rather obnoxious and by now recognizable sound. The latter could have been a good thing but he also moves jerkily around so much so that it is almost impossible to avoid him. He may not be a jerk in real life, how do I know, but the impression he creates leads to that conclusion so easily that I cannot help but call him ‘Jerk.’ To be fair, there must be someone at the gym who looks at me and calls me the same for the reasons that may not be entirely clear to me.

09.04.2024. ‘An out of context deed.’ Overwhelmed by some food nostalgia I made buckwheat from the British grain. I followed the Russian recepie that had not failed me there. What I did not consider was that the grain was different – smaller and paler (different roast). I also did not have the right pot (a flat one is recommended). When the water boiled pink foam rose to the surface. I scooped it but continued in accordance with the instructions. When done, I took the pot to the conservatory to wrap in the blankets for a proper sauna effect. When I put the pot on the carpet, it stuck, I tore it off and wrapped in a blanket. At the dinner time, I I unwrapped the pot only to discover that the blanket (also made from synthetic fabric) melted through. When I opened the pot, I saw a mass of pink goo stuck to the pot. If you make a kasha ball from it, you can throw it as far as the downs! Summing it up: a ruined carpet, a ruined blanket, a ruined pot and a ruined meal. The wisdom: don’t do in England what the Russians do. Oh, what a stupid note!

Tynjanov notes that a common mistake in constructing a good narrative (back to the stupid note) is that events are ‘listed’ instead of ‘being told.’ My sister is such a lister.

I have begun to dislike Konashenkov’s briefings. Intensely. They are as samish as some of my academic works which I write on the basis of some prewritten material (Tanja calls it ‘pantry’). Here too I feel like his ‘men’ go to the ‘war’ pantry and simply change numbers and names ever so slightly, juggle them around and come about with the same 700 men, five-seven tanks, a few hundred drones, a dozen of foreign and Soviet canons and half a hundred units of other military hardware. A very boring war! Sorry, I know people get killed and all, and I am an impatient asshole, but still can we not make this war a bit briskier!

11.04.2024. Not boring. Sorry. Just a source of unhappiness and frustration, this war is. I understand – limited resources, the politics of minimization. I understand. But even my mom said that she would go on bread and water if this war could be ended in months rather than years. I am with her. No need to create an impression (speaking about Putin’s recent speech) that all is well when things are harsh. Make them harsher. Win the war. Build the future without it. At the same time, I am still in awe at how narrow minded and dependent the EU is on the States. And the States are just plain mean. That I figured out after ten years of working for the State Department. Proper capitalists and colonialists. I know I am venting. But I have not done it for a long time and waking up to the news about yet another Euro-buereaucrat (the word even sounds like belching) bragging about ‘working against the Russians’ as in planning to destroy the Crimean Bridge is revolting and makes me super aggressive. Better make my next note about the tiger loach that still does not have a partner, poor thing, or Luka’s Lego habits.

So, the tiger loach. It is the biggest fish in the tank and the smartest one. Not at all aggressive. I would even call it a peace keeper. It swims just so, up and down cleaning, comes out of its grotto to eat and never bothers another fish. At some point it had a partner, and I have written that it pined for a long time (of course, it only appeared that it did) when it died but then pulled itself together and turned into a benevolent force, a daddy. I want to think of it as the one who maintains law and order. Now, about the loach dilemma. We have renewed other fish as in added more tetra, but what about the loach? Shall we give it a partner? A small one for it to take care of the small one? But what if they do not get along? Plus, has it not found it purpose elsewhere? And two little ones to occupy themselves? Even worse for the biggie. Let it be the boss, the king, the elder of the fish tank. Sitting in his hiding place and looking out of the window at its subjects. Sounds familiar. Right.

12.04.2024. Saw a very intense dream last night. There was a camel ride, a bunch of lost keys, and a local gang that took me to their secret hiding place to give me the letters from an ex-lover. It was then that I woke up and then willed myself to sleep because I really wanted to know what it was that the letters contained. All I saw was the phone number. The first three numbers were (317). Oh, yeah, I had to pay the gang for the letters with Turkish Liras but all I had was a handful of US quarters in my pocket. They did not take the quarters but asked for my Camper shoes. I was glad to give the shoes to them. I was ambivalent about them. I am also glad that I woke up pretty much straight away – walking back to the hotel without shoes in the noman’s land through some construction sites would have been more than unpleasant. I wonder what kind of dreams Putin sees. Probably a lot of maps and flying rockets that take out those parts of Ukraine he does not want.

14.04.2024. The Iranian strike looks like a joke as far as its effect is concerned. Yet, even if three or most likely ten-twelve drones reached their destination, it would be bad news for a more massive and more powerful attack. Let’s wait and see.

Masterchef (watching from the beginning, currently season 2, e. 2) showed a remarkable progress as far as television show-making is concerned. Not only the hosts (Gregg was particularly thick and inappropriate in the beginning; the poor man who called himself a veg and fruit guru struggled with the label throughout, from the veg and fruit guru to the veg and fruit maestro to finally ingredients guru – he would be just ‘the eating judge’ in the latest episodes), who got more and more fashion conscious (not Gregg), showing less of their worn out sockless shoes and overused shirts and discourse aware, but the participants who were so much better in the first rounds already in the second season (understanding and learning about food from the previous episodes).

Another viewing experience worth mentioning is The Bear, Season 2, particularly Episode 5 (The X-mas Special “The Fishes”) is in my mind an absolute masterpiece of television drama. The acting is amazingly good as the intensity is spectacular. I typically avoid this kind of realistic depiction (it makes me very tense for a long time), but it was very very good, so good in fact that there was more thinking than anxiety as the end result.

15.04.2024. At one point or another I begin to follow a case (wrote ‘vase’)). In Russia, it is the Blinovskaya case. A motivational speaker, the woman made 2 billion dollars (yes, dollars) in the course of ten years or less by launching a series of ‘marathons’ called The Marathon of Wishes. She is a blogger. She was caught owing the state one billion dollars in unpaid taxes.

16.04.2024. There was an interesting occurrence at the gym. I have already whined about the symptoms of getting old. One of the mentioned ones was dispersed attention, lack of concentration that expresses itself in the breakdown of sequential habituality. You know, you start doing something but then skip a stage, mix stages or forget about an action (checking something). My mom who cooks for me in Moscow often forgets to add a ingredient or check the time or does not let a dish sit, or does it in the oven instead of frying pan, etc. From my own experience, I would name forgetting putting sugar (I still use three spoonfulls) or turning on gas when cooking. I also forget my gym staff a lot. Typically just socks, which is okay. Occasionally, a shoe – which is also okay given that one can exercise in socks at my gym (only in one area tho). This time, I forgot a pair of shorts. Well, that is quite an omission. And a most frustrating one for I typically check my backpack if I take something out or replace my sports stuff. Very annoying. I do wear briefs these days, but I would only wear them if alone. So, here I am sitting on the bench in the locker room wondering about the next move. Shall I just go home? No, I shall not since I missed a day at the gym already. Shall I go home and return to the gym? It takes me almost two hours to walk back and forth. No. Shall I buy a pair of shorts someplace nearby? None such place is around. Fuck.

I go upstairs to the reception. I ask the guy working there is perhaps he can find a pair of shorts in the lost and found crate they have there. But I doubt he would for this gym is a new one. It just opened not even two months ago. As expected, he returns with a No. Then, as I was lamenting my fate rather loudly, a middle-aged handyman asks me what my problem was. I explain. He tells me to waiting for five minutes, he tells me that he lives nearby and that his son is approximately my size (he himself is not))). I thank him profusely and settle to wait. Fifteen minutes later he shows up with quite a selection: a pair of jogging pants (way too long) and two pairs of shorts, both football ones, rather obnoxious colorwise. But, beggars cant be choosers. I thank him again, call him my saviour, call myself a dumbass and take the least colourful pair which is a mix of hot pink and dark red. LFC. I ask him for his name, adding that I do want to know the name of the person whose son’s ‘intimates’ I am going to wear. He (Eddie) asks me where I am from. I say Russian. He looks dumbfounded. I throw out my pre-set response (not the first time): “Dont worry. I am a good Russian. I dont bite.” He smiles, takes his level, says ‘Its nice to be nice’ and goes away.

I must say, I have not been out of my comfort zone that badly in years. Not only the shorts were very short, they also were very tight. And, to add insult to injury, they were Liverpool Football Club shorts. So during one hour and a half of training I was in a rather precarious position. Between the rock and the hard place, to be exact. Not only I ran the risk of appearing gay, I was also in danger of being taken for an old idiot in love with LFC. To add another insult to the same injury (the shorts were truly uncomfortable and preclude any kind of stretching), when I was doing leg presses, a young guy sat down next to me on another leg machine and he had LFC socks! I noticed the socks and started staring at which case he nodded in the direction of my shorts and winked! That about did me in. Needless to say, I finished my training early that day. At home, I washed the shorts (told the story to the kids – they laughed) and got a bottle of Prosseco from Tanja’s pantry. When I saw Eddie at the gym, I passed the packet to him and said: ‘Here are your shorts. As good as new. And there is something for you. No good deed should be left unpunished.’ He blushed (weird to see it on an Englishman – they never blush) and said: ‘Its nice to be nice.’ It turned out that he was a Scott after all. Oh, yeah, and by the way, the pics of the dacha.

Kraskovo – the train station to the dacha

on the way to the dacha

‘new house’ where I stay and work

the kitchen where I spend most of my time

17.04.2024. I am 60. Aha. Weird. Never thought I would make it that far. Not the right moment for a life summary, but overall, good to still be here)). I thought there would be funky dreams last night. Prophetic even. None of that kind. The usual anxious mish-mash: lost keys, dacha, violence, a bit of erotic content (dont remember that part)). A very slow morning. Feels wrong to work, quiet observing is a much greater inclination. Looking out of the window, musing over this or that. Unusual, for sure. My mom’s wishes were very sweet, and so were Tanja’s. The kids I have not seen yet, but they always come to the plate when it comes to expressing themselves on the right occasion. Here I am, by the way, a week ago or so. The most recent Alex. Next to the entrance to my Fitness.

18.04.2024. It was fun – my birthday. Quite low key but solid. Tanja ordered lots from Danny’s (Chinese takeaway we frequent). I got lots of BD wishes and we celebrated into the wee hours. There was Champaign and caviar and German chocolates. It was good. I slept well (apart from the heartburn of course)). Here is one of the pics I asked Tanja to make of me and the kids:

I got quite annoyed by the English: these freedom of speech lovers! blocked the Russian MOD site. Shame! Better for me tho: more time for other things and no debased expectations. This afternoon Luka and myself were setting up for Playmobil. I’d better expedite – time is running out.

20.04.2024. I began to collect ‘testimonies’ from the kids. it has turned out to be more fun than I expected. They also mix quite well with my own ‘memories.’ All in all not a bad work day. I however am still in the grips of the loss of the usb. Not because of the actual loss, but because of the realization of my own stupidity. Not checking for the most important item. I dreamt of South Dakota last night. That sun and that heat! My first day there. The Motel 8 I was staying for a few weeks before finding lodging. depressing. I have never been in a small town in America past the quint ones in Mass or Maine. I also dreamt of falling down – a rather common dream these days. Brief falls but the kind that make your heartbeat stop.

I feel like I need to slow down with the pics. I am not sure they work.

Getting in position for translating John Gardner’s Grendel. Very complicated. Very dense. Not sure I am ready. Need to read Norse Sagas in Russian. Need to read more Gardner. Perhaps Nickel Mountain. Again.

In the meantime returned to Gogol and Chekhov. The latter I read outloud. Chekhov has a good pace. There is so much stuff to read and so little time, and the time that is little has to be divided between internet and TV. I do wish I could drop all the visual experiences apart form a film or two, but all these serieses and all these news are like chips. I am full in the evening when we settle in the living room to watch Masterchef; yet, we bring over a bag of kettle chips and low and behold in the course of an hour and half we consume it.

22.04.2024. Weird news: a family in China was arrested for kidnapping an 11-year old girl. The parents wanted to ‘raise’ her as a perfect wife for their 18 year old son. Like a dog. Oh, no, not like a dog. Dogs they eat. Do they eat girls? Such a weird world, and we barely see and experience it. During the Soviet times, I had experience of such radically different cultural worlds. For example, Georgian, Uzbek, Kirgyz. All the Western countries belonged to one radically different world. By now, it is mostly China and India. Nigeria maybe. These worlds are culturally different not because they are poor, but because…I have no clue…Okay, I will try again – they are economically samish (still poor), but this is not the point. The Native American kind of CDW. The point is…What is the point? You cannot just break into this kind of world. Its representatives are all around you (Chinese, Indians, Nigerians), at the gym, on the bus, etc., but at home and with and by themselves they are altogether different. Not to be alarmed (Alex is really writing through his ass now better send him to take some pics), it is not about race. It is always already about the alien. I am an alien too. Here and there – everywhere. Through and through. Shut up!!!! Sorry, reader, I am just passing time. Leon is in my room doing online specialized math lessons from Oxbridge. Will finally go and take some pics. How about that? Oh, I can attach them later. But for now, a bit of nature from around Hangleton. How about the St Helens Church. 11th century, – not a bag of rotten potatoes. The oldest original structure in the entire Sussex.

Here is a view of Hangleton where we live. From the downs.

24.04.2024. Good numbers. Again. Meaning what? Hard to tell. Maybe the war? That bush is certainly in the way.

27.04.2024. Foul news, nothing interesting. The British teenagers drink the most. What’s new? Our gym which was so very proud of its alcohol-free health menu changed its tac completely only two months after the opening of its new facilities. Secretly, mind you, secretly, it applied for the liqour license. When people found out the news got viral. Everybody and their brother offered an opinion. Some: why not? Others: what happened to the stand for health and leisure wo drinky drinkies. Well, obviously smoothies alone could not be enough, not financially anyway, to keep the coffee shop afloat. Personally, I have not seen a single smoothy drinker there but Luka. And what is the big deal? The old gym under the same management served drinks just fine. It hosted events, weddings even, and what, are you really going to offer tea and milkshakes at weddings? Still, the health crazed purists did not want even a pic of a beer bottle, less so the smell. Guess how the management reacted to these voices. They announced: we will be serving drinks responsibly (whatever that means!). And to cap it: No drinks will be served before noon. Before noon?! Granted the Brits do drink like fish, but even they do so rarely before noon. Wow! That is some restraint.

30.04.2024. I was having a haircut with John, the local hairdresser I had written about at some point. He is old fashioned to the extent that the kids stopped going to him. Somehow they read his slowness and his insistence on using scissors as a sign of weakness or worse – incompetence. They prefer a Turkish guy next to the gym. I on the other hand like him because, altho odd, he never imposes a conversation and in general has a very slow way of talking like words are difficult for him to say. Like Henry Soames from The Nickel Mountain by John Gardner, the novel that I am rereading now at the gym. I was reading it while waiting for my cut. The scene that I was reading had a conversation between Henry and one Mr. Kosinsky, who, as Gardner put it, maybe Russian but maybe Polish. Judging by the last name, I presume – Polish. Henry has a difficulty with words and for that reason he has to resort to a wide range of platitudes that all have a nostalgic tweak in them. They are all about death, his health, his late parents, and good olden days. I just finished that conversation when John sat me in the barber’s chair. Without my volition, purely on some Freudian subconscious drive, I started throwing out bits and pieces from the fictional exchange. Amazingly, John picked up and in the course of the haircut – 30 min (slow indeed) – he told me all about the area his shop was located at. he told me about the old-fashioned deli on the corner and about a pub up the street and about him living upstairs on top of the shop at some point. I kept on nodding, throwing in an occasional phrase from The Nickel Mountain. He was Henry and Kozin was Kosinsky, and it worked! As usual, he did not do a very good job but I did not mind: he is a proper English excentric, as they say on Masterchef, and already because of that worthy to win.

Was so disappointed to discover that Gogol’s Ivan Feudorovich Shpon’ka and His Aunt was not finished (just one chapter written). What a shame! it is so funny. Of course, Gogol recycled the character not once later, but still – such a good story!

01.05.2024. my mom has turned into a junkie for soft and comfortable clothes. For this reason, she has started wearing my stuff. She does not care if it is mens or womens, good or worn out, too big, has holes, etc. Often when I call she asks if she could wear this or that. I typically dont mind, except that once she took my much cherished cashmere sweater and turned it into a waste. I most cried when I saw my athletic fit 200 pound thing (the never paying full price Alex did not pay as much of course) into a huge bag-like formless thing with ripped seams and a whole in the back (???)

At the gym, the people who communicate the most are foreigners. Not the timid kind who have a difficulty with language but the assimilated ones, like myself. One such guy, a sort of Indian (I will find out), was so desperate to talk to someone that when he asked me about a machine once (how to use it-I didnt know), for the next two weeks has returned it with references and explanations. He is rather harmless. I did not mind, but when I tried to move our interactions to other topics (the gym in general, how cold the gym is, for example, – indeed the English do not heat public premises), he would still mention the machine :)). I call him now The Machinist.

04.05.2024. I absolutely have to put this dream of mine down. it happened last night in the early morning. As is common, I add a blanket in the early hours, for I get cold by that time. An extra blanket means heavy dreams. This time heavy dreams were about an unusual place but a usual theme. It took place in Italy in Sorento (I dont know how I know). Myself and a woman and a child went to a religious festival and stole a golden cross and a golden bow. We were discovered and there was a chase. What was unusual was that this chase was orchestrated just like a typical Italian (from the 70s comedy films) chase: senseless, stupid, with lots of bumping and running around. everybody was running around trying to get us. Eventually we made it in the open but the open was covered with heavy snow: we were moving exceptionally slowly, another common feature of heavy dreams. Then, the snow ended and we were in the thicket, like in Africa. Then, the priests who were chasing us were replaced with a huge beefy guy who had, like all Italians, a bushel of curly black hair that made him look ridiculous. He was also half naked like Tarzan. Then, I saved a baby by taking it from under the wheels of a car (also Italian), and was forgiven. I had lost my accomplices by that time. I was received by the mayor who introduced me to his wife. who began to flirt with me by holding my hand and pressing it against her thigh. I remember how excited I got in the dream. Then, when she turned to take me to her ‘garden’ (we know what that means), she was no longer a woman but a lean and buttless (assfree) gay man with a very short haircut. I got so scared at the prospect that I woke up. There were also lions in the dream and an airplane but I dont remember the context of their appearance(((

09.05.2024. The Victory Parade was good: not too much shown (no tanks, no helicopters, no artillery), but well orchestrated. My favourite moments were the lost shoe (poor man – the Red Square stones are a bitch to walk on barefoot(( ) and the veteran’s (sitting next to Putin) pulling Putin’s sleeve and holding him hostage chatting at him. He must be about ninety five that man. I imagine Putin instructing his head of administration not to sit him with old farts ever again!

12.05.2024. Contrary to BBC and Co, Putin does not just surround himself with #his men#; he surrounds himself with the #best men.# Personally, I am super happy that Shojgu is gone or rather sidelined. He is Putin’s man all right but he is hardly the best. He was fun spending time with Putin in Altaj, well, being from there and looking like an animator in a bear suit, but he was struggling with SMO and did not appear to manage.

13.05.2024. Time flies when you are ill. I must admit, I like being sick – just a bit. Perhaps, it is a masochist in me that enjoys the fever and the general weakness and the head full of hot but illegible images. The delirium I like! The recovery sucks however. After the crisis is over and I sleep my sickness out, I feel so very weak. That is the least favourite part of being sick for me. Age too adds a dimension. For example, I typically do 45-50 kg on all machines. Not much but decent. When I returned to the gym after being sick, I could only do half of that. And achy. Not fun. But having sweaty dreams, especially for someone who has difficulty falling asleep, a lot of fun)).

14.05.2024. Once. months ago, when walking to the gym, I picked a bunch of stationary stuff on the sidewalk: notepads, pens, a stapler, that kind of stuff. At home, we typically run out of paper to write on as in making notes. We also misplace pens and pencils. So, my find was much appreciated. Yesterday, I was sitting in the kitchen, thinking up things. I reached out for something to write on and saw one of those notepads I just picked up. I opened. it. It was all pristine except for two paragraphs on the first page. the handwriting looked familiar. I began to rad: “At the moment, I am very sad. My stepmother is Alkoholic. In my opinion she drinks alcoholic drinks too often..” I got tense. The handwriting was becoming more and more familiar. Is it Leon? But who is this Stepmother? I was getting concerned. Then, as I continued to read, it became quite clear that it was a small child who wrote these two paragraphs. He or she also wrote about ‘older students’ who like to drink and drive and that drinking is not good for your health. As a parent who drinks and a son of an alcoholic, I both got reflective and empathized. Lots of memories got stirred up. At the end I wondered what happened to that child and their parent. Did they make it? or this notepad on the sidewalk was a clear sign that they didn’t.

15.05.2024. On Prigozhin and Shoigu – tomorrow. Sounds like a pre announcement. Like with the next season of The Rings of Power. I guess I need some commitment to be writing more steadily.

16.05.2024. The show did not work out. Largely, it was because Prigozhin is dead – no doubt, Putin too knew how quickly his recent nemesis could be forgotten, and Shoigu (just read Kolesnikov’s report about Putin’s visit to China) is the formal post. As for their mythical face-off just months in the past – it turned out not to be so mythical after all. Both fell as a result of incompetence and excessive personal ambitions. Et voila!

Today, I went to the gym without a pair of shorts. No, dont take me wrong – I was wearing pants all right. I just forgot to take my sports shorts. Got distracted when changing my stuff. Again! That is where true frustration lied. Again! Totally distracted. Nik would have said: “But, dad, it is all black! The shorts, the t-shirt, the socks and the shoes.” Be as it may, how could I not check. I was so frustrated (You, old coon!) when I discovered my faux pas in the locker room that I left there my hoodie (it was getting balmy after a long day of raining) in the locker. So, double tap, we shall call it, shall we not?

17.05.2024. This morning I woke up not to the news about the war as in having the Russians bomb out yet another good for nothing place in Ukraine, but a front page announcement: for the second year in a row TV host Jeremy Clarkson was voted the sexiest men in Britain. Well, what does it mean ‘voted’? Okay, voted by a selection of 2K “married British women.” Well, the poll was organized by this dating site for the married people (How does that work? What do they do as a category?) Nonetheless, Jeremy Clarkson, ah? The man with bad hair, bad teeth, bad skin and no ass, the man who was fired from BBC on the charge of attacking the producer when the filming got a bit longer th n expected meaning that his lunch was late. The Primadonna Clarkson who is of course charismatic, has a good sense of humour, and who is relatively knowledgeable. OK, knowledgeable fine, but sexy?!! So, how deprived British “married women” must be to have fantasies about THIS man? I dont remember who the runner-up was, but — hold tight! — the third place went to Prince William!

18.05.2024. Oh, yeah. To hit it close to home: Tanja likes Jeremy. She watches his PigFarm show and finds it adorable. She likes his pigs the most however. Or that is what she says. Not Jeremy, but the pigs. They are these busy coloured pigs (some German breed). Still, a bit embarrassing, I think. What if they are not the pigs she likes?

19.05.2024. When I look up my old friends, relatives, colleagues, and lovers, as in trying to find out where they are and what they do, I am more often impressed than not. Not by the “achievements” but by the ‘good fit’ that they signify, but by the trajectory that they maintained. Administration, for example…

20.05.2024. I saw a funky dream. Not only was there a friend of mine who I had a falling out with, it ended at the border some place apocalyptic. there was a bunch of refugees an myself. A man with a special ladder was taking people across the fence and I was waiting for my turn. At some point, two men approached me. One was a sleazy American with long hair. Middle aged. Vulgar face and bad teeth. The other a Nigerian. They were super friendly but in the middle of a lovely conversation with them I discovered that the sleazebag stole the stuff from my back pack and that it was filled with dirt. When I confronted him the black dude got in the way. I pinned him down but the white guy got away in the meantime. I woke up early from frustration. That is exactly how they do it in real life when you do not know who to go after.

While I was in Russia, my blue BMW died. It was the second time in a row that it did: it is 20 yo and the battery has never been replaced. I called the Green Flag (AAA) and a grouchy bearded guy came. While I was talking to him (he understood me not), he asked me where I was from, and I told him. He beamed and said Hallo in Russia. It turned out that he was from Iran and had a Russian girlfriend. Low and behold we found out that were on the same page about the war and from that point on there was no stopping us. We ranted and ranted and ranted. About NATO, about sanctions, about American colonialism (his word). We were like best buddies when he left (he brought a new battery and installed it too). Later, I thought, how sad – I went to the West trying to make friends with the locals and look who I ended up with being friends with. Who could have thought? Yet, refreshing!

Please, do not pour water from water bottles that your kids use in the fishtank. You will get the swamp of a fishtank – they put so much saliva back into the bottle that when I did it a few days ago, the bluish film appeared on the surface and the fish had to be literally rescued (I had to replace the whole 100 litres). All lies – the fishtank is only 30 litres, and I did not replace any water – the filter took care of it all!

26.05.2024. NHS (national health insurance – the UK analogue of Medicare) sucks! Still have my tooth untreated (it will be two months in a week!) It is an overwhelming sense of freedom to see your Amazon basket empty. I wonder how long this pleasure from non-buying is gonna last ;). My book writing at the moment again invites comparisons with SMO: little by little but positive advancement overall. I hope to ‘reach all my goals’ on time. And what about Putin? There is a new front as well. A bad bug is circulating in my family – we are all, except for Tanja, under the weather. The sturdy German chugs along as if she is a Leopard2. Unstoppable. Had a sleepover the other day. Luka had to be brought home. Nik is at the stage of getting sick. Leon is at his girlfriend’s. My mom riled me up again with her complaints about my sister. Nothing I can do at this point – we are not in contact. The weather here goes from showers and storms to sunny and breezy and super nice. The air smells amazing. Sitting in the garden drinking and not drinking is a bliss. Masterchef has been uneventful – too many norms. The Colony, a movie available fro free on Amazon is interesting but only from the point of view of intertextuality. At this point there is a huge pantry of techniques and storylines, scenes and twists an turns. It is difficult not to make a captivating movie even if it is highly recognizable.

28.05.2024. A 20 y.o. BMW X-3 still drives like a charm. I love the feel of that vehicle and perhaps it was the reason for the accident five years ago. I just like riding it a bit too much to notice an obstruction. Poor Luka, so sick, little man. Nik was not as caring as I expected him to be. He was too much into his game to notice that Luka is wanting. Of attention, mostly. After all, he is rarely that sick. He is watching all the Hobbits and the Lord of the Rings, which means, if I remember correctly, 15 hours of watching. As of now, after two days of being sick, he is on the last of the Lord. It is god his Transformers arrive today. If he sets himself to watching that one and rewatching all the previous ones, he can be sick and carefree for a couple more days just fine. I remember how I was exactly in this very situation when I was a kid and sick, except for a book instead of films (films on demand for me, a Soviet boy?!! Really!!? – there were just there TV channels in the whole of the USSR, and all of them filled with Soviet garbage! You don’t believe me?! Go to North Korea. It is not too late to see what used to some universal past. It the same as to go to Namibia and see the local Masai tribes just like they were for centuries. Not quite the same. Maybe even more precious to see. Or Belorus. What a commitment to retro on the part of Lukashenko. He should move over here. So, one can now understand how shocking it was for me to visit the USA at a still impressionable age and as a Soviet. There were already then a hundred if not more of channels. Before streaming and internet. That many! Most of them garbage of course, but like Al Arendt, I appreciated at one time or another, History, Nature, and HBO. Talk shows, Saturday Night Life, Late Night News were typically very entertaining. It is pissing rain like there is not tomorrow. Poor Luka – looks quite miserable. His older brother went to the movies with his friends. Luka is not jealous strangely. He is too much into his sickness. Yeah, a self-absorbed patient. An illness-involved patient.

30.05.2024. George Thorogood – such a small time and small place performer with three songs to matter to his name, but what a hit on all three of them! My favourite is I drink alone. I know exactly how it feels.

One of the great pleasures in old age is to wake up after a good long night of sleep and realize that you did not have to get up and run to the bathroom in the middle of the night but had it all cooped up for the straight 12 hours. And, and you were not drunk or stoned. So, you can, I want to scream to my body. What else, what else do you, stupid body, can do but do not do just because you are retired. Like, you run, right? you can jump and climb trees, right? you can probably drink a litter of vodka and drive, right? you can f… all night and had three legits during that time, right? you can work until 2 in the morning and stay awake all night long, right? It was all a ruse, then? Just to give other humans a chance, right? Well, not really. Nobody could argue entropy successfully. Could have been nice tho. Like, your body starts playing tricks on you and all you need to do to stop it is to threaten it or take it to therapy.

Some songs come about better in videos: Low by Kravitz, Things Have Changed by Dylan, I drink alone by Thorogood. Others, and I want to say all ABBA are better just in audio. Especially when it is that far into the past. No sense any more of ABBA (even less so for Tanja). Tina Turner and Bruce – barely.

Poor Luka. Maybe he is not faking. He eats so little – I worry. He is the smallest. Not the weakest, by far, but thin and springy. When someone like that gets gaunt, it is alarming.

On the way from the gym, I sent Nik to buy him and poor Luka some Dunkin Donuts (they are sold here prepacked). Nik returns with the choice I cannot properly imagine looking into when selecting a donut – a chocolate glazed, chocolate sprinkled, chocolate filled Kit Kat donut. I didn’t even know such abominations exist. What a monstrousety! I am bracing myself, especially with Luka’s incessant barfing, for seeing how it could affect one. Adversely. One of those adversarial characters. The Dark Donut Prince of Dunkin. Comes and shatters. When was the last time you saw a child barfing? The child who throws up goes all the way. All the way along a vast perimeter. The thought that he could contain it somehow by directing it in one direction and more down there somehow does not cross the mind of the child. The child is thinking something else. Like, ‘oooh, it coming.’ ‘now, it comes.’ ‘aha, it can do that!’ Of course, like many an adult who surmised about what the child thinks, we are all mistaken – we just don’t remember. It was very porous tho, our thinking.

01.06.2024. Last night the strangest thing happened. After we finished watching Fallout at 9pm, Nik went to the box with the new kittens. He wanted to touch them. Luka and myself were in the room. After a moment Nik looked up and said, ‘They are not here.’ I laughed, ‘Right! A good one!’ ‘No, seriously, they are not here.’ I know Nik well by now to know if he is bullshitting or if he is serious. I came over and …indeed there were no kittens in the box. Their mother Blue was there, but the kittens were not. For half an hour we searched the entire room (twice, three times), the stairs and the hallway. The kittens were gone. We could not hear them either. I sent the kids to bed and went to the garden (stupid on the second thought, but I did panic). All was normal there. After an hour and a half I went to bed. Anxious and concerned (the kittens would not have survived past a day without being fed), I slept horribly and woke up early. As soon as woke up at 7:30 I went downstairs and continued the search. TBC

03.06.2024. Just before finishing the story about the cats – Zelensky asked the Philipines’ leader to help. The Asian guy said, Okay, what do you want, Volodimir, but we are not going to send weapons?’ Well, after a pause, said Zelensky, ‘How about you send psychotherapists to help Ukranian soldiers with their mental health.’ Is this guy for real? does he have a clue? A proper puppet that he is, he is still some kind of a leader of not a very small or backward (well, by the Russian standards, it is…) country. And so this – Asian non-Ukranian speaking psychotherapists. ‘F…g morons,’ as Lavrov said at some point.

So, the disappearance of the kittens. The next day, after another thorough search of the living room, I went outside. The day before I cleaned the cats’ litter boxes (two large containers) and put the waste outside. Maybe, i thought Blue got tired of her kittens. After all, she is a very young mother, and, like some humans, decided to get rid of them by burying them in the litter (the best way to hide the bodies, I’d say). I put on a rubber glove and courageously went through the black bags with the litter. No kittens transpired. What if I thought, and then Tanja and Leon, the big cats ate them (happens)? But they are too big the traces would have been there. What if – the most disturbing scenario – someone came from the back garden, opened the conservatory door outside, then another one that leads to the living room, and took them? but then the thieves should have know that they are there. None of that made sense. I decided to let Blue out. Just her and open all the doors. Perhaps she will find her kittens. Myself, I went upstairs to my room to write yet another despondent message to Tanja. Time was running out – another 12 hours wo milk, and they would be dead. As I was laying in my bed, Blue entered and went straight under my bed. Immediately after, I heard a faint meiow, then another one. I called the kids in. They heard it too! The kittens were found. But how? How could it be that the door to my room was opened? How could it be that Blue carried four kittens, one after another, to my room and placed them under my bed wo us noticing it? How could it be that I went to bed that night and heard nothing all nigh long an nothing in the morning? Finally, why would Blue do that? The last question is not that hard to answer tho – she simply wanted to move out and get herself a room of her own. She has never been in my room, and when she discovered it, she thought, Oh my! This is it. A mansion. And all to myself. Screw these two big chunguses downstairs. I am starting a new life. Or something like that! Most importantly, the sense of relief was overwhelming! When we waited for an hour to let the little ones drink a bit, the kids and I lifted the mattress and the planks, took the kittens, them Blue and carried them all downstairs. When we put them in the box, Lulu seemed happy. Myshkin was indifferent, and Blue settled back straight away. Cats.

06.06.2024. My commentary to the article in Gazeta.ru about how in Britain ‘many open their eyes’ about the Russian ‘soft force’ aimed at defending traditional values and what not: ‘Нарратив “мягкая сила” равно как и нарратив “братский Украинский народ” были созданы для внутреннего употребления и, после двух лет СВО, перестали быть в ходу даже у власти. А что касается Запада, то, проживая в Великобритании второй десяток лет, скажу с уверенностью, что кроме продажных Лондонских адвокатов, англичане верят исключительно в “жесткую силу” и сколько я им не объясняю, какие мы белые и пушистые по сравнению с ними, они только лыбятся и ждут не дождутся возможности надавать русским по щам.’

07.06.2024. Peskov has become quite sloppy with words. For a Press-Secretary. Thus, when commenting the incoming Peace Summit in Switzerland he said it is an event without an event because it is not newsworthy. ‘It is just the other way round, Mr. Peskov. What is being created in Switzerland is a newsworthy event. It is just that it has no substance. Like many of your recent comments.’

08.06.2024. Properly insane dreams. But what do you expect from watching Masterchef, Fallout and Paul back to back? With Leon getting very sick and Luka still sick? Plus, some weird experiences at the gym and a bit of plant shopping at the Garden Centre. The weirdest thing was not the black dude who befriended me but myself with a head full of black curly hair! Usually, in accordance with my age, I tend to appear losing things: teeth, hair, ability to move. I never gain anything in my dreams. Give another week or two and I will get a new round butt and new agile legs (plus one new toenail – please!).

10.06.2024. My mom confuses Saturday and Sunday. Joe Biden confuses Ukraine and Iraq. My mom justifies the mix-up by saying What’s the difference? Joe says the same thing. My mom is kind, truthful and humane. Joe is a f…bastard. Me thinks my mom is ought to be President of the United States. Me thinks Joe shall start wearing a bib.

12.06.2024. A guy on MasterChef who bit into a carrot to try it and then put it on the plat for Greg and John to taste. So very very weird as to the human action that makes no or little sense! But it was already that the contestant was weird. Like having Looser written all over his big flabby body, fat bespectacled face and sweaty bolding head. Reading John Gardner’s Nickel Mountain helps figure some of it out.

Oh, yeah, about my sister. I have figured a few things out – of course, she has an immense ego, but, more importantly, she uses people (that too is an old adage) as instruments. Her second husband who provided her with the current state of well-being, her children to give her an aura of a good mother, her job to create an impression of god’s work. All to satisfy the urge to appear better than she is. So all of us, including myself and my mother, her closest relatives, are just the tools toward that goal.

13.06.2024. The war – escalation, please! Fallout – so very nukey, so prophetic in a most disturbing way. The kids love it too. Luka said that it has a real story (unlike his recently purchased Transformers. The Rise of the Beasts))

It is sickening to be sick! That nasty bug, it is truly ghastly.

Nik auditioned for the role of the son of a Russian military man who teaches him loyalty with a drink in his hands. The guy has his son in attention when he speaks to him about not being friends with a Ukranian. Funny, but the Russians do not have this kind of pathetic stereotypes about the Westerners. I wonder why. No, like why? Here at home Tanja and myself throw around all sorts of stereotypes about the English. They are pathetic in so many ways. I don’t think it is because the Russians are more tactful. Maybe more ignorant. Half a century behind the Iron Curtain matters. Two generations completely cut out. Perhaps. Still, I have tons of stereotypes about the Germans. I have not seen a single one on the screen. No, I am not offended. Just disgusted. This buffonalia in Switzerland and these clowns: Zelenok, Stoltenburger, von der Lying, Spulz. I just see them on the arena in their oversized shooes beating the like of Putin with inflatable sticks that say Nukes. Pa-the-tic!

14.06.2024. Putin will get rid of Peskov, mind my words. Soon.

16.06.2024. Or not)). Who cares, anyway. Again, this war is getting on my nerves. Or rather everything around, on both sides. We used to say ‘postmodern.’ Looks like it, tastes like it. Appears real, but is it? People die but nobody has seen how it happens, or rather lots of images, but all so removed that they appear surreal. The most frustrating thing is that I doubt that I will live long enough to see this world that Putin is trying so hard to build, the world where the USA sits pretty over the ocean and keeps quiet. I doubt it will happen soon, if at all.

This bug that fell Luka and then Leon is really a nasty bugger. It moves in a strange up and down zigzag like fashion. Baad, baad bug! Will try the gym anyway. On Sunday not many people there. Can cough at will )).

The book is moving but slowly now that the last but one chapter is almost there. It is a very uninteresting chapter. I also write lots about the boys, but trying to be fair can offend them in the future. Especially Nikolai. When I read some of my assessment to him, he was not happy and asked me to change things like ‘sneaky’ and ‘lying.’ Well, I will see about that.

26.04.2024. The trip to Istanbul was good. I left super sick. Some super bug got me. I was feverish and coughing like a fiend. Tanja did not insist but I saw it in her eyes that she really wanted me to go. I went. I was glad. It was not easy to endure the 4-hour flight and the taxi ride was gruelling. Walking around in that hot of theirs with a headache and a fever was less than enjoyable. Yet, it all worked out. The kids behaved, and we orientated ourselves (given the almost complete absence of sings in English) reasonably well. I think that I would have had a slower recover if I stayed back in Hove. I liked Istanbul. It dissipated many a prejudice. It was as not as noisy, smelly and aggressive as I thought. The people were overwhelmingly nice and nobody sought to take advantage of us. In retrospect, I feel a bit embarrassed that I thought we would be conned at every corner. The boys were of course as much into their own routine, but they enjoyed the opportunity to have a free reign when it comes to food. Indeed, there were many a burger and many a fast food establishment that we visited. The Turkish food (no matter how authentic) did not appeal to either one of us. Not on that ‘street food’ level anyway. When I was in Turkey on an odd chance: when the West closed the sky on March, 2022 I could not fly directly to London and so had to go through Turkey. Tanja put me in a five star hotel for a few days (to mitigate my trauma, no doubt)) and the food there was more than superb. It was fantastic! I enjoyed it so much so that I wanted to return to that place in Antalya every year. Well, after the Turks figured it out with the war, the priced went out of control, and it was not affordable any more. But the food we had in Istanbul was a different kind of food: expensive, but not at all tasty. The kids found it excessively seasoned (read: salty). I can take salt, but the combination of grilled vegetables and rice (potatoes), and either chicken of beef – that I found boring. What we liked were Turkish pastries. One could basically subsist on them for days. Oh, yeah, and although we did not go the main sites, we crossed to the other side (from Asian to European), and took a boat trip of Bosphorus. We even swam at the city at the city beach and another time, at where you are not supposed to swim – at the Water Park. A lot of ice-cream. Mostly good.

I sometime have flashbacks of being in South Dakota in the care of Al and Cabrini. Fishing, boating, hunting. Amazing time (minus Al a lot of times, the heat and the smallness of the place)!

28.06.2024. Days are getting shorter. I can feel it. The sun is still scarce, but there is promise. We went to the beach the day before yesterday: it felt good to open the swimming season. The water was 16.5 degrees. When the sun is out and there are no clouds, quite pleasant actually. Hopefully will be able to repeat tomorrow. My mom said it was 31 in Moscow today. If one could bring this temperature here, we would have had a proper resort. My summer dreams are not as bad as winter dreams. Work too is going well. It is gelling. Just need to get these pictures before the season is over. When there is swimming, there is no playing, so get going, Alex! Not much to write at this point, which is good, I guess.

29.06.2024. Dreaming about the nuclear war all the time (well, twice in a row). Fleeing some country I cannot recognize. By myself with a black backpack and a silver carry-on. Both get stolen by the end, causing a surge of anxiety and premature wake-up. I did not see the mushrooms. Dune II was nice to watch (on the plane). Quite a difference – for the David Lynch is who he is, a genius, and therefore incomparable, unique. A different art. Herbert Frank I read but I found his writing stilted. It did not capture me. But is it not an example of an art that simply did not find its optimal resolution, and film is the ultimate expression of the original?

01.07.2024. Weird day. Weird mood. Watched the 2024 The Road House. Liked it. The lead (dont remember his name. Of course – Jake Gyllenhall) is very good. Soldier, fighter, good man. Dont like the suspense over the done deal. As in him being beaten up by that Irish psycho MacGregor. Not a very good actor but true to his personae.

Looks like Nik is next in the line of the affected by the virus. I am coughing and Luka too. So, now Nik. Mate! This is one nasty bug! I hope it is not gonna be as bad as for myself and Luka. I worry about Tanja as well. If Nik falls, she is most likely follow suit. Nik is never a good sport when he is sick. Strange though. Why not all of us at the same time? Like there is lag of a couple of weeks before the next one gets affected.

It is 33C in Russia. Cant say I am envious. My mom is back from the dacha. Too hot there. She is becoming less and less communicative (as in telling things). Oh, well.

06.07.2024. Cannot believe it is July already. Rainy, windy, not unpleasant but not summery. I have to postpone our Playmobil playing every other day because of the weather. Shitsky. Speaking of which, I felt very sorry for the Germans at the EURO quarterfinals – I guess playing earnestly is not enough no matter what Wilde was saying about it. Quite a game too. Dramatic. Nothing like what is on now (England vs Switzerland). Some did predict. Of all people, – Leon did)). Oh, well. Starmer – the King of Boredom and Tedium. Changes…What changes?! Better go and make some tea before congregating in the stinking room for a fix of Masterchef. Shall it be green or black? That is pretty much the greatest dilemma these days. Promise to write more often though – it is good for the soul, as the locals like to say)).

07.07. 2024. Ominous number. Floods and doubts, ruses and rises. The Cup of Americas. What Americas?

Carcassonne – more than a game, – a strategy and a lifestyle!

09.07.2024. Shocking! Out of six MasterChef contestants only two could identify the meat in the Ingredients Test. It was lamb and neither beef, nor pork, nor duck! Yet, the judges still took four of the contestants in the next round! I have to stop watching this show. There is no trust to John and Gregg any more. To confuse lamb with duck is like for a US President to call Ukraine Iraq. You cannot let this person go on. Oh, I guess this did happen…I guess Biden will be re-elected. Crazy!!! What is not crazy? The Spanish pummelling France is not crazy. They have done it for centuries in all their little inter-regional wars. Then, the migrants came and that was the end of Spain. I know I am making little sense. Confusing corn with lentil. Better get to those sweet pics of the kids I found on the old computer. They are certainly book worthy! And, oh, yeah, The Boys is a fun series. Will watch.

11.07.2024. Have been having a tremendous difficulty with reading fiction. No, I do have time. At least an hour a day. Yet, it is a difficulty. As in getting into the text and, moreover, being called by it. Most of my life, I have been hearing ‘read me! read me!’ from books. Now, I have ten books on my waiting list. They are sitting all over in my room. Biographies, fiction, poetry, collections. There is only one book that I have been reading with pleasure – Nickel Mountain by John Gardner. But even that book has created anticipation only because I read it at the gym on the treadmill (six pages in ten minutes – I use the treadmill to warm up only))). This is to say, I want to read it when I am engrossed in another activity. And – to make my point stronger – because I have already read it. Twice. Even my favourite Gogol whose volume of novellas are right here on the night table is not inviting me any longer. I think it is old age. Something happens there, something that makes an activity of reading harsh. Not reading special literature but reading in general. Oh, well.

I need to forget the war in Ukraine. Somehow. Too much emotional pressure. Too many unknowns. None of the news is good. I have a sickening feeling the nukes are going to fly soon. But for now just not read anything. No news whatsoever. Give it a month and see.

13.07.2024. A very good day indeed. What does make a good day? Well, these days (so very different years ago), a good day means morning work (good work) combined with good sex (after a good night of good sleep), a well-paced physical activity (read: gym), some surprise (read: Coop sales), some swimming without an obligation, that is the means to to stay as long as you want to (read: having an extra vehicle to depart in), then some more work (even if cleaning), then indulging here and there, eating some delicious (even if only in your head) take-away food, indulging more, watching some visual fodder (James May in India, MasterChef), wrapping up with sweets.

Saying good-buy to Nickel Mountain. One page left. Feels like a funeral of a friend. I known it is the last time I read this book. It is probably not even going to survive another read: pretty tattered it is. The Sommerville Library stamp on the fold. This means I bought this wretched paper back in 1993. Thirty year ago. It travelled with me from Boston to Carbondale to Berlin to Hove. Man, quite a journey for a cheap addition. Signet, I believe.

15.07.2024. Funky, but books are becoming extraordinarily expensive. I am not sure I have ever complained about prices on WordPress. Like those books that are paperbacks of popular writers: Cheever, Gardner, Updike. I guess they are not reprinted any longer. Especially Gardner. A small paperback printed in the 1970s may cost up to 50 dollars! But then again, there are libraries Kozin. Get your act together and bring your sorry ass to the public library.

We are having a torrential rain right now. Was promised to come 4 hours ago. Finally, it happened. I love the sound. There is so much greenery in the garden that rain falls down softly. In Moscow, there is always this metallic sound from the roof and the window sills. It is also quite dark. Like it is October and not July. Sleeps so well.

We finally got to the sea: swam for two days in the row. Kind squeezed this opportunity in between cloudy and cold spells. Felt like luck had something to do with it. At this point, the air temp is about 18-19 bordering on 20, so in theory any day could be a swimming day. We shall capitalize. Indeed, we shall.

The English were sulky today. Of course, they never showed it, like they did not lose. I mean EURO. Well, they did! And not because the other team was stronger. In fact, the English were stronger. They just played badly. There was no coherence and no plan, it seemed. Admit it, mates – you deserved it.

I meant to write something clever and something deep. And look what happened! Just another emasculated entry((

25.07.2024. Okay, finally, something worthwhile reporting apart from Luka’s finishing primary school and a few days of the swimming weather. My Guardian Angel struck again. A week ago I lost an old crown. It just came off. I imagined that it came off because of the clash of temperatures but in fact, upon examination, it came off because the tooth it was sitting on got chipped. I got despondent as I always do about all things dental. Proper despair. Pain, expense, dim prospects with speedy dental services and shoddy quality over here in Britain. Many reasons. So, I called around and made an appointment. I took the dislodged crown and wrapped in a napkin. I put it in my shorts’ pocket. Then, all of us went to the beach. The next day, which was the day of the appointment, I got ready for my appointment, I got dressed, I washed myself and I shaved, then I reached in to the pocket of my shorts only to find out – to my absolute dismay – that the napkin with the crown was gone. I panicked. Shall I call the dentist and cancel or reschedule or what shall I do. Frantically I began to search around. I got into my room’s garbage. Tanja, the sweet soul, got into the kitchen garbage. I lifted all Lego pieces in my room. Finally, I decided to go anyway and see if I could at least get advice at the dentist’s. On the way out, I reached into the recycling box at the door. The box was empty except for a piece of the napkin. I felt it. It appeared to have crusted snot in it but nothing else. Then, someone whispered in my ear: ‘Look again!’ I did. It was there! I made it to the dentist on time, and they reattached the crown, and all was good in the end, except for me feeling horribly stupid and at the sane time grateful to my Guardian Angel. As always, on these occasions, as it was the case with my car accident, I take it as a warning and so was extra careful driving and doing things. Ooph. What a relief it was! And what a sight (site) – Tanja on the floor of the kitchen going through a full bin of smelly garbage((())). Okay, I do promise that my next note is going to be less fragrant)).

28.07.2024. Need to get going with the pics for the book. The kids and I have barely played once this summer. Maybe I shall cut to the parade. Yea, right. If everyone could just cut to the parade, Russian troops were marching on Lviv as I write. No, mate. No cutting. Will sit in my writing trenches and endure. Little by little. Does Putin dream of Odessa? I bet he does. What do I dream about. Another stolen backpack full of Mozart Kugel candy? A sigh. I am 60. Do I write better than when I was 40. Well, perhaps faster but not better. In the past I would be high a lot when writing. Now, I cannot master that kind of energy. I bought myself a teeth whitening stick by Colgate the other day. Have I used it? Not yet. Why? No energy, man. Even after a good snorkel I cannot master it. Nor do I like to master anything when all I want is to relax further. Age, my dear friends. Age is properly taking hold of me. Okay, enough! Whining shall stop. Weird news. No, not the Olympics (I don’t watch that kind of shit). The giant prehistoric shark that got lucky to have received a camera from men (attached to its back – thank you, humans!) and what did the curious scientists during the first and last six hours on that camera? Yeap, the shark having got killed by a boat that literally ran over it. Now, think! If this happened within just six hours of us observing the life of a near extinct beast, how many fatalities of the kind happen without us seeing them? And at war?

29.07.2024. Saw a funky dream last night. Not just funky but properly prophetic. I was at the dacha in the old house when I heard someone calling ‘Sasha! Sasha!’ I walked out of the house to find myself in the garden which was a room. No, it was the garden all right or more like it the lawn that separates the two houses. But it was all inside of a room. Yet, the room did not have the floor (it did have the walls and the ceiling) but the ground which was covered in snow. Dirty snow, indicating February. On the other end of the room leading to the new house there was a door. It was closed shut. It was the kind of a room door that we have here in Hove in Tanja’s house. There was nobody in the garden/room, but there was a pile of stuff in the middle: old furniture from the old house, including my dad’s sofa on which he died, and metal chairs from the entryway. There too were covered in show. in that pile I noticed bits and pieces of paper and when I took one I saw that it was a document for something (deed, perhaps). I saw a passport as well. When I opened it, it was not for a human but for … a small dog. I freaked out and woke up. A dream that could have been in a Tarkovsky film except that all I watched the night before was Masterchef and The Acolyte. But then, this dream, is it prophetic of what? As always a riddle.

06.08.2024. A plethora of ideas recently, all but all lost by now. Sic transit. The problem is that this computer is the only one set for WordPress. It is a relatively upscale Dell that is both fast and mobile (14in). It also has a very good reception. For this reason I often take it to the kitchen. Then, I just leave it there, and since I write my notes mostly in the evening before bedtime, here we are. Another sucky thing is that I do not get a chance to attach pics on my Dell for the camera I use is Sony. It has the memory card that needs a special device. It is good for my Sony computer that does not have Word and no WordPress access. Okay, I see, not much of a dilemma. I will sign in for WP on Sony. Thanks!

A good thing is coming from my reading experience. The Crying Lot 49 by T. Pyncheon is a blast! I am totally into it wondering how come I did not like it the first time, when I was 30 or so. Too much satire? Little interest in the 1960s? Or is it that I did not understand it well at the time? I don’t know. Of the weird things that have happened recently, the family that came over to see the kittens takes the cake. They wanted a boy and a girl. They already contacted us six or so months ago wanting to replace their late tom cat. It turned out it was saved from the pound in Bermuda. Apparently, he came to them and so they were attached to him. They called it bonding. So, this time, they wanted two cats. Yet, they asked Tanja if they could come over an see if they could bond with the kittens. Well, I dont know where to begin to describe all the logical flaws in their reasoning. Did they want to have a cat like their old cat? Did they want to have a differently looking cat? Why two? Well, after half an hour of bonding (we left them respectfully by themselves with the cats), they walked out crying saying that their late cat looked just like Myshkin, that is, the father of the kittens. Therefore, they cannot imagine having a kitten now. They are not ready! Needless to say, we were not selling Myshkin. And what is it supposed to be like, bonding with the kittens in the style they bonded with their desperate cat from the pound? Nothing they said made sense. They were the most senseless people I have met.

Tanja said that the German press is gloating over the fact that the Brits (you know, the riots) have turned out to be even greater xenophobes than them. And anti-semites, I must add.

09.08.2024. Sharks. Strong wind. Blazing Sun. Sand. More Sand. Palm trees. No fruit on palm trees. I don’t want to go to the West Indies! Please don’t take me there!

I wanted to buy a car, but bought shoes instead. How is this for a trade?

I hope that the Ukranian invasion of Russia be taken as an excuse for escalation. The Russians must start escalating if they want to finish this war before I die. But. Again. So what if they still are at war? Just like Thomas Pynchon wrote: ‘everything changes and nothing changes when you are not there any more.’ I guess. I just want to finally be able to read a book and not stupid news. About us and them and about some games and about the dollar and about some celebrity saying some things about another celebrity and about yet another thief or sadist anywhere and everywhere. More shoes perhaps, Alex. A good idea, mate!

10.08.2024. How come? How come the cocks are in Russia? How come? ask those who had to be evacuated from Sudzha. I just read a Kommersant report and I am properly annoyed like all those who are around there. Annoyed by the military, by Putin, by Peskov, by Zakharova and everyone who says: ‘It is okay.’ It is not okay but the lesson to be learnt is not more mines on the border but the need to stop using euphemisms about the war. It is a war and not the special military operation. Call it a war and act accordingly. I understand the term SMO, but simple people take the term as a part of the Aesopean language of the official press, that is, as lying.

It is time for Putin to make a statement. It is time to call things as they are. They are: ‘We are at war. At war, all the means are good if they meet the goal, and we do know the goal.’ And then, to add: ‘Therefore, we are going now to do this or that.’ Very annoyed and frustrated. And no amount of them (the officials) saying, ‘Well, this is exactly what the cocks want’ is going to make it better because for all practical purposes they have achieved that. Now, say what it is we are going to do about it. Mann, this f… war is making me headachy. I will be someone who returns from it a ‘wounded person.’ All of us, the Russians, are going to be the ‘victims of the war,’ traumatized to this or that degree, but affected in any case. As for the Ukranians, I want them gone. Yeah, that extreme.

16.08.2024. I had a friend who liked to say: when trying to save face too hard, you may completely. I think this is what is going on in Kursk with the Ukranian invasion – they are indeed going to collapse soon. I must say, I cannot wait. Patience is not any of my virtues; impatience has brought me nothing but trouble, and so I know that Zelensky’s impatience is going to be his death sentence. Turning Ukraine into a small insignificant country has become my dream, and I wished for it so very hard that it ought to become true unless my wish is a corrupt one (I do know by now that all wishes come true but the corrupt ones). I doubt though that most Russians are corrupted. And if the minority, that 20-25% turns out to be the corrupt one, I will be happy for my idea of justice will be confirmed, and being right, not righteous, is the feeling I have not experienced for some time (unless Tanja ‘gives’ it to me)))

22.08.2024. My mom turned 83 today. She will go to the hospital tomorrow for an operation.

At the gym, there is guy who washes his hands first and then pees and does not wash his hands afterwards. There is also a guy who wipes the machine vigorously, but only the handles. There is another guy who brings his clothes and shoes in a tennis racket holder. I too am weird. I always come with a book. I read it on treadmill for ten minutes. It is Chekhov this time.

26.08.2024. Another weird encounter in the gym. In the locker room I began to talk with a guy who comes there often, so we nod to each other, but I do not know his name. This time, it was a bank holiday and a short day at the gym, and we were the last to finish. He started a conversation while changing. I could not understand him for carrots. He spoke fast and had something nasal in his voice, something that I always have a difficulty with. I heard him speak to a friend in the past and thought that he was Hungarian (lots of them around). At first I tended to pretend that I understood him, then I just only was looking for familiar words which I could use a key. I would then string them together into a sequitor of some kind. He too spotted my accent and asked me where I was from. I said – I am Russian. From the Soviet Union. He then launched a diatribe about those times when the Soviet Union made Albania prosper (it was a buffer country; hence its criminal inclinations). I did not know if it was good or bad, so I was just listening. We had to stop conversing because our time in the gym was literally up. I asked him his name. He said Tom. I said mine was Alex. We shook hands. At that point, he was completely naked. When he was moving to the shower, I could not help myself. I said, ‘I do not remember the last time I touched…(and then I quickly recovered) shook hands wit a naked man.’ He looked weirdly at me but chuckled nonetheless. I wonder how this acquaintance is going to play out next time I see him.

29.08.2024. Few people know that I wanted to become a diplomat and toward this wish of mine made a an attempt to transfer from my language school in Moscow to the diplomacy school (MGIMO). I fell short on points and perhaps on character. Not the most patient man, I would have become a horrible diplomat. I think my application showed it (well, my references did, I am sure). In diplomacy, I value conflict avoidance and conflict management the most. This is why it is so difficult for people like myself (Aries) to consider this current war as a ‘long one.’ But, Putin is Libra and not Aries. He is absolutely balanced, and the only thing timewise that is not playing into his hand is his own age. However, he must not act as if his age matters. As in ‘I want to see the results.’ That would be me. Most likely Putin is not going to see the results of his actions, his vision will be realized well after his death. But I still want to bring my family to Moscow and show Luka around. He wants to visit Russia so much!

06.09.2024. Fall is here. Rain is here. Wind is here. The last day of swimming was three days ago: Luka and myself went but did not enjoy it – it was very windy and overcast.

Of all the reasons about Zelensky sending his Army to Kursk I like the one where it was Putin who lured him there. The conniving Putin I like. Weakened the defences in light of a clear and present danger and ‘allowed’ the Ukranians to march in, creating a trap. Now despite all the futility of the efforts in the North, the Ukras are committed to send more and more people into the grinder. As a result, in Donbass, the things are going very well, I understand. Unfortunately, the ‘trap theory’ is hardly the case (too many losses among the Russian draftees). Most likely, it was indeed unexpected (but why not to mine the border throughout?). Some Russian commander was negligent, that is all. As always.

I am also beginning to see the results of the Russian strategy of bleeding the Ukras by killing its men at the highest possible rate. Indeed, 16 thousand people killed and wounded per week is impressive. Unfortunately, my calculations show that at this rate by this date there should have been no more people left, so the Russian MOD is most likely a bit too optimistic. Unless of course like with the military hardware, there is a fundamental difference between a hit and a destroyed tank. So, looks like most of the the counted Ukras are hit rather than killed and they do come back. Oh, well, another year then. Just like the disgraced Shoigu said. 2025.

07.09.2024. I finally splurged and bought The Wreckage of Agathon. A beautiful read. Enjoying at, albeit only at the gym.

My mom was operated a few days ago. Poor thing. At 83, she is so very weak and so much in pain. They operated on the spine, replacing the metal that fixes her vertebrae in the lower back. But the insult to injury was waiting for her when she got released and arrived at home. The elevator was broken, and she lives on the 6th floor. Imagine, a barely walking post-operation ancient woman climbing up. It took her half an hour but she made it. My sister’s ex-husband was with her. Maan or maan! She just refuses to give up. Still it is about time to find her a carer. She is going to hate it, but she has to accept it. After all, my dad had one.

I still do not understand the reason why Russia did not declare war on Ukraine after the attack on its territory. I think it’s about time. The use of ballistic missiles could have been helpful to end all this. MOD recommends. F…g politics. But really? What is the difference now? So, we win, and the West falls in love with us? America becomes out best friend? It lifts sanctions and embraces our country as the beacon of freedom and traditional fundamental values? Hell, no! Then why? Why have so many good men killed on our side? I am entirely unhappy. Unless again, it is all a part of some ploy. But I have never been into conspiracy theories to begin with.

15.09.2024. I have started reading comments to some news on gazeta.ru, for example and got shocked by how extreme opinions are there. Much more so than my own. Frankly, I am put to shame for my modesty on such topics as the use of nuclear weapons and the outcome of the war. And so much hatred toward specific people, – Peskov, for example. ‘Chatterbox’ is the most lenient label that is given to him. But most importantly, people are frustrated by the war so much so that I feel it is reaching the critical point. As for the elites, they too begin to understand that a decisive and not a measured response to the enemies of all kind is needed. Putin does not appear as safe as he imagines. All this makes me want to write notes even less. If I were younger I would have focused on philosophy and literature, but even there writers like John Gardner upstage me in things interesting and deep to say. It is for this reason that I feel that translation is the answer. Translating those who are better and smarter. Basically, coming full circle to who I was trained to be. Which is again ironic. Peskov, the chatterbox Peskov is a translator, all the diplomats are translators. Lavrov is a translator of Putin. A vocation, you say. So, it seems that the solution of my hiatus is to translate people like Gardener. Like Golosovker. Yeah, there is no glory there. Who would ever remember Peskov? Translation is a refuge. Not as good as a bunker, but a refuge nonetheless. Do I really want to hide though? Man, who would have thought that at the end of my life I will be living on the brink of a nuclear war. That my children may not continue. It is sheer madness. The idealist in me is suffering. I have begun to have doubts.

23.09.2024. Tough times: Tanja’s father died, and my mom is not recovering fast enough or at all. I liked Erhard and was sorry to see him go. As for my mom, she is much in pain and losing the will to live. Nobody there to help her 24/7. Depressing. Finished writing the book about playing Playmobil. Disappointed: it did not come out as well as I expected. It is neither insightful nor well-written. Will be happy to publish it and move on to something more intriguing, my alien modalities project. All in all, the times are not great. Fear an escalation of the war in Ukraine. Dream of nukes and zombies.

On the bright side, I laughed hard at the antics by the three clowns in Top Gear. The last episode for ever. They are so childish, these three, but lots of fun to watch! And my car got MOTd (not a given for a 20 y.o. vehicle with sensor problems). Other than that – not particularly well-balanced I am. Played Lego with Luka and enjoyed it. He is getting older and more proficient in improvising his games.

27.09.2024. With my trip to Russia scheduled mid October, I will be missing – thanks to my sister – all the great weather. This year, the Indian Summer has been particularly spectacular, they say: dry, hot, and windless, the best time for barbeque. Had some here, however. Always, a bit of trouble. Too much effort, and the kids, although they love to make fire, flip burgers and stuff themselves till they get blue in the face, suck as helpers (well, mostly). But, they do enjoy the event. As for the event itself, it has to be timed well. If we manage, it goes pretty smoothly. For the barbeque kit, I use the one bought on Amazon. It is tiny but works super well. In the South of England, the wind is so strong that making fire is fiddlesticks, as easy as to take candy from a child. But not any longer. No barbeques for another year. Not cold, but rainy. Just too wet.

Again, I wish I made pics.

29.09.2024. I almost had a heart attack today. It was insane. Still short of breath. I went to the drop off the kids at Stage Coach (theatre studio) which takes place in a school with a huge full size football field attached where I often see kids practice. I usually do not drive all the way but drop off the kids at the far end of the school. Then, I walk them via a one-way street. This time, all the spaces were taken. All of them. To the extent that I could not park even at the entrance of the one way street. I had to drive farther and into the street. It appeared that there was a football match. Girls. 11-12 y.o. Some inter-city thing judging by the license plates. This meant that not only the parents but the grandparents were there. Loads of cars parked chaotically on the lawn, sidewalk in no parking spots. I parked on the sidewalk and walked the kids to their drop off place. When I returned, the car was blocked from all sides. I forgot to to mention that I had a viewing. Someone was supposed to come from London to buy a kitten. In 10 minutes. And – oh, horror! – I did not have my phone on me! Walking would take me 30 min. I decided to squeeze myself out. You should have seen me! And many people there did! Squeezing in my 4.5 meter long 2 meter wide 20 year old beaten up X3 through and between Merzedeces, BMWs, Meibachs, and other overpriced shit. A dozen of people were not looking a the match but the precious stupid me. I was a proper sight. Twenty minutes later, after a million of ten centimeter increments of backs and forths passing, I shit you not, at a centimeter distance from the sides of other cars, I finally to the dismay of that blonde grandma in a Ka, managed to make a U-turn and drove off. I swear I heard the metal/plastic screeching. On the street, when I was finally in the clear, I breathed out, stopped the car and jumped out to see if there were any scratch marks or bits of paint from other cars. None. Being highly sentimental on such occasions, I hugged my blue beamer from the front (also quite a sight, I bet) and drove home. Needless, to say, the people I was so in such a rush to meet, were one hour late.

30.09.2024. The denial of all emotions is but a higher form of emotionality (John Gardner).

Had another ‘Ukraine War’ conversation at the gym. We were talking numbers (casualties). The man with a bad breath said that the Russians lost half a million men, which is ten times of the Ukranian casualties – all according to BBC from his words. As an example of the Ukranian lies retranslated over here in UK I gave the most recent ‘success’ at hitting the Russian long range missiles depot under Volgograd. Announced by the Ukranian high command. A fake, as it turned out, – the official pics showed not the burning depot, and not Russia either but the fire at an oil facility around Dubai. Guess what he said. Well, BBC is not going to lie. Yeah, granted, I admit, I have heard more shit from the Russian RT than BBC, but the eagerness on the part of the Brits to believe unconditionally in their media is astounding. On this note we parted ways.

Nik, Luka and myself had KFC for dinner tonight. I eat there literally, like with McDonalds, once a year. But boy, I do enjoy this one time)). Enjoy and do not want to repeat for another year.

By the way, The Wreckage of Agathon is also – among many things – is about Spartan ways. What fun! Reminded me of that book I read as a kid: “The Spartan Ways.” And now a major bestselling piece of literature.

I remember how, when I was young, I wrote research I hated to lose even a tiny bit of info, fact, good turn of phrase. Now that I am old (and cranky), I may drop chapters. Eagerly, I give the kids some of my trinkets I cared so much about and kept safe not even ten years ago . Of course, – the set realization of fragility and mortality.

Associations: campus pond at SIUC, many a potential rental place in Boston (smell, colours, light), the place I rented in Pierre in 2005-2006, Rachel’s cat Pushkin.

31.09.2024. I ordered a pair of Levi’s 501 called ‘past life.’ How is that? Earth brown – the colour. Like, really?! That explicit! Why not call it ‘the last respite’ or 501 RIP. Anyway.

05.10.2024. Did not want to write – October blues. The atmosphere here is distinctly autumn. In Moscow too. I wanted it, and it came. It is going to rain when I arrive. And then for two weeks past that. Or two months, what do I know? Packing a suitcase is not easy these days. Apart from the meds for my mom, whisky for myself and the toys for my neview’s son, there is only room for clothes and an occasional frying pan. Cheeses – my mom loves all blue and green English cheeses like Stilton. I am not a fan. They will stink up my suitcase, I am sure.

10.10.2024. My mom is pretty bad: she is back in the hospital. It appeared that her hospitalization was necessary. The results however speak to the contrary. If she undergoes another operation, she may die. If she does not, she may live the rest of her life in pain. It is a precarious situation. A proper dilemma. She is 84 and her prospects at recovery are dim. There is no future for her either way. She is very tired. People who help her are very tired. My trip to Russia this year is going to be pretty dismal. I say this every time I am about to leave for Moscow, but this time, it has all the conditions for being horrible. It feels like an inevitability. Sad, heart breaking even and very annoying at the same time. I wish we could have a resolution. When my dad became bed-ridden, we were simply waiting for him to die. His fading away was visible. With my mother, as old as she is, she does not have one condition (say, cancer) that could kill her, but a bouquet of all sorts of ailments, all of which were painful and dangerous but none of them was lethal. Well, let us see how it is going to go. So far, so not very good.

12.10.2024. Had the worst dream ever. Usually, I am the troubled one in my dreams. I am the one victimized. I am also the one running and hiding. This time, the dream (the fragment I remembered) went like this: I was running after a group of SS clad women (girls essentially) with a gun. The girls were accompanied by a young German soldier and an older man. The soldier not armed. At some point I began to shoot at them. I killed a few and the last but one stumbled and fell down. The young German soldier jumped on her and covered her with his body. I shoot him in the back. When I did that I saw, from the corner of my eye, that the old man was assembling a sniper rifle. When he finished, he paused looking past me, listening more like it than looking, at which point I realized that he was blind (the funkiest part of the dream, I think). I lifted my gun and smashed his head with it. Then I took his sniper rifle, checked it and shot the last German girl who was already far away across the field.

I was so disturbed by my dream that I woke up. It was 7:30 in the morning. I hate the time. It is neither here nor there. I tried to fall asleep only to see if I could make the dream better, reverse it, but I couldn’t. I got up heavy headed. The day I was facing was not bad but busy. Nik, Luka and myself went to the gym. Luka had a haircut. We almost lost him. Well, we did not. When he did not show up from the hairdresser, Nik went to look for him. He returned and said he could not find him. Then I got dressed. As I was walking out of the locker room, Nik and Luka appeared. It turned out that Luka was in the gym all this time, but he was sitting in the ‘conference room’ and not the cafe where he usually sat. Then we were selling kittens. The buyers were coming from far away. We had a ton of trouble with them and did not expect them to come. They did however. Lovely people, just existentially overwhelmed, I would say.

Oh, and my mom was okay, it appeared (she had a panic attack in the face of her operation earlier), just unsure, as it were.

2010.2024. Today, I brought my mom from the five star hospital where she was put by her son-in-law. I have never seen such hospitals anywhere. Nor anybody I know. I mean like a French chef cooking for the patients ‘what they like’ kinda hospital. When my mom and myself discussed it on the way back, my mom said that ‘they must conduct some illegal experiments there.’ I chuckled. Frankly, the atmosphere in that place was ominous indeed, but I have a different view of a place where such experiments are conducted. Matter of fact. More metal. Certainly sans un chef francaise, English china, and Lindt chocolates for visitors. More like it, this hospital is the kinda place the elite likes. It is built and staffed in accordance with their DC and Fendi requirements. It is only five minutes from Putin’s residence in New Ogareuvo. I have never seen the cars they had parked there. Nor my driver (taxi). ‘Can I park here?,’ he asked me when we arrived. Magnanimously I said, ‘Yes, you can.’ My mom said that the only thing they do competently there is smile.

23.10.2024. On the train from the dacha today, a young Tadzhik was eating a pirozhok with meat. A large pirozhok. I looked sternly at him and then at the pirozhok (the smell was rather offensive). In response, he smiled at me and handed me another pirozhok from his bag. Totally disarmed me. When he got up to leave, I handed him a small package of Moama that I had in my backpack from my trip. He took it and smiled. Very sweet. Moama that is))

25.10.2024. I had a strange accident. It happened oddly, and it had long-term but not fatal effects. When leaving the building where my mom leaves on the way to the dacha, I stopped at the mailbox and took out a circular that advertized radiator replacement (for little money). We need to replace our old radiators badly. They are Soviet made and are 70 years old. As I was walking down the stairs, I was still reading the ad and slipped (missed a step) and twisted my ankle so badly that screamed from pain. I even had to sit down on the bench at the entrance. A normal person would have returned but I was so eager to go to the dacha and leave my mom that, after a short break, I began to walk. Whilst limping to the metro (a 20min walk that took me 40 min) I was thinking about the accident. Of course, it was stupid. Yet, it happened at the same place my mom fell down and broke her arm (it did not heal correctly) two years ago. Same place. I noted that but was at a loss interpreting the meaning of this coincidence. Another weird thing was the accident’s ‘badness’ at first (it took my foot three days to stop swelling) but also an almost immediate sense that it was not ‘too bad.’ So, I read it as a warning as in I need to be extra careful. Like in that car accident years ago. The difference is about the magnitude of the two events. The car accident pointed to the need for me to change my lifestyle. But this one had some other much smaller indication. I wonder.

26.10.2024. Watch out, Alex. Look where you are stepping. Metaphorically, as in making decisions and arrangements. Khm. I sound like a tarot reader. Or Kamala Harris)) Properly and irrevocably obscure. It is really pretty in Moscow, by the way. Plus 6-8 and sunny. No wind. Smells wonderful.

29.10.2024. Finished John Gardner’s The Wreckage of Agathon. Liked it overall, although the ending – still very well crafted – was not as strong as the beginning. Is all literature like that? You get excited about a story and then it gets ‘old’ or something like that. A love story against the historical background. Some philosophy as well. I have already pre-selected my next Gardner – The Life and Poetry of Chaucer. Hence, my next reading in Russian: The Canterbury Tales. So far – very enjoyable. It is a bit difficult at first to get used to the rhyme, but then it goes smoothly. I am reading Chaucer in Russian because the translation is fab, so it is like reading good lit in two languages)). Well, not really, and I will re-read Chaucer in English later (maybe).

The war news have got interesting at last, funky even. I mean the North Koreans in Kursk. I hope it is not a fake. Would be a welcome escalation. There are prospects.

Off to the dacha. Quite tired after tending to my mom yesterday. Don’t mind, but certainly need a break.

03.11.2024. It snowed last night. Always a surprise when one wakes up in the morning to see the ground all white and crusty. Will not last past a couple of days. It is always the case with early November. It comes in strong at first, makes quite a show but then recedes, mellows down only to hit you at the end.

The relationship with my sister reached a point of no-return. Instead of peace talks, she chose escalation (changed the locks at the dacha without as much as a warning). I don’t mind. Again, the Russia-Ukraine war helps . It helps me to understand the genesis and the development of this relationship. It provides an interpretant, supplies a discourse and a bunch of operational metaphors. Makes it easy, especially when to comes to the outcome of this face-off. The truth is on my side. Oddly, as I have written this, I also realized that it matters only for me. I think that truth is not the concept that motivates her, allowing her therefore to commit the kind of acts I can barely understand and cannot accept. What makes it difficult is my inability to ‘simply’ cross my sister out, declare her ‘gone.’ She is not gone, not yet in any case. Not as long as my mother continues to live. Too many indirect connections still.

Off to the dacha again tomorrow. My dacha rhythm is back, and this is all that counts for now. In a couple of weeks I will have to arrange for a helper for my mom. I cannot say that I look forward to it, but I don’t mind.

Speaking with Tanja and the boys on Zoom. The connection is great but observing yourself is weird. I have noticed that I err on the side of clowning when I talk to the kinds. I have also noticed that I clown less on Zoom than when I talk on the phone with them from here. I joke less or more competently on Zoom. Somehow. My mom gets quite jealous when I talk to my family. It takes me about an hour, and she claims that I never talk to her as long. True. We don’t have anything interesting to talk about. She complains a lot, asks me little and if she does it is always about what I ate, what I am going to wear (dress up warmly) and how I feel. Mothers.

04.11.2024. I have noticed, I told my mother, that she has developed, in her venerable age, the habit of responding to any of my incoming comments by saying ‘What?’ and then, if I do not respond, by actually ‘remembering’ what I have said. When I confronted her with my observation, she said ‘What?’ I repeated. She again said ‘What?’ Smart cookie))

06.11.2024. He will keep everyone on their toes. Trump. He will cut off those toes that do not dance in tune with his ‘flute.’ Trump. Hideous. Absolutely hideous. Glad I am not living in the USA. Happy, actually. That guy or the idiot Harris. I don’t think the Democrats have ever fallen so lowly. Of, well.

I think it would be good for me to expound my previous note about my sister and our falling-out. An anamnesis in terms of the war. It all began with breaking the word. As was the case with the word given to Gorbacheuv about the non-expansion of NATO onto the former Soviet Republics. In my case, it was the word given to myself and my mother that precluded the non-expansion at the dacha. Meaning that my sister would not rent it past August. She broke her word twice: three years ago and a year and a half ago, expanding onto September first, then October and now the new house in Malakhovka is inaccessible (my sister changed the lock). Her explanation (given two years ago when she apologized for her treachery was – ‘there is another house; you can live there’). My point was – our agreement presupposed no renters past a certain time. No renters, no Georgia or Ukraine in NATO. No Moldova. Bad enough the dacha cannot be used by myself and my mother fully during the summer. It is bad enough that the Baltics are in NATO (tbc).

Reading Propp. His ‘Historical Roots of the Magic Tale.’ Love it. The structuralist in me.

09.11.2024. I was watching a video from the Russian MOD. It showed the work of the Russian battle helicopter Alligator. The sound was on. There were rockets flying and exploding. My mother limped in screaming ‘What happened? What happened?’ I said, ‘A helicopter.’ She said: ‘Good Lord! I thought you spilled something..’

At the Valdai conference, after his impressive speech (very well written, programmatic), Putin performed one of his amazing ‘both/and’ moves. He congratulated Trump informally by emphasizing his ‘manly behaviour’ during the first assassination attempt. He thus appealed to Trump’s vanity and personalized his congratulations while after the elections he refused to congratulate Trump because the latter ‘represents the country which pursues the anti-Russian course.’ So, Putin did congratulate Trump but did it as a person and did not congratulate him as the head of state. Foreign media only reported his congrats. The Russian media reported mostly the non-congrats. Both audiences were left satisfied. Very smart.

11.10.2024. If Putin manages to subvert the American hegemony, he will by default but definitively reverse the defeat of the Soviet Union in the Cold War. Self-defeat, but nonetheless. I think this is the very booster that is going to complete consolidation of the Russian people that has begun with SMO (special military operation). I have heard a report on the Russian radio about a ‘generations theory.’ Quite a hoaky ‘science,’ this generation studies field is, if I may, but fascinating. As fascinating as tarot reading, but still, – appealing. The concept used for measuring generations (I am generation X, by the way, while my younger kids are Alfas)  was altruism. An increasing tendency toward forming and cherishing friendships. I liked the idea but I cannot confirm this theory using my kids as example. They are ethical all right, but do they show altruism? I don’t know. Perhaps to an extent. But is their altruism ‘bigger’ or more intense than mine? Ahh.

I am a book junkie. I like books. I collect them. I inherited this quality from my father. However, unlike him, I do not distinguish between paper back or hardcover. Untill recently. Recently, I have begun to desire hardcover books of those scholars (not fiction writers) who I like. For example, V. Propp. As of now, I have a cheap paperback that I enjoy reading buit not holding. I would have liked to have a good old edition. Alas! The only hardcover edition was published in 1946.

12.11.2024. My sister has a tendency to mutiny. She rises against Putin, March 8, ex-husband, mother, skirts, even her children. In itself, a mutiny is neither good or bad. It becomes bad when it is conducted without an idea. A mutiny for the sake of mutiny. A violent performance just so. This one is my sister’s kind.

14.11.2024. If Trump were an Ancient Greek deity, he would be called Speculation. Kerdoskopia. A materialized personified quality – Kerdoskopia Trump. Looking just like him – orange face and big but. Walking like a duck. ‘Kha! Guess what trump I have up my but. Khe!’

15.11.2024. I fixed water at the dacha. Big deal for me. For the person who may forget that he has bought a return ticket and buys one-way on the way back to the dacha again, fixing the leaking heater is a big deal. The heater is disabled but the water used to run through it. At some point, metal joints began to leak. I got quite stressed trying to figure out how to stop it – water was making the floor at the dacha perpetually wet. A plug? Two plugs in fact. There are two hoses. A crunch of sorts? Argh! Last night, I had a technical revelation. I figured out the way: take both metal hoses off the heater, remove one completely and then reattached the second one to the facet. It worked! Such a bad MFer that Kozin is! A proper Bon the Builder.

16.11.2024. My sister’s diagnosis is alcoholic psychosis. All the symptoms are there: aggression, depression, self-isolation. Her psychological profile that is based on the clash between an enormous ego and mediocre abilities provides a perfect platform for alcoholism. It began with the birth of the second child – my niece Alexandra who died five years ago. Something was off there, and my sister, according to witness reports, began to drink at that very time. Too big of a concession to conscience, I believe.

18.11.2024. I returned from the dacha with a load of stuff for my mom. I collected all her meds at the dacha (big bag). On the way, I bought her canned herring she likes, a croissant, and nuts. I also brought her a new weekly newspaper and a biography of Chagall I got from the library. In the house store down under I got her a bag of sweets. Guess what she zeroed on first thing after I got all that stuff and put it on the table. You guessed right. Her meds. She literally dived inside that bag and started building a puzzle from all the opened packages 🙂

Will the Russians hit France? UK? I wonder. Recently, Putin has been criticized inside the country for the lack of ‘decisive actions.’ Not tough enough wit the collective West. Too selective and calculative about Ukraine as well. Some doubt if he even has a plan for the next year or two. Will the war be dragging its feet for another year? Looks like it. Maan. And what would the supreme commander Kozin have done? Kozin would have provoked the UkraReich to do something bad (like Kursk is not bad enough) and then bomb Kiev into stone age. Ukraine would have surrendered on the Russian conditions. I think. They say it is more complicated than that but I firmly believe it is the other way round. Putin does have a tendency to overplay his matches. Drag them. Too patient and is proud of that. Let us see.

22.11.2024. Despite my ease of being and living in Russia, I do not participate in the Russian culture to the exgtend required by ‘home.’ I am not familiar with Russian TV or media projects. I go to museums (typically, gala expos) and theatre (second echelon performances), but have not been in the cinema for twenty odd years.

23.11.2024. Shall I write about Black Friday or ‘Oreshnik’? Is there even a point to write after ‘Oreshnik’? I guess there is for this Russian Wunderwaffe does not spell the end of the world. Is there a connection between BF and RCD25M? I think so. Both are mass eventgs. One is about mass consumtopion, the other – mass destruction. One is about life, the other is about death. Both are about critical mass as in ‘more life, f..r’ and ‘go to hell, f..r.’ Both can be studied in a combined way: physics and sociology or physical sociology.

24.11.2024. Hisotrically, culturally, and psychologically Ukraine is a bandit state.

Russian comic Dhabrailova is a very good comedian. Catches you off guard, leading you to the crux of the joke by offering an ever changeable trajectory. Deceives you.

In a weird way, Moscow, athough more populated than ever, produces an impression of being less populated. Public transportation provided the kind of ease of traveling that rarefied and sped up movement of people. Laterally and diagonally, horizontally and vertically. More people, less crowds.

30.11.2024. From Putin’s answers to the press (Astana).Blurb for the new book: “A Phenomenological Ethnography of Playing with System Toy Playmobil” is an ethnogrpahic study based on the philosophical (phenomenological) theory of the child and play. E. Husserl, A. Schutz, M. Merleau-Ponty and E. Fink are the key contributors to this theory. Their insights adumbrate the findings of this ethnography. Among its results is the direct correspondence between the fragmented, spontaneous, ambiguous, and polymorphous character of play and the essential features of the child. The system toy Playmobil is designed to enhance and transform these features toward an optimal social development fot the child. Sprecifically, the ethnography showed how by playing Playmobil children obtain the skills of collaboration and argumentation.

01.12.2024. Had a strange encounter with a manager from my fitness. I came to haggle for a discount in the face of a sudden (50%) increase in my membership. I like my fitness in Moscow and do not plan to leave it but I felf that the jump is too high and that as a member who trains four months a year, I am a special case which I thought I had successfully argued. My vis-à-vis was of a different opinion. The manager was a woman of about thirty who was very ‘surprised’ that I paid so little for my membership last year. She also emphasized the ‘elite’ nature of my club, talked about ‘numerous’ innovations and the effects of the war all of which ‘contributed’ the the price hike. I was not convinced and argued strongly but unsuccessfully. Recently, Tanja told me that during a meeting with her distanct male colleagues, they exhibited an unusually high degree of male chauvinism. She has not encountered this attitude for a very long time and certainly not after she became Professor. I believe that during my communication with the fitness manager I experienced a similar and as unexpected an attitude – sexism. Somehow, the woman pinned me as an old cantankerous male who likes to dominate women, ignoring the very fact that I am a paying customer who has legitimate concerns. I only argued with her because she did not say anything of value or to the point and kept on interupting me throughout. I would have done the same if the manager was male (and I did later but to no effect). Shame.

2.12.2024. Getting ready to leave. Will fly back to England in a day. I hate overnight flights with transfer. Feel nostalgic about the good old days when there were direct flights about 3.5 hours. Oh, well. Hope that Putin gets what he announced as one of the SMO goals: lifting of all sanctions. In my opinion, it is the hardest goal to achieve. Militarily, Russia is doing well, but even if it wins, the West is not going to surrender its idea of hurting Russia economically. Indefinitely. Just read that the Chinese have sent to Russia its economists for consultations about resisting sanctions. Good luck, Asian friends (not really friends but companions who happen to share the same sanctionist boat))

10.12.2024. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTUMuDnkmeo

Frolova, Dolina (V.), Agureyeva.

11.12.2024. Nobody Reads Kozin at Christmas. How about a story with this title? 🙂 I love Christmas. One thing that America gave me that I cherish. That and – on the level of ideology – faith in many shoes (bought another pair during the Black Friday Sale and – oh, sly fox Kozin – shifted the costs to Tanja. Like she wanted it to be a gift. Bad Kozin).

12.12.2024. I was short of a git for Nik (don’t ask). I told him that he could choose one unless he would rather take 30£ from me and take his friends (two or one) downtown for a fast food dinner. He said ‘No.’ More like ‘Naaah.’ I then suggested that I took him out. We would go to a nice restaurant. Just he and I. He happily agreed. Happily. Made me happy. Like, he would rather go out with his dad than his friends. Moreover, he would rather go out with his dad than have his dad buy him another trinket. Needless to say, I appreciated that. Will be going to Colosseum in Portslade this weekend. It is an Italian joint. Tanja recommended it. I meant to take Nik to a Middle Eastern one but I do not care about ME food. Yet I would have done it if he wished. He did care. Oooph! What a nice boy. Caveat: when he wants to be one))

15.12.2024. By way of an update. I really enjoyed my restaurant experience with Nik. We decided to go early. Didi not book a table (a mistake), hoping that at 5:15 or so there would be one. As it turned out, this time of the year, the English literally flock to nice places for Christmas gatherings, and so all the tables were booked. All but one, a small two sitter in the middle (I would have hated to sit my date a this table – true epicenter). We were given an hour an a half (all we would have needed was an hour). The restaurant was very small but the owner and the waitress (judging by the accent – authentic Italians) were super friendly. Nik ordered nice pasta with breaded chicken (massive) and I ordered mushroom risotto (wanted one for a very long time – watching MasterChef, no doubt). The food was okay. Nik on the other hand did not only enjoy the food, he enjoyed the occasion. He loves to perform competence, and this occasion gave him plenty opportunity to do so. He was funny and talkative and at not point I struggled with our conversation. He did not draw attention to himself either, much less so than I did (me, the loud talker). At the same time, he was hyper aware of the environment and although his interpretations of what he notices tend to err on the side of the not so obvious (I think I have already written about it), he is pretty observant. He was the one to notice that the waitress was pregnant and immediately empathized with her. Our topics ranged from the newly born kittens (just two days ago) to new shows on Netflix and Disney to school and even my book (he does ask). He was a very good company. I shall take him out again for his birthday. It was at this point that I felt sorry that I could not take him or Luka to Moscow any more (cannot afford it). I probably would have enjoyed a week (not much longer tho) with Nik or his brother. I would not take two on the other hand – too much trouble, – they tend to get encapsulated and they fight.

Speaking about the kittens. Two days ago in the morning, I heard loud mewing. When I opened the door to the living room (cats’ room) I saw a tiny wet thing on the carpet. Lulu was in the box. I took the thing, Lulu came out. I checked the box to see if there is another one. Nope. Okay, I said to myself, Just like last time. A lone crawler. It was strange tho – Lulu did not seem to be interested in taking care of the kitten but when the little one crawled out again she returned to the box. I thought that she was waiting for me to pass it on to her (and I did), but she again let it crawl out. I again put it back in. Then Lulu put the sheep skin on top of the kitten. It is only when I tried to fix the skin that I found that she was hiding another kitten behind her. That other one, which she has selected for herself, was already fed and licked to fluffy. It appeared that she just wanted one and her cat morality allowed her to reject the other. I guess if not for the human god, that is, I, she would have been okay to let the second one die. That other one, by now also fed and a bit cleaner, but still sticky, is trouble, no doubt. Pretty loud and obnoxious. If we decide to keep it (in case it is a male cat), he will bear the name of Castro. Right.

17.12.2024. I was about to give my fitness club (Hove Fitness) a Christmas gift – a set of scissors – but my kids talked out of it. I wanted to wrap it and put it under the tree with the note: To Hove Fitness From the Staehler/Kozin family (they know us there very well). Why scissors? I come to the counter a lot looking for a pair of scissors (cutting off tags) and the only pair they have is tis huge ‘let me shear your sheep’ kind. They joke about. I joke about it, but it is indeed not only huge, this pair of theirs, but dull as hell. So, I got them a set. I thought it was good and practical, but the kids found it weird and moreover inappropriate as in ‘why scissors?’ ‘what did the Russki want to say with this gift?’ I don’t know. The Russki only wanted to exert a token of appreciation (I like them), nothing else. No ‘bad Santa’ kinda intentions. Yet I listened to them. In my old age and my alien life, I have learned that my perspectives on things are often skewed in the manner of hit and miss (not unlike the one with the Russian rockets).

Speaking of which, I have read lots of commentaries on the net about the war. Man, so much hate! They make me cringe, but the overall sense is that the Russians (simple people like myself) are losing patience. Not just with the war but wit the way Putin is conducting it. I very much hope that this trend is gonna get noticed. To end this war quickly (and this is what everyone, except for the Ukrafurer, desires) is to ‘use all the means available.’ To use them and not just jabber about them. Back to ‘having your pie and eating it too’ or ‘passion in war.’ Without passion, and Putin does not seem to have it, one cannot win it well. One cannot win it. This war is not some clandestine KGB operation (altho that too can be passionately done as 007 teaches us – well, not teaches but shows). It has to end with a bang. A big Bababoom bang. Incommeasurate to the bang that killed the Russian general today. Excessive bang. A bang with finality in it. Oh, my reader is going to say, Kozin is at it again, wielding his dull tomahawk. And my reader is right. Kozin is a simple man. He wants simple solutions. He is impatient and passionate. Khm. Have not thought about myself in that way. An interesting thought tho…

Oops, time to go and make my poor sick kid dinner. Do skorogo!

27.12.2024. Yeah, long time. It was fun though – all that celebrating:)) Just to check my new camera, here are some pics from Christmas. If Leon looks hangover, it is because he was!

29.12.2024. The new year is encroaching. It is time perhaps to assess the outgoing one. The Chinese Year of the Dragon, my year, the end of my fifth cycle of life, it promised to be bringing luck and prosperity, peace of mind and just peace. None of that has happened. It was a stable, if not a slow year. Unlike Tanja who has experienced a lot during this period, especially in its last quarter, I cannot quite put my finger on one big or meaningful event. But then, again, I may be missing the core of this last year. I may be not having the right perspective on it yet. So, in the next few days, before January 31, I will attempt to remember what has happened in 2024 and what has stuck to mind in a good or bad way. Not unlike how they do it in mass media, except that ‘tiny’ events will be included in my list as well.

There were actual losses and near losses during the outgoing year. Tanja’s father died in the autumn and my mother almost died (she had a very difficult operation which at 84 almost killed her). Leon, following our worst fears, almost broke his neck when he slipped on the wet deck in the early December and fell on his face (we predicted this to happen but failed to prevent it – completed only half the job by the time he fell); the damage to his teeth was not massive – he was lucky. Luka also was lucky when he fell of his bicycle – all he lost was some skin and some of his confidence (recovered by now). I lost a crown but managed to fix it, albeit with a lot of hassle – the NHS sucks! I effectively ‘lost’ my sister who crossed the line in our ‘dacha’ dispute – she is as good as gone. We almost lost Lulu’s kittens (twice), but she came to the plate – both ‘near deaths’ survived. We also ‘lost’ our neighbours who we did not care about much – good rid-dens (I do want to spell it this way)!

I completed my Playmobil book – that was quite a struggle. It was in the making for twenty years, and I did not expect it to be done – ever! Yeah, stopping playing Playmobil shall count as a loss. I will not miss it but I will miss it :(( TBC

31.12.2024. On the gains side, we have had a ton of kittens this outgoing year. There were five of them running around at one time (from two mothers). As a result, we had many funky encounters with all sorts of takers (buyers). My favourite are the tearful non-taker couple and Danny (not real name) with a severe disorder who kept us on our toes for weeks but ended up taking two.

Having turned sixty was tough – the continuous loss of faculties makes me more and more aware of the eventuality I have long come to terms with but still hoped to postpone. There, I will have to roll with the punches.

Oh, yeah, I voted for Putin this year. This is unusual for me to have actually done it (I was pretty apolitical for decades). Not the biggest fan of Putin as a person, I voted for the idea he personifies. I wish him good health. He needs to finish what he has been doing. I am not proud of my passivity in promoting this idea however. Not that I am sorry that my convictions did not turn me into a blogger, but I regret that I do not do more. Apart from being outspoken about my support of the war in my very limited context, my only public support as of recent was the word ‘Russian’ that I put in the latest book’s blurb where I introduced myself (unlike in all other books) as ‘Russian communications scholar.’

There were numerous experiences in the media realm that I want to remember. Too many in fact, so I will have to sum them up separately (yes, Masterchef, even if just more of it).

Overall, I am looking forward to the new year. It is pretty definitional in that Leon is going to the uni. This means that by autumn we will be short of one rather substantial body and there will be more space in the fridge)). Luka will join the gym (most likely) in the fall as well (having both boys in training will be beneficial for us as well as for them, as they are quite into each other these days). In general, I have hopes for the little ones (not so little any more) in that they develop some motivation now that they are out if karate and theatre studio (not a loss, not really). There will be a new house and although more house-related stuff, it is not off-putting but exciting (house is where I spend most time these days). As I drive my old car more often I get more fond of it, and so there is not going to be a new car, but I am happy about it. In January, I will start working on the new book which is supposed to become my greatest (these things are relevant, of course) intellectual achievement (in addition to loads of fun). My mom will continue I am sure, but if not, it is going to be okay.

Given that it is a short day at the gym, I’d better get going. Will continue with this dribble later or in the new year. In the meantime, Happy New Year to all my readers whomever and wherever they are. I wish them much health, joy and happiness in the new year! And, yeah, peace as well – despite my unerring support of the Russian war effort, I do want this nasty war to end.

02.01.2025. It was a mild NY celeb. I went to bed at 11pm on the 31st. Was the first one to go. There was no point waiting for the fireworks – boring. The same barge in the middle of the Thames. Every bloody year since I have moved to the UK. Some second rate older performer singing some second rate song. By the way, I was told that the NY special in Russia (Blue Light, as they used to call it) was equally underwhelming. Before I went to bed, we, including the lil ones, watched Philomina Cank on Earth, and I got bored and somewhat repulsed by her toilet humour, as Tanja put it. The same happened with the Christmas special – ‘Dr. Who.’ Even more repulsed there. The trans/gay theme – over the top. A gay black man running around in his underwear – blaaah. Ever more the need to support Putin’s ‘traditional values’ ;)). Joking here, for I do not care either way, altho I do find the trans movement ridiculous. By the way, the long awaited Wallace and Gromit, the one released this Christmas was a wash: samish and not very funny.

Today was the first day of work on ‘The Alien’ book. Quite excited there – meeting the old suspects felt good. For that reason, I took Conrad’s ‘The Heart of Darkness’ to the gym. What a pleasure! That is what literature is all about! Just reading three pages filled me up. I have never read a Conrad’s biography (I bought one, an ex-library book, years ago), but now I want to (between us, I will still not manage to give it a careful read – too big).

03.01.2025. The new Wallace and Gromit redeemed itself – we watched the second half yesterday, and it was good. Very good, in fact. Funny and novel. As for Conrad, he is a difficult fella, but do I enjoy his style very much. At the same time, as is the case with some American writers, I would probably enjoy reading him in Russian more; after all, my nautical lexicon in English is not on par((

10.01.2024. Time flies. I had no idea that I had not written a single note for a week. Getting ready for the trip to Russia was not difficult, just tedious. Gifts for mom mostly, but also needful things for myself. An alarm clock, a watch (somehow I felt the need). Some whisky for myself. The suitcase is pretty packed. Little I can add. Prepping for the next book. Lots of pre-written stuff. Will be sorting it out there. Hope to write tho. Reading Y. Lotman’s essays on culture (nice). Reading children’s books before going to sleep. Volkov – The trilogy about Elly (Russian version of The Wizard of Oz). Perhaps it is because it is in Russian, but I feel that Volkov, who only translated the first book and wrote two other ones from scratch, is a better writer. In the gym, I started reading Kehlmann’s Me and Kaminski. So far, so good. An easy read. A good read too. Like a light but colourful melodrama. An annoyed young biographer and a cantankerous old man, a renowned but largely forgotten disciple of Matisse. In Russia, a different set of reading material – still need to finish Chaucer. All the epic lit is waiting for its turn as well. Too much. Only good for the Mythopoetics book. Too early now. Now the Alien. Read the Heart of Darkness quickly. Did not enjoy it, but I have read it five times. Just a bit too much. So scanned it this time. Hate to scan good books. Makes me feel cheap.

I hope there will be snow in Russia when I come next week. Still a few days to snow in, but all in all, they say, a very mild winter.

In the evening, before the kids go to bed, we have been watching The Man on the Inside with Ted Danson (Netflix). Kinda okay. Somewhat funny. The funniest thing tho is not the show but the person who recommended it – Nik. A show about a bunch old folk. Khm. His taste might be changing. Tonight, he paused his playing and joined Tanja an myself in our ritualized viewing of MasterChef. His comments were not as off as they often are even. A pity that he would not continue with us as we are running out of episodes to watch. This Is the last one we have not seen yet. That is, all the seasons of the Masterchef amateurs and the Masterchef professionals have been seen. Somewhat embarrassing – so much wasted time(( Yet, better than watching the news. I am so sick and tired of the news. All of it. And I don’t even own a smartphone. Maaan! At least I dropped my habit of checking Amazon out. What’s the point? I cannot shop well on it in Russia (well, actually I can, but I don’t want to). I really overdid it this year.

Myshkin is doing Blue behind the door. I’d better got out and scream at him – we have had enough kittens last year with both moms. We need a break!

11.10.2025. No, seriously, I should write a paper on Volkov. His is an intriguing case of the translator who became a better writer than the one he translated. Baum who wrote The Wizard of Oz is a bad writer. Simply bad. Boring. Hard to read for a child. Volkov’s translation reflects that. It is pretty faithful. When Volkov wrote his own two books he was progressively better and better. In The Seven Kings of the Underground, he actually reached a certain level of mastery: very exciting style he developed by that time. A pity he never went further. No other books were written by him.

My fascination with children’s lit goes beyond reading it. In 1991, when I lived in Boston, I was looking for a Master’s program. Before I signed up for a program in com studies, I went to a formerly all female college in the downtown Boston where I wanted to join a master’s program in children’s lit. It was unique. If only they gave me the money. I still remember the eerie feeling of walking to see the program’s director. There were only female students, as I have realized later but was explicitly told by the program director. She was amused that I did not know. The college became unisex that very year I showed up. She really wanted me (kha-kha). If only they offered me an assistantship. I would have been the king! I could have written my thesis precisely on the topic of Soviet adaptations of children’s lit from all over the world (Buratino, for example!). Suffolk University did give me money however. My thesis with them was on the use of archetypes in American advertising hardcopy (Lancome). A bit boring but seemed cool at the time))

12.01.2025. The uni with the masters program in children’s lit is Simmons University. If I went there, graduated, then graduated again, taught children’s lit in a college, it would have been a plausible but totally different life. Phd in children’s lit is offered by a bunch of institutions, including Pittsburgh, Reading, and London. Had no idea that there would be more than one.

16.01.2025. Got awakened last night by the noise. The kind of noise that mice make. I am quite familiar with that kind of noise from sleeping at the old house in Malakhovka. But here, in Hove? We don’t have mice around here. An occasional bird flies in the window, but in the winter, it is rare to have that sort of an event. The birds are hybernating (well…). It was distinct, the noise. I got up, turned up the light and investigated. Nothing suspicious. I laid down and turned of the light. The screeching noise came up again. I got up again, looked around, looked under the bed. Nothing. I waited. The noise reappeared but not as loudly. It was for sure coming out from the area where my packed suitcase was standing. Then, with much delay I realized that earlier, before going to sleep, I had stuffed the suitcase to the brim (TK allows 30kg) with packaged gifts, putting a set of knives up on top, and the packaging was trying to free itself from the pressure. Ooph. I put earplugs in a fell asleep. No more noise!!

Flying out tomorrow. Not looking forward to the actual flight – will be arriving in Moscow at 5:30. There will be not traffic at this hour on Saturday, so here is one little positive thing.

21.01.2025. The two things that I remember the most from my flight to Russia (went surprisingly very smoothly) were a) the capture and arrest of a pickpocket at the Istambul Airport and b) the pricing exclusively in euros at the same airport. I was fascinated with the former (think about the scheme – getting a cheap ticket some place, stealing a bag, flying to that place, stealing another bag there and returning to the departure airport to perhaps steal there again) and annoyed by the latter for I had Turkish liras but not euros. I could not even buy myself a cup of coffee which I yearned for immensely at 1:30am.

The first thing that I did when I got to my mom’s flat was covering the map of the world (she sat me across it making me stare at the much trashed Soviet Union, the country of my birth, leading to a severe loss of appetite) with the map of Moscow transit system (indeed, the source of pride for me, a Moscovite).

I have not noticed much war-induced strain in Moscow but food has got noticeably more expensive and less varied. Still less, which at this point is troubling, for one year after the war it has dwindled by half. Other than that, the city is functioning like a clock.

The last misspoken event a la Biden was his announcement about the birth of his grandson’s daughter who he called a beautiful little girl first and then, a sentence later, a great little boy. What an embarrassing old cook!

24.01.2025. The storm with an unspeakable name in the UK makes me jealous: here we have no weather. Like literally. Zero. Zippo-zipporonski. No wind. No snow. No nothing. It is entirely faceless, this weather. It does not growl, it does not sing, it does not talk. It is in some kind of a stupor. Comatose. Sad, very sad. I so looked forward to snow. Oh, well.

Another disappointment is this war. As usual, when I arrive, I begin to watch all sorts of talk snows. Most of them are decent, even advanced (in comparison to those I have seen in the States, or the UK). Good experts, good interesting and varied positions, but in the last two years, they have not rotated at all (there is no war without rotation, as we all know). Same faces, same voices, same positions and opinions. Oh, well.

I have come to the conclusion that this war is an illness, and I am sick with it. But like any illness there must be a crisis. Sooner or later, unless of course, it is all going to end in a death.

Trump has made international politics interesting. Not great, but interesting.

26.01.2025. My fitness is caput: there was some electrical problem with the main. As a result, no light. Oh, well, myt alien book has picked up, although I made a mistake by not taking enough material with me. Still enough to write In any case, more time to think things over.

I have begun to understand what they (on the radio) mean by calling Trump ‘an opportunity.’ Although he does have a plan, he does not sem to know how to puch it through, and given the deficiency (even if in experience) of his advisors, he faltersn and thus can be swayed.

27.01.2025. I missed winter entirely. No snow for Kozin. What a shame!

As an American, Trump is an absolute alien. The fact that ten of millions of Americans support him only confirms this fact: they are all aliens.

28.01.2025. I saw a dream last night. Putin was speaking before the Russian and most importantly Western audience. He was talking about the non-nuclear tactical strikes by Oreshnik committed on the territory of the Baltic republics: Estonia and Latvia. He said it was a warning, that is, if any of the NATO countries responds to these strikes, the same Oreshnik is going to deliver nuclear charges to the country that has responded. This was not my ‘dream.’ Not at all. It made me very anxious. Yet, I see it as somewhat prophetic.

A black cat crossed my path the other day and as a result there was no fitness: for technical reasons (no electricity). Kha-kha. I did not believe the story about the superstitious me; yet, I liked it.

01.01.2025. A memorable date once, Feb.1 is inconsequential today. History gets rewritten not only s far as content is concerned but also as to the calendar. Just a note.

02.01.2025. My Dragon Year (Chinese Year of the Dragon) is officially over. Time to sum it up: it was productive, but Tanja’s year has been more productive and more importantly more interesting. For example. A book on my plate was expected (also, it was not the book I intended to write to finish off my sixtieth year))) and not all serendipitous. I am not sure there has been a single memorable thing apart from the book. Perhaps, that is the meaning – stability. Perhaps, my Dragon saved me lots of trouble I am not aware of. Perhaps I made the whole thing up, and there are no guardian angels. Perhaps, I am just an old fool, and this is the revelation of the 5th cycle.

Can’t quite finish on this note…

I have been sick and – to a great extent enjoyed my fiery nights. Not so much so my sick days – they are dull and tedious, energy-less and super grey. Not lazy but action free. During the night, when I have fever, I see cool dreams. These dreams are very repetitive but cool. Like I am on a dark huge ship. Like Noah’s Arc. Jungle is another such theme. There is no way out. The waves are huge, the jungle is endless. Yet, I am not scared or unhappy. Also, I know I am going to make it, and that is a very good feeling for an old fool))

I do understand now why Tanja snickers when I put a pair of loafers (moccasins) in the basket (don’t own one but used to have and wear a pair of Ralf Loren): just now I saw a pair of Camper loafers called Romeo! Romeo! Not good((

03.02.2025. I shall go and photograph the absent snow. Just to remind myself later how sucky this winter has been((

Super excited about Trump’s pissing everyone off. Can’t wait to see the repercussions of his bullying. I am sure (I hope), he is gonna get it up his ass soon enough.

Dreamt of Oreshnik last night. Again!! This time – Paris. Must be the show I saw in the evening. What an impressionable (or maybe biligerant?) boy you are, Alexander!

In order to fall asleep, I have designing a tomahawk in my head. I have all the materials now. I checked out the internet for museum pieces. It works! I mean falling asleep. For a while. And then Oreshnik again(( Speaking of technological superiority:))

05.02.2025. So, the Canadians, the Mexicans and the Latin Americans are bending over for Trump. Shame. More important is to see how the Europeans are going to behave. Can’t wait…

Just read Merkel’s appeal to ‘defeat Russia.’ I thought she was an intelligent person. But then again. Small time politician from East Germany rising on top of the same wave all other types of European opportunists and collaborationists rose. Funny, she is saying nothing about Trump – she knew him well.

06.02.2025. Some super bug overwhelmed me a few days ago. Was sleeping like a dog. Like – literally, like a dog – whimpering, tossing and turning and salivating my pillows through to the feathers((

08.02.2025. Questions. Some people simply avoid asking them. Questions are trouble because they demand answers, and answers are not easy to formulate and deliver. I have begun to avoid questions, but being easily bored and highly impatient, suffer from not dealing with them on a regular basis. Literature helps. Reading litcrit helps a lot. Now it is LEF (left literary front). Used to be Lotman, my near favorite. Although I criticize his taken-for-grantedness when it comes to references, I appreciate his flights of thought. Delicious. Reading such literature must be delicious. Not nutritious but precisely delicious. Shklovsky and Tynajnov are delicious. Yum!

09.02.2025. Chaucer writes that women with ‘rare teeth’ are particularly ‘horny.’ He also writes that ‘flower girls’ (those who sell flowers from baskets in the street) are ‘inclined.’ In the Middle Ages perhaps. At the same time, it would be fun to collect these attributions for both men and women in different cultures and at different times. Not just big nosed or ginger haired kind of markers but indeed choices of profession, religion, habits, clothes. Clothes?! What a revelation! Oooh, what a trite and not a very interesting study at all, Kozin! He should have stopped at Chaucer. Small sparse teeth. Okay. But aren’t these easily corrected with braces? Meaning, not ‘horny’ any more after the braces are taken off? What a stupid note!

12.02.2025. Weirdly (or not), but the Russians do not want to stop the war they are winning (polls).

In the Moscow subway on the way from the dacha. 1pm. Two stops. One car – 31 people, including myself. 27 people inside their phones. Both sitting and standing. Of the four that are not: one is myself (does not own a smartphone); one is a sleeping drunk; one is a suspicious looking Central Asian guy with two bags in both hands and one is a ‘special’ person (let us call him a nerd). No, I am not outraged by the 27 addicts but I am seriously worried about the company I am in)).

13.02.2025. For better or for worse, Trump rocks. At the same time, I see the him rocking literally, – like a child does in a funny video: a costumed prince waving his wooden sword, breaking everything around, including mom’s collection of porcelain dolls (that symbolizing Europe))

Dutch Intelligence (the intelligence equivalent of Canadian Scientists) claims that Russia has only two Oreshniks ready to be deployed. They are wrong. We have only one. But…

You have guessed, right? Right. By June 1 we will have twenty. By the end of the year – one hundred. If the West continues its provocations, there will be no West as we know it. Personally, I would not mind if it shrinks a bit. Who needs that much of Poland?

14.02.2025. My mom refuses to throw away any broken shish, meaning I am spending my morning fixing a stool (one of four – three working) that I have already fixed three times before (no fresh wood is left for holes!). Man, Oh, Man!, as Erhard would have said((

Quick-Garden clearly lacks consistency with naming its products (log cabins). One would think that they are all named after girls (Pia, Tina, Cleo). The, all of a sudden – Premium. Can you imagine a family with three girls (see above) and then a boy named Premium! What an outrage!

Oh, yeah, the thing that brings Trump and Putin close, makes them somewhat alike, is that both have political will. Yeap, Trump has it as well. A will-full hooligan. Was he born and raised in Odessa?

15.02.2025. Got sssooo wasted on Valentine’s Day. At the dacha. Had an excuse and went with it: rum, whisky, gin, cava, what not. Went to bed at around midnight. Jotted down some notes for Notes (left them at the dacha). Woke up at 10am, called my mom (we have that kind of ritual) and went back to bed. Got up at noon and did not go to the gym. Went to Vernisage instead. Bought myself a silver fox skin (small) to add to my ‘Indian’ collection. What an old fool!((.

18.02.2025. Luebov Popova’s exhibit at the Jewish Museum of Tolerance is an absolute bomb! Such quality I have not seen for years (Melancholia in Berlin was the last one of this kind). Super costly, super informative, super packed with personal stuff, works by her friends, sisters and brothers in arms and contemporaries. Two documentary films were run at the interval of twenty minutes. I was gob-smacked. Loved it and spent more time wandering around all the twenty rooms and numerous nooks and corners than around any recent exhibit including the Adepts of the Red (my limit for thee events is less than an hour; this time, I spent an hour and a half – lots of text to read as well). Sadly, as far as Popova herself, my favorite piece at the exhibit was not hers but Andre Derain’s Trees. Such are many ironies.

19.02.2025. I hate to say it, but (after watching the R-A meeting in Saudi Arabia), American negotiators do have intelligent faces. Vans as well. Perhaps, Trump is not as silly or haphazard with choosing his team as he is with Mask (emoji with the crazy face that has the tongue sticking out – attached).

21.02.2025. Trump…What an event. Better than an ice show. Better than Cirque de Soleil. I am captivated. So much energy. Performed disrespect for some and an apparent lack of manners. No, I am not an admirer. I just have not seen anything like ‘it.’ Like him.

23.02.2025. Annoying. Europe is very annoying. Disgusting. I truly despise all these lackeys from the West: Poles, Swedes, Finns, Italians, Spanish, French, Germans, Canadians, and the insignificant ones: Estonians, Latvians, Lithvanians (don’t even know how to call them properly). Absolutely disgusting: no principles and no brains. Who are these people? Who are these bastards? Where did they come from? I am so very angry. My list of emojis does not have the face to describe my anger)). And, of course, being a patriot who has supported the Russian invasion from day one, I wish that the Europeans bring their troops to Ukraine, so that Russia took it as an act of war and did Europe in, finished it once and for all. Seriously. How else, please tell me, shall a leader like Putin, respond to the ongoing escalation? His patience, which is remarkable, is not infinite. Please, let him snap. So very angry.

28.02.2025. Getting ready to fly back to UK. Tomorrow early afternoon. Nice. I dislike spring in Moscow – too bright. Different bright than in Brighton however. In Brighton, it is always bright when it is sunny. In Moscow, in spring, it is blinding. On my way))

03.03.2025. Feels good to be home. The weather in Hove is awesome: very sunny, crispy cold, and windless. Here the sun is different from that in Moscow: it is bright but appropritatley so. Like it lives here. Brighton after all.

On the way I met a boy of three. Father – Greek, mother – Russian. Had a good talk with the mother and a great time with the boy (Sasha). When we were parting he told me that he loved me and wanted to go with me. Against my expectations I was very touched.

05.03.2025. Was on a roll yesterday – talked to everybody and their cousin. Had juice, as the character from Wolfs said. Yeah, temporarily, of course. But enjoyed being funny and sharp. Does not happen very often.

06.03.2025. I brought my kids Asiatic cats’ skins (very nice – look like tiny leopards) as gifts. Also wolves’ skins. Strangely, they were not impressed. As a kid, I would have so loved to have such skins. I would have played with them, romanticizing them, imagining their bearers. I think the kids are indoctrinated by their schools teachers and the external context telling them that killing animals is bad. Maybe. Maybe they are too practical. Maybe – too squeamish.

07.03.2025. Giacometti is joining my work on the alien modalities. In the section Foreigner. I have just read Sartre’s two page essay on him. Not interesting. Situated body. I’d rather say – body without organs. Although he knew the artist. But that is Sartre.

Miss seeing a fox in the garden. Here in Hove of course. At the dacha there are only cats who climb over once in a while and stray dogs (I recognize individual once – they hang out at the butchers on the way from the station.

Will try and not read the news in the morning. Or at all. They set the anxious tone for the day, and now when there so much uncertainty, guessing about what is going to happen is a headache. See how long I am going to last)). Giacometti, Alex, think Giacometti.

08.03.2025. As a child I liked International Women’s Day more than my mother and my sister put together. I liked – the budding obsession of mine – to search for and find the women in my family gifts which during the Soviet times was not a small task. Perfume, scarfs, souvenirs, what not, plus the obligatory flowers, all that I would start looking for days before the event. It would be hard – only good money could buy good flowers, and even that not in shops (unless one is willing to spend hours in the queue, and I was) but at the market which I hated, being a very shy boy. Gifts could be found in gualanteries but things sold there would never be interesting). My mom would always be gracious about accepting them but she never liked the holiday that – as she would put it – demeaned her. Why? Because on that day my dad would cook something for her and fail so miserably that she would have to save the day and cook for us a festive dinner anyway while my dad and my granddad would get dutifully drunk. She said that it was demeaning that her everyday efforts with feeding us turned into a travesty.

Most of all, I liked the sense of the spring in the making, the excitement in the air associated with everything female, everything beautiful, everything I will be enjoying so much so all my life in the future.

Happy Women’s Day to all the women I have known and loved! Let today be filled with the loving spirit whatever his or her name may be!

As for my resolution, so far so good. Only glimpses of the news I get and those come involuntarily through gmx.et and yahoo.cm when I log in for checking my email. I hope I succeed in my detox – I managed to read so much yesterday!

13.03.2025. Reading Volkov’s Seven Underground Kings. There – in one my favourite children’s books – resources are a theme. Yeap! Metals, coal, oil – resources. And that is where I got caught most unexpectedly by the news. I do admit – I had a glimpse then. Okay, not bad – Kursk has been all but liberated. Trump’s man is in Moscow. Things are happening. But now the hard part – get back to not reading the news. Well…maybe a little))

17.03.2025. What a weird day! As all the pieces (tasks) have been fallen together nicely, giving me the sense of accomplishment, all the detail got out of hand. I mean offness (general offness) was in the air. Execution on all fronts have been thwarted. For example, writing this morning was off visibly so – I made too many – even for me – spelling errors. Driving to the gym was off as the wheel slipped out of my hand at a turn. I bought myself an office chair on ebay earlier and put my card details in a wrong way (never happened before). At the gym I dropped a weight and later at home I kept on dropping everything and everything. Intermittently I was bumping into things: corners, door handles, plants. Even the cats (I was cleaning their room in the morning) noticed my offness and – in self-protection were staying clear of me. All this was particualry bizzare becasue (ssee the torrent of spelling mistakes?!) I slept long and heavily dreaming not of the war or my life failures, the people I hurt and offended, but of an adventure (what was reading before going to sleep? Volkov most certainly) where my role was a benign one. Argh, I hate to be old. I hate to get tired by midday. I hate wanting to postpone a party((

One insight tho: this war, this Ukraine-Russia war is as ugly as any other war; it is as terrible and tragic. Yet, there was an anticipation (undoubtedly reinforced by the official media) that there would be a romantic component (you know, the official discourse of liberation, protection and heroism, in other words, the discourse of sacrificing oneself for the other), but I don’t think this anticipation worked out and turned into a conviction. I am off reading the news again, by the way (such a classical addiction pattern isn’t it?) Watching Breaking Bad, by the way, and enjoying it tremendously. Still on Season 1.

19.03.2025. Trump is a deja-vu. He has already happened. Now the most important thing of all is to figure where and how. IS Walt from Br. Bad a likable character? Not sure. But he certainly yields empathy. Skyler. What a name! Good choice tho. All in all an excellent piece of Americana.

Done with Kehlmann’s Kominski. Nice. Sad. True. A short but memorable journey. Still suffering from the impossibility of translation but a very decent read nonetheless.

After some elevated hopes in the wake of the Trump-Putin talk, thrown in the pit of misery. Disgusted by BBC. Antisemitic. Zelensky – be dead already! Please! Stepping back from reading the news until Saturday (I listen to BBC2 when driving to the gym and back). That is the only way to manage. Partitioning anxiety. This war shall be taken at a pace.

The weather is getting nicer here. Warmer. Much warmer. Not exactly balming but t-shirts are seen on the street. Preparing the cabin for the summer. Now that Leon is gone, it can be used as a proper leisure space. Well, this is about it for now. Till Saturday then))

22.03.2025. Last night, despite all my efforts to be dreaming of Elly in the Underground Kingdom, I dreamt the dream I have already seen and even described in one of my notes. And, no, it was not anything from Breaking Bad, altho Walt is becoming more interesting as I go: he has a violent streak and lots of sublimated baggage. The premise again is very attractive (to an old man with diminishing capacities like myself). I dreamt of being in huge house (in fact, it appeared to be tiny first) where lots of people assembled to celebrate Tanja. A huge crowd. Women mostly. I got very nervous and got drunk fast. I do not remember being inappropriate but I do remember wandering around the house trying to get away from potential embarrassment. It was then that I discovered that the house had an underground level which was huge. Moreover, it was adjacent to a hotel (bit from another past dream) and had many exits outside. I walked out by accident in my underwear thinking I was in a lavatory and saw that I was in London and the actual apartment was located in a hotel which was not just a hotel but a museum of natural history (there were mummies on display and visitors). I got very anxious and was walked back by a hotel doorman who took me for an eccentric owner of Tanja’s apartment (are you the new owner?). Then, I found myself in a small glassed room with a woman I knew from Boston. She gave me the look I remembered and did not care to see again. I ran out (still in my undies) and got in a room with two men who were assembling an IKEA unit. One of them had a thick mustache (looked like one Igor I used to know). He looked at me and said: “You are a nice man, Alex, but you need to lay off the sauce.” I wanted him to explain, but he refused. The other man tried to mitigate and kept on saying, like the English often do: “It’s all good! It’s all good!” I got angry and screamed: “None of this bullshit is good!” Then I woke up. Same dream with slight variations. Three times. Intervals – two years. Khm.

26.03.2025. I think Putin read one Lotman too many – the President’s vision of history reflects the semiotician’s analysis of the Russian culture and its place in Europe/Asia/Middle East.

Had another weird ‘heavy blanket’ dream. This time, it took place in a German hotel and had two Russian prostitutes. One asked me to buy her a shot of vodka, while the other wanted to ‘assist’ me in my search for the car, key, Leon, what not. What a helpful profession!))

28.03.2025. Putin said (yesterday): “We are gonna finish them (Ukras).” This is pretty definitive. For now, I do wish to believe that he fulfils this promise. Otherwise, he is the wrong man in the service of the Idea and will have to be replaced. I am watching him (like it matters((

Luka and Nik had their respective 12th and 14th birthdays. Quite a lot of years. It was very sweet to have them at the dinner table (Leon including). In the past, I got annoyed at the lack of the BD rituals, but now quite relaxed and enjoying the swiftness of the dinner and gift-giving.

04.04.2025. Kinda numerological, this date, isn’t it? Tanja asked me what I was going to put in the drawers bought from IKEA for Kallax units in the cabin. Frankly, I have no idea. I have a ton of trinkets but they are happily residing in small boxes elsewhere. Pens and pencils? Meds? Personal letters and photographs? In drawers? I don’t know. All these attempts to organize, are they not doomed with me? I am not a minimalist. I own too much small stuff. Paper clips, coins, bookmarks, watch batteries, stamps, keys, pencil sharpeners. Not worthy a drawer, are they? Confusing. Frustrating, actually. It was pointed out that when I put my beehive organizer away, also very much in an attempt to organize, only a day later I brought it back. Ay-yay-yay, or something like that))

11.04.2025. Listening to media chatter. About the war. So far, the chattiest has been Lavrov. And the most trustworthy. Although – Home Secretary – trustworthy? In any case, he said today that Putin is not going to leave the territories populated by the Russian-speaking people to Zelensky because ‘the latter hates the Russians’ (indeed, the toad said so). Meaning that the two thirds of Ukraine will have to be returned under Russian control. This is not just a message but a promise. Not tomorrow and not soon. Meaning the war will continue until Kharkov, Odessa, and Dnepropetrovsk become Russian again. Nothing more to speculate about. Just waiting and not reading the news. Luka and myself are going to have barbeque today (Tanja and Nik went to Germany for a few days). Burgers and marinated pork chops cooked in the new smoker. Lovely!

Need to buy a new burner phone. My Samsung is 14 years old; I bought it when I moved to Edinburgh. A trusted friend but needs to be replaced – turns off by itself every 5 min. Another trusted friend, my 21 year old BMW is parked outside. Still running great but has been stunk up by stupid sea gulls – that is one task I am not looking forward to for today((

13.04.2025. There are all kinds of OCD symptoms. Some are like Monk, straightening out, picking up, sorting out. Others are hooked up on money: collecting and counting change, building little towers out of 5P coins. Still others have a DIY type of OCD. Like the neighbour here in Hove. All this man does is building. He sees a wooden plank, he brings it home. He picks a nail on the sidewalk and brings it home. Then, in the evening, he takes a hammer and nails the fucking plank to another one. He collects paletas and steals sand from construction sites. He is constantly incurably busy. This weekend he had guests. His children cam and brought little ones with them. There was a dog as well. What did they do? They helped him build. Luka and myself were having a barbeque outside. For two hours, we heard him commandeer his guests as to what saw to use and what wood to cut, where to dig and how to undo paletas. At dinner time, he interrupted his build only to resume it half an hour later. This time by himself (Good Lord, I hope his kids had enough sense to leave for home by this time!). And with all this, there is nothing to be seen around his construction. Just a semblance of a shed. An ugly thing all built from refuse. That is all! One would have expected a villa by this time. He is hammering right now. Sunday. 3pm.

14.04.2025. Still hammering, mother f…er! Monday. 7pm.

20.04.2025. The sick bastard is hammering as we speak! Happy Easter, by the way!

26.04.2025. My mom told me a story I have been thinking about a lot. A few days ago, she had a heart incident which could have ended her, she said. She managed to get to her pills however but only when a voice (unfamiliar, man’s voice) told her: Galina, get up! Three times. Each time louder than before. A common story, right? But so much more believable when a scientifically minded person, your mother tells you this kind of story.

In Russia, there is a huge media event dedicated to the 80 year anniversary of vicotry in WWII. It is happening with the current war in the background, and this current war makes the one 80 years ago look more real and the victory more victorious. The heroes lauded in the Russian media cannot help but appear half-heroes.

Personally, I am against any deals with the Americans. I wish for a victory not a deal. A victory as a deal is but a proxy victory and the victors are proxy victors, which is n offence to the hundreds of thousands who died on both sides. The Ukranians too do not wish I bet to be proxy losers.

28.04.2025. Falling asleep is an ordeal. Had (have) a friend in Boston. She has the nervous system of an ox. Slept like she worked – to the end of the day, metaphorically speaking.

29.04.2025. Maybe it is all about taking sides. Maybe it is about grasping for some idea, something bigger than oneself. Maybe it is old age. As in Breaking Bad, where Walt has cancer. I do not have cancer, I am simply withering away. Five more years, as I promised to myself. Maybe six on account of Luka. Still, the timing is only about family. If not my family, I would not want to linger. What is another project? What is the knowledge of the future and the end game. What is another day if it is filled with one pain or another? This war will end the way I do not wish it to end (see above). Another book. To write? To read? My own ideas are getting dimmer and dimmer. Life without anticipation of future? Not for me. A mediocre person that I am, if I have not created anything of value before, why the expectation that I will be able to do it later? What is later? Terrible questions. Achievements? It is a good one. Am I an underachiever? Worse, a looser? Well, objectively speaking, yes. But for a person of my disposition, my emotional make-up, not really. My failures would have been failures only if I did not try hard. Impatience, timidity, and judgement have always been my worst enemies. Yet, they too were battled and defeated. Self-reflection, innate kindness, and inner light, curiosity of the mind and spirit have always helped me. Yet, at the end of the day, the question would be – Who is it that you helped, Alex? Given my resources or the lack of thereof, not many. Perhaps, in the moment. And so, as another friend from Boston liked to say, and so, we come again to those fleeting moments and their utmost significance in everyone’s life. Moments. Reading Nabokov’s Speak, Memory, Speak! fills me with the belief that these moments of human and non-human origin are indeed most if not the most precious. For this reason, the so-called news must stop determining my being, playing a role, affecting me. Perception, before it turns itself of, shall play a role and affect me. Not fantasy, not memory, but those intense experiences that signify you being alive and ready to be a good man.

Well, well, well. Lots of sap. Pretty sentimental you are, mate. Trying to squeeze a tear out of your reader? And how many times have you tried to be that to do that? I chuckle. Self-irony too is a great doctor. All right, I guess – back to Breaking Bad and its ‘wisdoms.’ Getting hungry – a pretty strong perception, if I may. Dreaming of a sandwich (I am on a diet – the effects of spending a week with Luka))). Till then.

02.05.2024. Wanting a sandwich but not a new car. A strange reversal of likes and desires. Wanting to save trees and plants and animals. Wanting not to save failed regimes (so many – don’t have time to list them all).

Today, we let Myshkin out. Indeed, after six years, he is not longer a house cat. Ooo-la-la. He was not thrilled to be out tho. As expected. I have read about those babies that were born in prisons (way past) and stayed with their mothers. They were properly freaked out to be outside. Wanted back. Myshkin – the same. You should have seen him walk (will take a pic, I promise) in the grass. He did not walk like he was in a parade the way he does in the house. He was nearly crawling (tail down, the whole body very close to the ground and moving slowly, very slowly. Like he was hunting. Or hunted. After only a few minutes he returned to the conservatory, to the place of safety. He did not look confused (sniffing and looking around appeared normal) and he was shocked either. Just tentative. I immediatley started forcing it taking him (in my arms) places further away from the house, but he would return pretty much straight away to some safety point. We made sure that he would be surrounded by us. That was yesterday. Today, his second day outside, he was left by himself. After half an hour of exploring he came to my bedroom and ‘asked’ to be returned home (the living room) with other cats. His wish was granted))

05.05.2025. Three fives! Does it mean, I won? 🙂 I lost actually. Only in Carcassone, but it hurts :(.

06.05.2025. Today’s news: Putin-kefir-Peskov-consolidation of the society. What a dufus that Peskov. Time to go, mate! A laughable.

Lulu gave birth. Prematurely (old cat). Two kittens. One died. I hope she is going to tend to the little one.

Writing about the chosen people. With Kristeva. Khm.

Breaking Bad is getting annoying. The reason is the same – the character of Jessy Pinkman. Angry, pathetic, shouty – he is tiring (reminds me of many a shouting contest in the Bear). Gives me headache and bad nightdreams.

07.05.2025. When reading about the war, in the past, at the end of a news article, I tended to press the thumb up or thumb down button. Now, it is exclusively the angry button. Most likely, at the end of the war, if or rather when it ends, I will admire Putin’s restraint and his big game skills, his ability to outplay the West and reach all the objectives set not just at 2022 but 2015. However, at this point, being an emotional hostage of his game plan, I am simply angry. Angry at his choice of the means and ends and the ways to execute strategy. Hopeful – yes! Satisfied – no! Want a Castro. Even a Kim would do (well, not really, upon a second thought – too fat)))

In Breaking Bad there is a character, Tuco Salamanca’s uncle, who is paralyzed and cannot speak. He can only communicate with the bell attached to the arm rest of his wheel chair. One cling – yes, no cling – no. At some point, at the moment of his highest agitation, when he identifies Walter White as the one responsible for the death of his nephew, he starts pressing the button non-stop: kling-kill, kling-kill, kling-kill. That would be me with the angry button I have just mentioned. The Ukrainians are lucky I am not the Russian President. Kling, kling, kling. ‘Nuke that bitch out of the orbit,’ as Sigourney Weaver’s character said about Furina 59 [read: Ukraine]. ‘It’s the only way to be sure.’

09.05.2025. My grandfather Alexei Nikolajevich Gorbachev was mobilized in 1939 and sent to fight the White Finns. When he returned, after a year or so, he was placed in Belorussia and met the Germans there. In 1945, he finished the war in Konigsberg but was not demobilized. From 1945 to 1946 he was in China fighting the Japanese. He was in heavy artillery (could not hear much). He was a private when he was done. Seven years. Two wounds. A bunch of medals. The only thing he told me about the war (and I asked!) was that he was ‘very afraid most of the time.’ As a kid, I did not like this answer. He died in 1981 at the age of 63 from throat cancer. I am very proud of him. Today, I celebrate him and the millions of others who fought in that horrible war. They shall not be forgotten.

11.05.2025. No kababoom yet. On the second thought I do respect Putin’s strategy. As in Breaking Bad (Walt to Gus) – “I respect the strategy.” Waiting for a major offensive that is. Or a couple of hits by Oreshnik. The latter is no longer a priority for me. Just want to see it in action. More inclined to be patient (try to be) and see who does what and how. So far, the West and its ‘strategy’ appeared transparent: we give you nothing, you give us time. A monkey could have figured that one out. At the same time, if Putin refused, he would have been condemned by the enemy. If he accepted – by his own. It also appeared that with his ceasefires (Easter, Trump’s initiative), he managed to set Ukraine up. Knowing that they would not obey, he collected evidence and refused another ceasefire on its basis. Good job, Vlad! Kozin is duly impressed ;)). He even semi-promised to be more patient around the war. Maybe, even do away with his disappointment.

12.05.2025. I just want to explain something concerning my attitude toward the means and ends of waging this war (my position remains the same: this war is justified and has to be won). From the Russian perspective. I am not a pacifist. I am not a bloodthirsty bastard either. I do not want the Ukrainians to die just so. Regardless of my repeated calls to the Russian leadership to be harsher and less humanist, as well as my statements about the Ukrainian nationalist in the spirit of Dmitri Medvedev, I am still a humanist.

For me, this means I do not value one human life over another. To me the life of a soldier is as valued as the life of a civilian, but if someone has to die, it is better, also for the sake of time (read: human life) to kill as many to save as many. On both sides. Hence, my attitude toward the weapons of mass destruction. Use them once and end it all. Yeah, yeah, I understand the political implications, but, as for the moral ones, I also understand the American decision to drop the bomb on the Japanese as well as their decision to wipe out 0.5 million of Iraqi civilians in a more recent war.

As for Oreshnik (by this point, the weapon has acquired some mystical ring about it), its use, no matter how minimal (for the outcome of the war) if only used on infrastructure and energy sites, it still would produce a therapeutic effect, and that is why people like myself who vested so much in this war emotionally need it. Anxious, exhausted by these constant ups and owns for the last three plus years, we need some confirmation of our beliefs. Like, religious men, we need a miracle.

13.05.2025. No miracle. Fine. Actually, there was a little one: a new small ‘invisible’ rocket called – appropriately, ‘package.’ Apparently, extremely cheap and extremely effective as the yesterday’s hit on Odessa and Kharkov showed. None (out of 20) was downed. Okay, I am a beleiver so I accept excuses about not using Oreshnik. I have my own: more needs to be built (super expensive bugger) and this time is not the time. Not yet.

Reading news analyses: rejecting your own promises and changing your tac depending on the circumstances that suit or do not suit you is not just a form of opportunism but a form of betrayal. Yet, some people, and not just politicians, feel that it is okay to do so as it is not a moral but a strategic action, a part of some game. I feel sometimes that my sister, who as I have written already, betrayed her mother, her children, myself, and her country justifies her actions by labelling them as strategy (she calls it position – curiously). Her blackmail of her ex-husband, her mother, her son, her boss at work is evidence of that. From the personal to the political: Putin, whether I like his strategy or not, does not renege on his word (ever, as far I know) or his people. His loyalty is so advanced, it takes the better of him. Take Shojgu, for example. What a loser! Yet, he was kept and continues to serve even after he got severely demoted. These examples are many. It is for this reason, although this is not the only one, that Putin is doomed to prevail. Ultimately, he is more moral (ethical) than any other adversarial leader. This is one thing that I trust.

On a more cheerful note, I am sitting in the garden, surrounded by plants and am enjoying it tremendously. The air is filled with the scent of spring about to abdicate in favour of summer. It is 19 degrees and counting. I enclose an image of the small garden within the garden. We call it ‘Japanese.’ Don’t mind the ground – the garden is still in the making. There will be pebbles all around. And more trees..

15.05.2025. Breaking Bad dealt me a surprise. The likable characters turned out to be not so likable (Gus, Mike), but the not so likable (Walt, Jessy, and Saul) turned out to be all right. Yet, someone had to go, and I am sorry that this someone was Gail. At the same time, Jessy had it coming, and so had Walt. Maan, this game of ‘almost but not’ in BB is certainly more interesting that the one being played in Istambul. I’d rather watch more BB. Today, I failed miserably on all counts of parking. As it has become common, I practice parallel and back parking with my rather high-sitting and tall X3 at the gym’s parking lot. Well, toady was not a good day((. Moreover, I stalled traffic and was a bit embarrassed to face the clients I know(((. Oh, well. Yet, my new concoction of a meal pleased me: this combo of stir fry with egg noodles, apple sauce and turkey came out brilliantly. Very tasty (of course, the man eating it was starving: to keep my diet, I sometimes do not eat for 7-8 hours. Typically, it is cereal (quite a hearty portion with berries – compliments of my partner)) and then one ‘any size’ meal around 5pm. Works by now. Was hard at first to refuse myself mid-day omelettes and sandwiches, but the body adjusts.

17.05.2025. Writing about my diet?! Really?! An obvious degradation of these notes, right? Well, in a sense. Since I have no idea who reads them (I only see countries and times), I may suspect that ordinary topics are not bad. Again, depending. The weirdest thing, on that same note, is that I began to like gardening. Who would have thought? I like buying plants, looking at them and tending to them. Still prefer trees but become more interested in bushes (graduating downwards, as it were((. Here is a pic of my favourite rose.

Workwise, think a lot about this foreigner book. Lots of memories from past travels and ongoing current impressions. E.W. Said is the last big entry. Once done, actual writing will begin. Timetable? I do not know. Hopefully, this December. The war is going well. Diplomacy is still replete with idiocy – hard for me to say anything in addition to what the official and non-official sources have already said.

Have a new fascination – African masks. Buying them on ebay. Where else but not in the ex-colonial power, England, would I have such a choice? Pretty cheap too. Good ones as well (1950-1970s). Proper vintage. Found a pretty scary one. Shall enclose a pic when I receive it. Properly freaky and modern, although the seller claimed it was obtained by his grandpa in the 1930s. Khm, we will see.

19.05.2025. Canadian intelligence published a warning: beware of unkept young men with short haircuts and thick Slavic accents. Most likely, some of them are Russian spies. I almost qualified, the bolding man that I am. However, there is nowhere to hide when it comes to my age. Otherwise, I would have never been able to maintain my cover!!

So, at 5pm Moscow time, Trump is going to end the war. He will say: “Vlad, enough is enough! How about we promise you a free life supply of chewing gum and you stop shooting. Peace, man! Chew, not kill!”

21.05.2025. Yeah, as I expected. The war will continue. On a different note. Here are my favourite roses from the garden in the back and in the front of the house.

25.05.2025. Finished Nabokov’s Memory, Speak. Beautiful writing. I liked the part where he described his life in immigration in Germany. He wasn’t bitter. He who lost his father to the Revolution. And all his prospects and wealth. He was grateful that life gave him an opportunity to write and to do enthomology and to raise his son and have a wonderful wife. He was not at all as I remembered my impression of him – an arrogant snob who lectured uninterestingly about literature. He was somehow very humane and decent. Noble. What a life!

Here is a picture of Nik and one of Luka with the latest litter of kittens.

These kittens are feisty buggers. And very fat too. The boys, in contrast, are not 😉

28.05.2025. Read some Ukrainian ‘analytics.’ For the first time since the war. Just wondered how they see things. Funky. They have this common (all three commentators – they call themselves experts of course) voice. This winy voice that Zelensky would have had if he didn’t smoked up his. And they still believe that they are gonna get something out of this war. That they will be given something more like it. Eu, NATO, more dough. Time to end this circus. Really. Time to initiate plan F.

03.06.2025. Oh, man. I am so disappointed in the Ukranians. At first, when the war just broke out, I was impressed – so determined. By now, I am convinced – I simply confused determination with pathological and self-destructive stubborness, narrow-mindedness and a severe lack of brainpower. Sure, the Russians have always held these as stereotypical ‘culturally prominent’ features of their ‘brothers’ as dear to their hearts. No surprise there. What disappoints me the most now is that the Ukranians have begun to appear pathetic. Pitiful even. With all their ‘peremogas’ (read: terrorist attacks), camouflage, and explicit joy over the killed Russian civilians. And all this amidst as explicit (visible even to their supporters) inability to think through or ahead. Truly pathetic. I am reminded of a Monty Python bit, when a man is running to the finishing line screaming ‘I am gonna win!’ An explosion tears off one of his legs, but he is still screaming ‘I am gonna win.’ Another leg is gone: ‘I am gonna win. I am winning!’ Then an arm: ‘I am gonna..’ Another arm: ‘I am…win.’ It stops only when the head is gone. Well, in this case, the head has been long gone. The first one to go.

05.06.2025. Waiting. Still waiting. Come on. Time is running out, Vlad. The longer your generals are ‘selecting appropriate military targets,’ the more I have the urge to come out and demand a stronger leader. It feels like I am standing in some endless line at a Soviet grocery store. I demand that my order be dispatched and delivered quickly. The customer is not what he used to be.

In the past, they used to say: ‘Wait till another Stalin comes.’ These days Stalinists do not even need to wish for that: they have Medvedev, and he is alive)) Well, personally not a fan of either.

06.06.2025. Is that all?

I love this ‘spousal bitching’ between Mask and Trump. The show must go on)))

07.06.2025. Still not enough.

09.06.2025. Pretty weak so far: some airport, some factory, some whatever. If this is a ‘Retaliation’ strike, I am from Zimbabwe.

10.06.2025. Despite a trivial storyline, The Last of Us I am watching with the kids has made an impression. My favourite Mandalorian and his new Grogu rock! Tonight, I even re-watched the last scene from the last episode of the Season 1.

As for the war, the interview with Medinsky had an interesting moment – he said that the Russian public urge (read: pissed off about) the government (read: Putin) to take drastic measures and hit Ukraine with everything and everything. I felt nice and cozy reading this. It is comfy to be a part of the public. Never happened before that I would be in the majority, even if it is an unhappy one((

Below is the pic of my favourite mask (I am not sure that I have written that I collect vintage authentic tribal African masks):

It is Songye, Kifwebe, Congo.

11.06.2025. It is mid June but we have not been in the water yet – still 14. I would venture in if it were at least 16. Maan. Another month or so at this rate. Like the bloody war. Another year? Two? One thing the war prevents me from doing is reading poetry. Kein lust. Went to the tip and back-parked like a pro. Very proud I went to the gym and just to prove prove it to myself that I could do it any time, did it there as well – and bumped the car on the wall. Only so lightly but still – too early to celebrate((.

My mom is so predictable. She went to the clinic – spasmatic pains. They keep her up at night. She was given a shot, a bunch of medicines and was treated with dignity and given full attention. Returned in a great mood and said that felt so much better already. Poor poor mom.

12.06.2025. Getting old and dying is as much of a project as any ‘living’ project. Nabokov, Said, Florensky, they all went to writing memoirs because of that realization. It is not summing up, as Maugham put it, but moving to a totally different plain of reality. The movement, my father was wrong, is not a descent but ascent. It is still about climbing up. The problem or the fact is that this is getting increasingly more difficult. The Last of Us, that not very academic piece of entertainment, is still a case in point. Joel, who wants to give up, but cannot. He needs to keep on climbing if only his purpose is to deliver ‘a package.’ This is perhaps the reason I never liked ancient ruins, or, to put it more favourable, never cared about them; they never moved me. Said writes about the Egyptian ruins that they have the off-putting silence of death, as in whatever they stand for has already happened. To appreciate them is to appreciate death.

16.06.2025. Here is Kozin before the facelift:

The same Kozin after the face-lift:

A nice complexion the new Kozin has received, don’t you think?

20.06.2025. Okay, not so funny in the hindsight. Equally not funny is the Jewish aggression and its coverage. After having played the ‘victim card’ for decades, the Jews have undergone a complete reversal: the victim became aggressor. The Stockholm syndrome at its best. If Ukraine let be, it becomes the same. Come on, Vlad, finish it! What is funny is that British PM Starmer at the G7 meeting in Canada shook hands with the interpreter of the South Korean President mistaking him for the President himself. That’s the level of politicking over here. Of course, they all look the same (khm), but where is you ‘team,’ Keir? Where are your smart ass consultants and experts? And what kinda fucking name is Keir, anyway?!

24.06.2025. Rainy. Mucky. I hope the Lithvanians that are building us a cabin are gonna finish soon. So particular, so into themselves. Men of few words. They smoke like a chimney; yet insist on drinking mineral water and decaf coffee. Go figure)).

Strange. Putin is so munch into history. A true buff. Why is he then making it in such small dosages. Tea spoonfulls.

27.06.2025. I love how Apple quickly adjusted to Trump’s tariffs on its China made products. They replaced Made in China with Assembled in China. Sneaky bastards! Trump is of course super liberal with his own wording, but he is not that dumb to buy into the repackaging trick, I am sure.

30.06.2025. Still waiting. Remember Tarkovsky’s ‘you shall not be waiting for anything’? Waiting is a form of slow death. I do not feel sorry for Walt (BB). He has turned into an amoral character. Not fun to watch. Watched the first half of the first episode of X-Files. Good old days. Myself and Deanna in Carbondale – my first year. At the FBI HQ they had these dinky computers. No cell phones either. No GPS. That was my time in the States. Sweet.

01.07.2025. Walt from BB is tremendously self-absorbed, bitter, and obsessive compulsive. My kids like him because he is ‘smart.’ But then again, they like Saul because he is ‘funny’ and Mike because he is ‘cool.’ There is also an age thing – Walt appears particularly old next to Jesse.

03.07.2025. When I go to the beach, I spend only 30 to 45 min there. I get bored quickly, and I get chilled very fast in the water that does not go warmer than 16-17C. Nik and Tanja stay in the water the longest. They may swim for hours, it seems. Luka is more like me in that he is also prone to boredom on the beach and also has thin skin. In the past, he and I used to play chess or read, but now that we get there by two cars, there is no point to stay longer than I want. It is nice in this way, but it also means that I am not a very good ‘vacation on the beach’ subject. In this sense, Brighton suits me perfectly.

04.07.2025. Saw a whacky dream last night. Need to report it if only to show how my mind works these days. I woke up with first light at 4:30 and then forced myself back to sleep. In the early morning I was dreaming that I was in my room watching porn and masturbating. One detail was weird: the porn actress was the petit terrorist just arrested in St. Petersburg when trying to blow up some scientist. She was the cutest terrorist I have seen: big boobs, thick thighs and a doll-like face. When she was thrown on the ground (in an FSB video), she was dressed up in black thighs and pink hoodie. So, to make a long story short, I am pleasuring myself when the door swings open and groups of mothers with children start walking in. One of the children turns of the TV very matter of factly, another moves away my bong (image from the last night episode of BB). I am in shock: What the fuck?! In turn, they start telling me that I am leading an immoral life and that frankly I don’t live here any more. I am like ‘It’s my house!’ Them ‘You have just been moved.’ I got so anxious that I woke up immediately. 7:30 am. What a night!)))

Tanja is always very careful about telling me about the ‘bad news’ re Ukranian attacks. I tell her that she does not need to act as if it is disturbing. Bad news is indeed (I have mentioned that before) good for the war, for the Russians. Any escalation at this point is good because the Russians do have the means to up the anti and the cocks do not. Let them attack schools and markets. Let them kill, rape and torture the civilians. Let them kidnap children. They will be crushed at the end anyway. Pulverized. If this outcome was not clear two years ago, it is pretty clear now. One thing that may help, actually needed, is a change of narrative. Long overdue, fact. Putin is a lot of time like a robot in his responses, and his propensity to downplay the other side’s (calling Ukranian attacks on civilian targets ‘hooliganism’) shall change to the rhetoric of pain and punishment. And once the rhetoric changes, so will actual military actions. No more surgical strikes but sweeping ones. More bombs and bigger rockets, in other words. I know how it sounds, and I will say this again.

The reader must forgive me. This is my venerable age speaking. I am an old bastard after all, and anything and everything can tick me off. To make sure – I am still of liberal persuasion, but I am also – being ancient and all – very tired of bullshit. And my head, well it does not process things as swiftly. Like an old sewer, it is clogged. As of now, it is clogged by old memories, current anxieties, my mother’s hospitalization, my own aches and pains, regrets of past and current purchases (why the hell did I buy these British Colonial coins? What is West Africa or British India to me?). It is clogged with askance glances from the neighbours, the need to wash my car, Tanja’s gardening projects, the fence, the shoes that I still want to buy but cannot get a good price from Amazon, waiting…

And I forget. Oh, how I forget! Keys, swimming trunks, signatures, coupons, money, to do this and to do that. Like, really, reader, like I am clogged.

08.07.2025. Trump – Humpty Dumpty. Putin – weirder than ever. Instead of saying, ‘Let’s win, people!’, he is visiting weddings and takes part in celebratory events. Like nothing is happening or rather like ‘everything is under control.’ Reminds me of Walt White, who tells Skyler that they are fine, while shit is hitting the fan, so this is not a good comparison. A war is a war, and it must be won, or it will be lost. A war, indefinitely? Really? The number of Russia’s friends is certainly not growing but dwindling. Time to wrap up, man!

09.07.2025. In his diary Martyrology, Tarkovsky wrote that the quality he misses the most is patience. Me too. I lack it drastically and having the infinitely patient Tanja reminds me of that every day. Given my family history, I hardly had a chance. Neither my mother, nor my father are patient people. Moreover, they are hyper-impatient. What saved my father was his meticulous nature. My mother is essentially a softy, so that was a mitigating factor for her. I am neither; hence, my flare-ups about the war, the West and the like. Judgemental and righteous as well. The saving grace for me is heightened self-reflection and lack of malice. I do not thrive on vengeance.

Well, after having praised myself over well developed reflective thinking, I have decided to surrender my membership in the club of the disappointed and frustrated about the war. I shall start thinking about it differently. Out of the box. If at all. I feel like I keep on repeating myself more and more so. Even this quote from Tarkovsky is a repetition. I need a different context, and the atmosphere built by the news either here or there does not provide it. Obviously. So, my esteemed reader, I do promise that unless I have something to say that you have not heard before, I will. Otherwise, arividerchi, Ukraine.

12.07.2025. No longer excited about Breaking Bad. Want to collect main points for an argument against the much lauded show. One – narrative dissonance. That aside – we do deal with a piece of fiction after all, so, more importantly, the other – emotional dissonance. The creators are very liberal in playing with my emotions – I like this not, for the returns are meagre. As much as all the characters are either manipulative or reactive, I feel like the creators solicit the same response from myself, making me reactive and paranoid about being manipulated as a viewer. Great craft, but no, thank you! Not my kind of fancy. Also the mixed genre although typically appealing, is suspicious: is it drama, is it mystery, is it action? It is too shallow for drama. I still have no clue who Walter White is. My inability to associate with this or that character, for all of them are damaged and therefore abnormal, contributes to my disinterest in the show. The character of Jesse Pinkman is particularly disturbing, and I find the acting there much overpraised. It is not that difficult to play strong emotions. More interesting is the character of Todd (acting wise) and his uncle Jack. At first exciting for its unexpected twists and cliff hangers, the show deteriorated in my opinion by Season 5. I will most likely not re-watch it. How is this for a review?

14.07.2025. It was kinda touching and a bit eerie to see a few remaining wasps still taking cover under a leaf next to where their nest that I destroyed used to be. Like a handful of the Waspian people who survived a ship wreck. Was it Delacroix’s painting that depicts that? A makeshift raft in the rough stormy waters some place deep in the sea? Well, not quite. Although the wasps’ home was destroyed, their environment is not hostile. Well, what about that lonely wasp that made it into our conservatory and was stinging the cats? The name of that wasp is Walt White. It had an unfinished business to handle. I hope the cats handle it by tomorrow. Isn’t what they are here for?

15.07.2025. From the ‘about the war’ parlance: Trump’s ‘decorative ultimatum’ (after 50 days, if no resolution, 100% tariffs…). Rutte’s words about Medinsky and his qualifications (‘some historian) – ‘abracadabra’, to be exact ‘Rutte’s abracadabra.’

18.07.2025. Although I too find Ursula von der Lying disgusting, I would not resort to the kind of insults and allusions Medvedev does. He really has an issue with her being a gynecologist and takes cheap shots at every opportunity, alluding to cunt. Really, man, chill! She was just an assistant gynecologist anyway, not a proper doctor (I think he would have liked to emphasize that too))).

19.07.2025. One evening – yes, a story, Tanja and I were sitting in the garden. It was getting dark. At some point I saw some movement up in the foliage of a huge red robin we have growing in the back of the garden where we have our ping pong table, grill and what not. We tend to relax there. So, movement. At first, I saw a bird, a robin, to be exact. Next to the bird I saw something of a nest. I got very excited for the nest was huge. It was the size of a football. Maye not one family of robins but two or three made it. Wow! When we came up closer, it became clear that it was a wasp next. A giant wasp nest! Tanja, who is allergic, freaked out and ran to the house. I stayed believing that wasps do not attack unless provoked (think: Russians). Sitting out there all by myself was not fun tho, but Tanja refused to return flatly unless the nest was dealt with (read: removed). From that point onwards, the nest situation was not just a situation but an operation. TBC

22.07.2025. From the news a few days ago. One Tatjana Lazareva, a former hostess from Serbrjannyj Dozhd’ (no longer aired, for decades even) who lives in Spain and is at odds with Putin’s Russia (was labelled ‘foreign agent’ before the war) was celebrating her birthday and, to sting the Putin’s men who have recently announced her to be wanted for terrorism and extremism, told her fans that she was going to serve for the birthday cake the Kievsky cake. Like – Kha-Kha. Like ‘I don’t give a shit’. Well, the news stuck with me – I saw this woman once at some charity event and was properly annoyed by her pretentious and self-absorbed attitude – that of a long fallen star behaving like she means or matters something. So, this nobody, trying to stay afloat by way of youtube interviews with the likes of her, is making this Kievsky cake joke being sure that the cake is a desirable thing and that it is not made of shit. Well, it is made of shit. Like everything that carries that name. Which, by association, makes Tanja Lazareva a shit-eater. Her and the likes of her. I have ben looking for a name for that category of former someones but now nobodies who fled abroad on some ideological or moral pretext and find nothing better to do, when not drinking themselves to sleep, than spreading shit onto everything Russian, which makes them, by association, shitters. Lazareva, Galkin, Makarevich, all these shit-eating shitters, who show up regularly in the news with some kind of shit and unfortunately catch attention, and how would they not – shit is smelly. Shit is difficult to ignore. I bet if I saw Lazareva in person, if I stood next to her, I would have caught the whiff of shit coming from her mouth. Her name is one of those I would want to happily forget. As in – next time – ‘Lazareva who?’ ‘Pugacheva who?’

After such an embarrassing rant, one would fair better if he addresses an innocuous topic, for example, gardening. Well, I must say by now, after a year or so being into gardening, I a) discovered that I did not know anything about it before (nor did I care) and b) I like the potential that gardening possesses. No, no, not in the kinda dzen like potential or even a large form of art kind and certainly not in the botanical kind, but because gardening is a world. Family and work are worlds. Creating and surrounding oneself with such a world is very satisfying.

24.07.2025. My mom returned from the veteran’s hospital where she spent three weeks. She returned discouraged. More than I remember. Mostly about the things going wrongly and badly. It is not that she changed her position. Not really, but like myself many times over during these three plus years, she stopped trying to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

In the news they often write that Ukranian athletes refuse to shake hands with their Russian competitors. They explain this as a ‘demonstration of the unbendable determination of the Ukranian people.’ I am not going to comment on the laughable (in the context of the ‘all fours’ position Ukraine has assumed vis-a-vis the West for the duration of the conflict) term ‘unbendable’ but focus on the crudeness, vulgarity and the lack of manners of the people who believe ever so staunchly and ever so mistakenly in their moral superiority and the ‘deserve.’ Once again – quite pitiful. Pathetic.

25.07.2025. Reading a lot about colonial literature – needless to say, it resonates. Heart of Darkness. Spent a horribly intense night. Perhaps as a result of watching a horror film with Nik. Except that in my dreams I was running away from some danger not to save myself but to save the cats. The kids and Tanja were with me and all of us were carrying one cat or another. Very intense. I still feel tired. You would be too – carrying two cats through some basement, attic, alley, over the fence, onto the street and into some bushes!!!

In this war, in this Ukrainian war, we, the Russians are yet to acquire a new Orientirung. We are close, but the topography has not gelled yet. It is all pretty fuzzy: the words like sovereignty, security, etc. do not quite cut it. The words like respect, own way, etc. have not become the staple vocabulary of the governing elites.

Oh, yeah, my mom for the first time, as a part of her disappointment over the war, said that Putin was simply too old. Well, consider the source. She, at 84, is someone who knows. I, at 61, also know. I don’t think that any amount of vitamin boosters can change that.

27.05.2025. So, Europeans, kissing Trump’s ass you like. A trade deal? Yes, it is a deal all right. It is a kiss my ass deal. Yuck! Frankly, I expected a bit more from you. Like some semblance of decency, a trade war, even if for a month or two, even if just for show. Oh, dear :))

29.07.2025. Oh, yeah, back to the wasp nest. So, Tanja wanted to hire a professional pest remover company. That would not be costly. I objected: it should not be much of a job, I said, I will do it. I am not afraid. I am smarter than them. The problem was how to do it. I like insects. I respect them. Moreover, I am fascinated by them. I don’t want to kill wasps or any other nice ones. They don’t bother me. In general, they would not sting unless provoked. I would not have even cared if not Tanja’s allergy. Okay. The plan. Originally, the plan was to smoke them out. Conveniently, the smoker is right there, under the tree. But, looking at the wasps, I have realized that these monster wasps may not be affected: the nest is too too high up. Some sinister thought began to creep in a this point. What is I burn the nest up? It is made of paper like stuff, isn’t it? Naah. Back to the ‘respect’ part. Aha, after some deliberations, I have designed a wasp friendly yet totally destructive plan – I will drown the nest. I will do it slowly so that they would have a chance to evacuate (well, all, except for the babies – you are such a funky humanist, Kozin:). So, I take a big zinc bucket, set it up as high as I could under under the nest (on top of the ping pong table), fill the bucket with water and wait for darkness. As soon as it falls, I was going to come out dressed up in my anti-wasp gear (basically, a winter jacket), armed with a branch cutter, climb on top of the ladder, cut the nest and let it fall in the water. TBC (a nice cliff hanger, isn’t it?)

04.08.2025. So, here it comes. I am on the ladder all covered and ready to cut. The first problem emerges instantly – I did not have a good pair of loppers, just some old rusty throw away ones. Meaning that the first branch (three in total) did not cut straight away. By the time, I cut it, angry wasp sentinels were in the attack position. The second problem emerged straight after – the stupid me did not cover my face. Meaning that the first sting came to my face. The second the back of my bolding head and the third one there as well. By the time, I cut the damn thing (see the pic), I was properly a patient. A Russian patient. So stupid. I ran. On the bright side, the nest fell down where I wanted it. The next day, I hosed it down and then took it out and ripped apart (there were still baby wasps there. Sadly). For a few days, wasps would still come to the empty space that housed their nest. Then they moved away.

05.08.2025. Today, I heard on the BBC radio while driving to the gym that this year, being so very stable and mild, produced an inordinate number of wasps. Moreover, they got lazy and instead of hunting other insects and what not, resorted to make themselves home in people’s gardens. Like this one (see the pic).

16.08.2025. I was sitting at the nest last night. Weeks have passed since I cut it. All of a sudden I saw three wasps circling the place where the nest used to be. Could they be ‘visitors’ or maybe some returnees? Like in a sci-fi film about some expedition deep into the outer space that took years. During these years, the earth was destroyed but the expeditors did not know that and only found out when they returned. Imagine the shock! What if it is similar or even the same with these wasps? They were sent on some mission, say, scout for the best hunting grounds. When they returned, oh, horror, their home was gone! The wasps did not stay long however. Smart insects! I am sure they are going to find good grounds for a new home.

I hope Trump is going to wash his hands after the summit and Zelensky’s refusal to give up territories. Like in BB, ‘it is a mistake to do business with a junkie.’ Let the European puppet masters reap full consequences after having made that mistake. Not once, but like the white idiot from the anecdote, repeatedly.

19.08.2025. Having awaited for Zelensky to make a scandal during his visit to Washington this past Monday, I got disappointed when no scandal took place. Instead, the situation (peace talks) got very murky if not soul numbing. I thus decided that it shall be up to me to throw Putin an ultimatum. He must finish this war any way he wants in 30 days, meaning Ukraine’s full and unconditional surrender. In the meantime, for 30 days, while waiting, I am not going to read the news. I will only look at it in 30 days (that is right, read a book, Alex). If he does not finish the war in the time allocated … nothing is going to happen except that I am going to save a ton of time, be in good emotional state and perhaps do a lot in the writing department. How does that sound, Vlad 🙂 ???

21.08.2025. Still holding on – no news, not even a tittle! Sleep better, in a better mood, stable. Write better. Granted, I asked Tanja to inform me if there is breakthrough, but myself, I will abstain from looking. No need, really. Watched Oliver Stone’s Platoon, my favourite Vietnam war (technically, special military operation, not war 🙂 film. Still, after so many years, the film moves me. Charlie Sheen is pretty good there. And so is Defoe.

23.08.2025. Not surrendering. Glanced at the news by chance: when I check my email, some of my providers have a news reel at the opening page. It is impossible not to look at the pics and the headlines. But even then, I type my address with the closed eyes.

24.08.2025. Happy Independence Day!

The truck looks like it jumped out of G.G. Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.

26.08.2025. I finally figured out why Myshkin does not like to roam in the garden. I thought he was a coward or a lazy bum. I think now that like he eats last letting other cats from his pride eat first, he does not want to leave the den unprotected. He is in charge of greeting others when they return and saying good bye to them or seeing them off when they want to go out. A true patriarch!

27.08.2025. Tanja said, ‘This does not explain why he is trying to get into the house and under the bed (Nik’s room mostly). I think my theory accounts for that as well: he is a master of the house and wants to possess it all! As for the rest of the cats, they are very square in exploring the garden. It is as if they constitute their new space in accordance with the human layout, understanding that this garden belongs to us and thus to them. Yesterday, I saw Lulu and Blue and Frieda do the same thing: walk the perimeter of the garden. They also always return after roaming.

29.05.2025. A ton of Ukranians visited my site recently. For three weeks, there were 15-20 hits per day in Publications. It was weird: I only list my pubs on this site, but there is no content there. Why? Then, it stopped. As suddenly. No contact sought, no commentary left. This is a personal site; it appeals (is read) only to those who used to know me. It was an aberration, this frequency of visitation. Those mysterious Ukranians…

We have flies all over: the cats are gonna have a ball tonight. When they catch flies [prepare for disgusting content], they eat them. Yeak!!!

09.09.2025. The kids went to school yesterday. They did not complain, just were very tired when returned. It is so quiet without them, so peaceful )). The fall is here. Pretty much. Still green and sunny but quite nippy in the morning, and it gets dark already at 8pm. Getting ready for the trip to Russia in October. Mixed feelings, as always. Mom is losing her eyesight, and in general has tons of health problems. She is 84. Bought her a huge page-size magnifying glass. Re-reading Master and Margarita for work. What a joy!

Peek at the news now and then, but without any clear commitment or regularity – same oh, or rather same Oh! When was General Kozin when Motherland needed him?! :)) Better go outside and socialize with the cats – we let them out with no restrictions, day or night, and they are getting a hang of it))

14.09.2025. Frieda – my favourite

20.09.25. Hard to write after such a stellar photo)). Okay, current news or news pile: whistling Latina at the gym (lacking a sense of appropriateness), Blue gave birth to four kittens inside the bookshelf and bleached them (she also relocated them twice). we swam one last time yesterday – underwhelming, I almost froze my left buttock off. Alien Earth picked up while Better Call Saul got deflated. Bought a ton of masks on Ebay. Running out of space in my suitcase. Better pick up yoga or smoke more pot – the war news suck and so does my sister. Better yoga. Can’t find a good image from Giacometti – the quality on the Internet is not right. My mom looks forward to going with me to the dacha – no f…ing way! Those arrested in St. Peter by FSB on the suspicion of a terrorist act (the guy pretending to be a babushka) are properly disgusting. As in I wish them both 20 years of prison disgusting. They put a bomb under the car of some Russian general ‘out of fun.’ As the father of one of the suspects said about his daughter: ‘She has not worked a single day. She is just bored out of hell.’ Well, she can learn how to saw military uniform in prison. Shocking! Okay, okay, Kozin, think zen-zen (not dzin, stupid!). Better yoga. You see, I am losing it. My brain is fried. No more Internet! Printed word only plus long walks in the forest. Yeah, right(((

22.09.2025. Zen is not happening. Filtration does not work properly. Or something of that kind. Poorly defended I am. Frieda is becoming a dog – my wish. She is a fun cat and will be more fun in the near future. My mom is not fun, but she is well-meaning. ‘Better Call Saul’ is chugging along well. At this point, Kim and Mike are the most likable characters. Howard I like as well. Reading is going on poorly. More like not. I am very frustrated. Reading was supposed to be my pass to the Zen land. Instead, as you can see, these notes and a ton of Internet still. Cannot shake it off. Internet. It goes like this: first mail (nothing), then news (nothing), then Amazon and E-bay (barely anything – better say ‘nothing’). In this rhythm – four times a day. Okay, having said that, I shall try again. Right now, I promise. Thomas Mann’s Faustus. Here we go…

24.09.2025. Adrian, the main character of Mann’s Faustus reconstructs his home on the basis of the farm he lived at as a child. Even his choice of servants follows the principle of recognizable similarity: the elderly couple in charge of the household, a busty barefoot blond milk woman and a bearded horse carer. It was ‘as if he wanted to outrun time, cheat it,’ thinks the narrator. It was a precondition to meet Mefisto.

My car that I brought to a posh BMW dealership for repairs was the oldest one on their lot. I felt good about it. Let us see now if they make the repairs ))). Frieda is becoming temperamental, while Castro roams.

26.09.2025. They did. They even washed and vacuumed my Dora. But they also charged me 800 pounds for the job worth 300. And they wanted to charge another 1,800 just so. I did not let them. Now let us see if my car passes MOT. Khm. There are reasons to doubt it (fogged up headlights lens cover(((

29.09.2025. Saw a dream today. Very vividly. I was in some kind of museum and picked (bought) some golden ‘treasure’ (read: a bunch of trinkets). On the way out I was approached by a dorky-looking woman in some ‘village’ light blue print poplin dress with the white trim. The dress cut her legs midway. The legs were exposed enough so to see cellulite. They were very chubby. Thick thighs and thick calves. She was wearing ankle boots (very worn out and formerly white). She had thick rimmed glasses; her dirty blonde hair was unwashed. She had a limp and used a walking stick like the one they use in the hospital. When I woke up I had a distant memory of this woman, but not in the dream. She said that she liked what I got and asked me if she could walk with me to the bus stop. We were walking down the street talking, when I my shoe laces got untied. I asked the woman if she could hold my back pack (in the dream it looked very expensive: black mate genuine leather), while I fix them. She took it. When I finished tying the laces and straightened up I did not see my companion. She was nowhere in sight. I walked to the bus stop nearby and Oh, Horror! There it was, the walking stick leaning against the wall of the bus stop cabin. The realization of being duped woke me up. Now I am wondering…

30.09.2025. The predominant technical theme in Mann’s Faustus is music. I do not wish I studied music but I do wish I studied the semiotics of music (Tarasti) to seriously appreciate the complexity of Mann’s main character Adrian’s genius. All I am capable of understanding is the relationship between voice and note (accord). The horizontal and the vertical grid that holds this relationship and gives it meaning is more less understandable but only through semiotics. I feel like I have been there long time in the past, but now have only a very vague memory of the place((

Another forked up dream. Two parts. In the first one, I find myself in a hotel on the 23d floor. I slept in and woke up hungry. I realize that the breakfast slot is about to close and run downstairs. I make it by a minute but the only thing left for me is a pork shank – cold. I get kicked out of the restaurant and am trying to find a place to eat the shank but people are everywhere: there is not a single place for me to sit at. I wake up. The time is 6am. I am trying to fall asleep and see the following dream: I am working in the garden of some house which is not where I live. The neighbouring house has construction; there are two workers dressed in black there. At some point I notice a creature that looks like the baby alien from the Alien Earth series. It comes to me and turns out that it is not an alien but a piglet. I pet it, and it responds nicely. Then it starts chewing on my shirt. I realize that it is hungry and look around for some food. I see a bone on the grass. IT IS THE BONE FROM THE SHANK FROM THE PREVIOUS DREAM!!! I give it to the pig, and it eats it. It eats it like the pigs from the film Snatch eat human bones – mulling through it making this dusty sound. A worker from the neighbouring house comes up. I show him the pig. He begs me to give it to him. I explain to him how pigs are raised and then wake up! The time is 9am.

04.09.2025. I hope it is a good sigh: when Luka and myself got up, both crates in the conservatory were filled to the brim with water after the storm during the night. Yet, there was no spillage. Like in movies. Impressive, eerie even. Uhuhu or jujuuee? (what is the writing for eerie sounds? AI did not help).

Lulu is very jealous of Frieda. Every time her daughter comes to us, humans, for TLC, Lulu jumps her and whacks her on the nose.

No worries – just experimenting. Not a feat narcissism. Want to have just the head. Can’t crop the image: something’s wrong((

06.10.2025. My cabin!

Yeap! Bamboo all right!

My sister is like a cockroach that got inside your ear while you were sleeping. You cannot get it out of you head. It is there whirring and stirring, trying to get deeper and deeper. How does one get an actual cockroach out of your head? You kill it and then flush it out. Or, alternatively, and perhaps more humanly, flush it out and then kill it))

When my car was about to go to the shop expecting pricey repairs, I was looking for an accident so that I could get myself a new one. Opportunities are plentiful here: soccer moms usually or old geezers like myself. Guess what. As soon as my car got repaired costing me 1K I had two perfect accidents which I avoided. One time Luka was with me. He was the one wo screamed: ‘This is it!’ Yet, I applied brakes and avoided an almost imminent collision that would not be my fault (a woman in a mini cut in front of me into the opposite lane). Disappointed, Luka asked later: ‘Why did not do it, dad?’ I explained that in a micro second I assessed the benefits of that collision only to realize that having a perfectly running car, MOTd and good to go for a few years min I’d rather keep it. Plus, the thousand I have already put into it. Yes, and that female driver of course who could have got hurt((

Ja tupeju: 12 октября в России отмечают День кадрового работника, а также профессиональный праздник аграриев и сотрудников медицинской службы МВД. В мире — День борьбы с артритом и День испанского языка. The same day?!! Pain in the ass and the Spanish?!! Really?!! It’s like karma: I must have killed an unexpected snail. Just stepped on it unawares. Squash… I am sorry!!! (no more question marks and no exclamation points). I won.

21.10.2025. My first week in Russia has been colourful. Anxiety over the dacha; my mom’s much deteriorated state; my overall disorientation which has never been so strong. Economically: inflation is high and prices are up. Less choice in stores. Increased transportation costs. No, I am not complaining, just sharing. Politically: same, but there is more tiredness (starting with Putin and ending with my ultra-patriotic neighbour at the dacha) and less patriotism. Perhaps, I have got older ahead of my objective age. The gym is emptier than ever, but there is more staff. I got quite sick during the first week, which is uncommon; usually, it takes a few weeks for me to lower my immunity. So far, my favourite impression was Trump’s AI generated video where he (wearing king’s crown) is piloting F-16 dumping crap on the No to King! movement protesters. The President of the United States? That guy?! I wonder what video Putin could have made? Something with the protected Siberian tigers, no doubt. But I assure you – he wished he could have shown the same video – he, Putin, the king, piloting SU-57 dumping blue glowing shit on Europe. The difference between the two leaders in that regard? Just the scale, I am afraid)))

Leon looks good in Oxford. He looks like he belongs. Well, at least in comparison with some of his classmates.

24.10.2025. Putin looks good. He sounds good, and it seems that he is ready to escalate. I hope he will. Reading Thomas More’s Utopia (scanning, more like it; it is a super boring text, more boring than Plato, who is mentioned as an inspiration))). Yet, found good stuff on the foreigner. As a supplement to Plato as well. Reading Russian classics searching for the character ‘governor’. Same project. Fighting with my mom over her not hearing and not remembering things. Both are selective deficiencies, I reckon)).

02.11.2025. An abnormally warm October-November. For me, not enough rain. When traveling from Malakhovka to Moscow, I tend to dress warmly and wear JW boots. In that, I was told, I look like a foreinger. Sadly. Appropritately – the title of my current book is Foreigner. A Xenological Study. Apart from writing, my only hobby here at the dacha is reading. I am literlly surrounded by books. I still drag a bag or two from the librabry where they give ‘doubles’ away. At this point, the house is filled with ‘triples’! Three times Tolstoy, Simenon, Olesha, Dolmatov, what not. Five times Pushkin. Another, more recent hobby is to sell my dad’s collection of coins – silver mostly. Right next to me on the table is a silver coin Republica Ceskoslovenska, 1932, 10Kc, excellent condition. Worth 20 pounds, I reckon. Now, when I bring my coins to the buyer (located not far from my mother’s flat), I feel comfortable. I also get better and better talking to him. I like to warm him up, make him tell me some secrets of his trade. I fake ignorance and bad memory, making him repeat his stories, which he does with visible pleasure. After five visits, he began to consider me as a ‘regular.’

03.11.2025. I got it! The extent of cat’s ‘love’ for you is that they know you. That they acknowledge you. That they show by coming over to you and rubbing against you. It is for this reason that I want a dog more and more so. I have not seen a single Border Collie around. Nor a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. This makes my fantasy grow stronger.

04.11.2025. There are new trains and new platforms for commuter trains now. Everything inside and outside of D3 is so civil and so clean. But the overpowering smell from the smoked mackerel (that favorite snack of bums and alcoholics) is still the same. It hits you on its own (a passing passenger) or as a bouquet (unwashed body, dirty shoes plus from a passenger who sits nearby).

07.11.2025. Picture of the Day. I was exiting the metro station (Partizanskaya) on the way to my gym. There, right at the station there is a bus stop. A bus just arrived. Among the boarding people I saw a man. He had black leather pants, black leather jacket with Harley Davidson insignia, black biker’s boots with silver trimmings, and a black bandana with the skulls pattern. He, judging by the outfit, was a biker (or thought of himself as such). A biker boarding a bus. Somehow, it was so funny that I froze and then I cracked up.

08.11.2025. “Clothes makes people. I don’t know any naked people who had any weight in the society. Do you?” Marc Twain.

09.11.2025. When in Russia, I have flashbacks of ‘places’ I used to know. They are no more, but something above or around them make them present, fill these no-existents with the original experience, which is not unpleasant. I do not have such flashbacks in England. Of course, not.

10.11.2025. Parallelism in great works of fiction, film, visual arts. Parallelism, not repetition. It is when several tracks of meaning are co-present and develop without affecting each other; yet, running in the same direction.

11.11.2025. I like the number. All these enigmatic ones. Nu-me-ro-logy ;). Philosophy of number. Time and number. All that kind of stuff. ‘There is no freedom in revolution. It is the opposite of freedom’ (N. Berdjaev). In this abnormally warm weather something is happening to the earth (soil). Covered with long fallen and by and large rotting leaves, it smells like … butter. There is something recognizably milky about the smell. Now and then, not only when I make my usual rounds around and through the main square in Malakhovka, I open the door and walk outside of the house (or simply peak outside) just to breath in this amaizing smell.

12.11.2025. Image of the day. Purple man. At the gym here in Moscow, there is a gentleman (about my age, fit and bold) who wears nothing but purple: purple shirt, purple shorts, purple trainers and purple socks. The latter is particularly odd. He exercises little (short spurts about 15 seconds on machines) but walks a lot (somehow his pacing makes me self-conscious; I feel as if he walks around me a lot, like a purple shark), sporting nothing but purple, creating these weird flashes or even waves of color. When I first saw him (last year), wearing the same purple outfit, I wondered in what sequence he organized this outfit. Did he begin with the most expensive item, e.g., trainers, and then bought other items one by one, or did he conjured up an image first and then bought everything at once (I doubt anyone could do this at once tho, especially given all this isolation of Russian businesses)? I usually make my outfits from the bottom up, starting with the shoes. But I never go with just on color – I consider it bad taste (even black or gray that I, an old man, like the most these days).

Next time, reader, – Lemon Man))

13.11.20025. From the British News: ‘After an operation on both eyes, a man began to see a woman with enormous breasts. He would see her outside when shopping and inside at work.’ Lucky bastard! He could have ended up seeing an ostrich or lawn mower)).

14.11.2025. Reading obscene limerick-alike folk fourliners called chastushka in Russian. Means ‘oftens’ due to a certain ‘clicking rhythm. They are sung using balalajka, the Russian three string instrument. When, as young man, I found out that I was entirely useless as a guitar player, I wanted to study balalajka thinking that an instrument that primitive I would be able to master. Never happened. But my nefiew managed. At the school of music where he was sent at the age of ten, all other ‘noble’ instruments were taken. He was stuck with balalajka and studied it for six years. I heard him playing at his graduation. I was impressed.

15.11.2025. Alexander Radischev (1749-1802) in his subversive, according to Catherine the Great’s characterization, essay The Journey from Petersburg to Moscow (1790) describes the following encounter: “There, I saw a recruit who by all counts was a Frenchman. He did not speak Russian, except for a few words. I was surprised to see him in the line and asked: How come you ended up as a recrout? He answered by telling me his whole story: ‘I was born in Paris and learned to be a barber. One Russian count or duke saw me and hired me to go to Russia with him to do his hair. I cut his hair for a year but then he replaced me with a man from Lubeck. I was starving and decided to sign up as a sailor, but I was lazy and liked vodka too much. Once I fell down from the mast and broke three fingers. I became useless and was thrown out. I was a bum and a beggar for two years before I struck a lucky number – one day, I played cards in a pub and won a small fortune. I bought some snazzy clothes and went to Moscow. There, I met two of my compatriots who told me that I could make a living teaching French to the Russian youth. For a full year I lived at one landlord’s near Moscow and taught his boys French but then, a year later, they uncovered my secret. The secret was that I could not read or write in my native language, and so they brought me back to Moscow. I was afraid that I was going to starve again and sold myself for the military service for two hundred rubles. I reckon, if there is a war, with God’s help, I will be promoted and return to my homeland rich and famous” (1988: 198-199). Radischev’s verdict: What an idiot … is that landlord who hired this miserable son of a bitch to teach his sons!

17.11. 2025. Snow. Finally. A properly monochromatic day. It sleeps so well on a day like this. I slept 12 hours last night. On and off, granted, but had a difficulty getting up. Like a bear. Weird weather – tomorrow +10 (another record). I am afraid the Ukras are not going to freeze their asses after all, but, again, nobody could predict such a warm November either, so, we shall see.

To spice up this rather boring note: khm, nothing funny or odd. A very quiet day.

Recently, I have thought about all the things here at the dacha that are dear to me. Among the books, the dearest is my Pushkiniana – all 301 volumes. Among the things, the last of the sentimentals, such as my grandfather’s only trophy from the vanquished Germany – a set of Zolingen razors that he lifted from a barber’s shop in Kenigsberg in 1945. What shall I do with them? Bring them over to England? Will the boys ever understand my reverence over these memorabilia? When I was a child, I thought of these razors as medals. My grandfather was a barber, and he used these razors every day at work. He swore by them. They were were pretty too. Most likely my kids will not find them pretty or anything. More often I find myself in the same position as my mother who is eager to ‘settle’ her most cherished things before she goes. These days, all she wants is to find a new home for her German coffee set, her crystal, her niknaks . It pleases her to see these things needed.

22.11.2025. I had a very nice lunch on Arbat in The Bull (stake house) with my childhood friend Sergey. It was fun. I had no idea that having a male friend is fun. We have not seen each other for 50 years and both were quite apprehensive about the resumption of our relationship. It worked! We met a month ago over here, at the house where he used to live as a boy until he was 12. My mom made blinis. I showed him around. Then, a week later, he invited me to a Belgian restaurant on the Ostozhenka street, where I used to study at MGPIIJA. Quite delish! Surprisingly, despite our professional differences (he is a stock exchange trader), we clicked. Of course, an important thing was him being on the same page about the war, but there are other common points. He is a good conversationalist (for me) – he is very patient. I thought careful at first but then it became apparent – not careful, patient. The bottom line – I like Sergey, and having a male friend feels good (contrary to my previous conviction).

23.11.2025. There was snow (13.11.2025).

00.11.2025. Speaking about numbers, numerology – there was an offer on ebay: a ‘lucky clip’ from a package (sliced bread) which had the date 12.12.12 stamped on it. The price – 10 thousand pounds ))).

Caroll’s Alice knows no fear. She is a fictional character, no doubt, yet…The child accepts the existence of possible worlds as real and thus does not have the very fear we adults call “fear before the unknown.”

Rain: the rhythm of silence. Not pretty unless you are looking up. In the early hours of twilight the air is colored purple; the setting sun is on the contrary intensely yellow.

25.11.2025. I wonder how Trump is going to react to Zelensky’s rejection of his peace plan. If he lets it go, he will become the opposite of Putin. At least as far as keeping one’s word is concerned. I wanted to have a bet on the consequences, but can’t quite formulate its parameters. Everybody wonders, nobody knows.

27.11.2025. When talking to my mum about past receptions (birthdays, anniversaries, other events we would hold at home), we remembered my grandmother Anna, an uneducated peasant woman who during the dinner, after having drunk a bit of vodka, would get so annoyed by the ‘clever talk’ she did not understand, that she would break into a folk song all of a sudden, singing over and above the talkers. A form of protest which, as a child, I appreciated. It was always much fun to see my father’s horrified face and my mother’s attempts at diffusing the situation.

As expected. Mr. Trump backpedaled again, calling his ultimatum off. As they say in Russia, his was ‘the last Chinese warning.’

28.11.2025. Earlier I told Tanja that oddly (ODDLY) both my coin dealers (I have been busy selling my dad’s collection of coins to a dealership nearby) are toothless. You wonder? I wondered as well until I realized that the loss of teeth was a professional hazard. Guess why! Attention! The correct answer: They would bite coins to check their authenticity. Kha-kha-kha! Oh, you, stupid Kozin)))

30.11.2025. One of the objects involved into the Mitichgate is the elite development called Kozin. Khm

I was offered a contract for translating one of my Tarkovsky books into Arabic. No, this is not a boast! It just made me realize, and Tanja alerted me to it, that I will never be able to access the content of my translated book. Ever. Under my name the Arabs could have published instructions for assembling a bomb or making recine or whatever, and I will never know. No, I am not paranoid, I just find it super odd on the one had and translation theory worthy on the other.

1.12.2025. Now that my visit to Russia is coming to an end, I must notice two unusual things about it. One is that I had a lot of engagements with the people I know and, in the case of my recovered friend Sergey or the coin and antique dealers, I don’t. More than ever, anyway. I was mostly fun but also quite tiring and certainly detrimental to my work schedule – I have written about half of what I expected to write. The other thing is that despite the fact that I indulged very moderately, I got in the habit of sitting and staring. Aging, no doubt.

05.12.2025. Upon my arrival to England, I had an encounter which shed light on the English national

 character (no matter how stereotypically). In the gym here in Hove, in the locker room, there was a man

I have not seen before. He occupied the entire bench by spreading his staff all over. All other benches

were in use. My locker was right across this bench, so I put my bottle at the very end of it to kinda show that I also want to use the bench. When he saw it he said, “I seem to have taken all the space.” I responded: “No worries. I often do the same thing” (thinking: “Not really. I never do”). Then, he added, “I hate it when people do it on the train.” I said: “Yeah. annoying” The exchange ended there, but he never moved a single item away! Moreover, he was taking his time grooming himself, spraying the most objectionable deodorant in my face, etc., as if on purpose. I had to skip on one foot when dressing up. So fucking English! Acknowledging a problem thinking that by doing so it gets redeemed. Being polite over being respectful and helpful. A new and improved kind of selfishness.

14.12.2025. Sorry! It has been long time I had something worthwhile to write. No, there was inspiration. Moreover, there were words and funky stories to tell. But, strangely, there has not been one good slot for writing. In the evening, I would get so tired and in the morning so eager to write for myself that I had to postpone and then I would forget. Sorry! I promise, my devoted reader, that I will find it in me to make these entries regular. Not necesserily more frequent but regular. Both when I am over here in England and when I am in Russia (leaving on the 19th of January for a month a half). By the way, we have resumed watching Better Call Saul. Really nice. Really disturbing.

15.12.2025. On the treadmill at the gym I was working out next to two girls of about 18. We started together. One of the girls began to tell a story. It was not interesting but coherent and relatively long. Then, the other girl took the floor. Her story was unintelligible largely because she used all sorts of verbal parasite such as ‘like’, ‘actually,’ ‘totally,’ ‘okay then.’ In fact, it was disturbing to hear the frequency and deployment of ‘likes’ which did not just intermit within one sentence but came in a series as in ‘like-like’. This is not the end of it though. After the ‘like’ girl finished the first girl took over and…started using ‘like’ and ‘actually’ in the same manner the second girl did it. She got like totally infected!!! And I bet if I started to talk to someone after spending 10 minutes in their company I also would have started my sentence with ‘I was like in that store like.’ Infected.

How’s that for a note? Okay then…

16.12.2025. And no more coins, Alex, please! You keep buying them on Ebay like you know your shit but you don’t! You think that you can resell them in Russia at a huge profit, but I will be surprised if you just break even on all the crap you are going to haul over there. Mate, stop! O-k-a-y..

Above is my little impersonation of the pesky voices that are going on arguing in my head. Pretty annoying, trust me!

I need to read something good before going to sleep. The news is total pukorama. All this Trump, Zelensky, Lavrov, Peskov, and of all figures – the President’s son-in-law. Son-in-law. Is it a post, a position, a rank? What did he, that Kushner, do to deserve being there at those tables with the powerful ones apart from making Trump’s daughter happy? No, I need to read something to exorcise myself. Shall it be Goethe? Faustus, perhaps? Yeap. It shall. There is a poodle there. Lovely dog but too curly to my taste. And that pretty mouth. Naah. If I get myself a dog, it will have a powerful jaw. Not square tho. Like what the German shepherd has. And no saliva please. Did Mefisto-the-poodle salivated? I think not!

This is a not a note. It is a ramble! You are losing it, dude!

17.12.2025. From the news: любопытный казус произошёл во время Zelensky’s пресс-выхода. Переводчица не смогла перевести слово troops (войска) и при всех ошарашила Зеленского заявлением – ‘трупы НАТО свалят на замороженной ЛБС’ (“Трупы НАТО или ЕС будут обеспечивать безопасность там, где теперь заморожена линия фронта”). During Zelensky’s press appearance, he heard the interpreter say ‘NATO’s corpses will provide security at the frozen front’ mistranslating the English word ‘troops’ by literalizing it (could she not know the word?). I think it is beautiful example of a Freudian slip as in there will be corpses.

19.12.2025. I’d rather not have enough food than too much food. Now that I am alone with Nik I for almost a week, I am truly in pain trying to figure out what to do with the food I have in the fridge: lamb, beef, chicken, salmon, sea bass – I mean the leftovers but also newly cooked (Nik went out and ate out with his friends tonight, and I roasted a chicken for him for dinner. Bugger!). All that for just the two of us! Plus, the long promised KFC. Man, oh, man! I can freeze it of course but I don’t want to. I don’t mind freezing uncooked food, but cooked…Oh, well!

Here comes another super interesting note. What a revelation. Too much food. Go to … (ah, it is no longer China, right) Brazaville? :))

Watching ‘Guardians of the Galaxy.’ With Nik. Fun! I really enjoyed the first one.

Putin’s End of the Year Line – not great. He looked good but said nothing new. Except that we do not have many men out there at the front; as it turned out only 700K. Means lots get killed if 300K new men come every year (plus the original 200K after the 300k who took part in the offensive in 2022). 700K lost? That’s a lot for the country that is bent set to ‘spare’ its soldiers. That is a lot of Russian men. Yeah. I doubt I will be able to take my kids to Odessa any time soon.

21.12.2025. I had a dream that was not much different from other ‘anxiety’ dreams – got lost or lost something and was anxiously looking for a way out or to find and to be found. There are different contexts and different characters but it is always the same when it comes to language: whether it is English or Russian, people in my anxiety dreams speak only one language. This time all the characters spoke three languages and they spoke them fluently switching between them like proper bilinguals. The context also consisted of parts German and parts Russian; there was even a proper American strip mall. In a sense, it was eerie. I, a person whose German is primitive and English clearly non-native, spoke German like a pro. And I also felt like I knew all these places which were like stones in a mosaic. The irony is – despite all that communicative competence, I did not find my car and did not get back to the hotel. I slept long but I woke up exhausted – it was what it seemed an endless search.

James Gunn (director of the Guardians). He looks interesting. He has that wry smile his characters have and lots of sparkles in his eyes.

23.12.2025. What’s with the snow (and I don’t even mean here in England)? My mom is reporting strong wind, frost, but no snow. Are we running out? Russia and Canada are the biggest producers of snow. Is it as bad over there? If not, maybe Russia shall start buying it. Use tankers to transport it. But they have been dicks out there. Maybe the nukes could help – don’t they cause nuclear winter? All that snow. All of a sudden. All year round. Don’t be a dick yourself, Kozin. Although – brightly covered snowballs. A good snowball fight. At night. Pretty. Like Guardians of the Galaxy came to town))

25.12.2025. To my kind and patient reader I wish a Very Merry Christmas! I wish them to continue to be generous as to my not always interesting, funny, and peace-loving notes. More in the spirit, I wish them good health and much happiness!

The ‘Canadian’ scientists struck again: the use of obsenities increases productivity. Fuck, it does!

26.12.202. There are people in my life who when they were alive loved me. They nourished me and meant nothing but well for me. Now, I believe that it is them who guard me and guide me. They are my proper guardian angels. I convinced myself that I could communicate with these people through my African Teke figure that I have in front of me on my desk. I guess I really need a gateway to that other dimension. Something is missing here, in this actual world.

Had a weird dream – I had an appointment with my old mentor from Germany and could not make it – lost the key or rather had the key from some hotel room but it had the numbers filed off, and I did not know what room was mine. The phone, as it happens in real life a lot with me, was in the room. The funky part was not that I could not get where I needed or warn my vis-a-vis about my delay but the fact that that the only person who knew what key opened what door was busy ‘sorting out the trouble in the swimming pool caused by a migrant.’ A migrant? In the swimming pool? In my dream? I am a migrant, but I do not use the swimming pool. I wonder.

There is someone in Indonesia who reads my notes, but the person is not Indonesian, I am sure. Some ex-friend, I gather. A well-off Russian friend, most likely. Spending the New Year on Bali…Have fun, friend!

27.12.2025. Today at the gym I cracked not a bad joke (always proud if I manage to do so on the spot)). It was particularly good because it was in fact a pronouncement of truth. Prehistory: my outfit at the gym includes a knee sleeve that I wear on the right calf and over the knee to cover ugly varicose veins. When people ask me about it, I always say it is for my bad or wobbly knee. I tell them that I hurt it by excessive running. This time, a stranger asked me what the sleeve was for, I said: ‘It is an accessory.’ The person said, ‘For what?’ I said, ‘For my vanity.’

31.12.2025. And here it comes! Odd number – 2026. I mean even but odd. Expectations? None. Maybe the war is going to be over. Maybe I publish another book. Maybe Tanja builds a guest house. Maybe we get ourselves a dog. Maybe my mom lasts another year. Maybe I turn 62 (aha! 62 is the reverse of 26. What the hell does that mean? A magical year? You are funny, eso-boy!). We will see then. For now, Happy New Year to everyone out there! Happy New Year, chungases! We have made it.

03.01.2026. Putin, Vlad, you really need to settle you own position. Are you a Tsar or something like a president? You want to be a tsar. You seem to know what it means. You want us to trust you and subject ourselves to your rule. But, if we do, do act like a tsar. Descend all your might on the unfaithful…

Trump is an evil man. He has to be called responsible. He ought to be punished. His credibility as world leader shall be annulled. He is a kidnapper. He is a murderer.

04.01.2026. That president of mine. Still waiting. Still calculating. He speaks about the time of heroes but does not know himself what that is. Trump, on the other hand, is not just another American president bully. After his attack on Venezuela, he became committedly immoral. He also became a criminal. I cannot wait to see the Russian reaction.  But then, again, what can I expect? Words, words, words. And all this time, I am sure, Europeans are going to be sucking their thumbs, trying to wait this aggression over. Like they did with Israel. Waiting. Calculating. So tired of this show. Can we re-enact some cinematic endings in real life? Yeah, those where justice does not just prevail, but it prevails for all. Yeah, really. Something that sappy and idealistic. Plaaaeeez!

05.01.2026. SD Trump means Simply Disgusting Trump. What a vile creature. No respect. No regard. No decency. I am properly dis-gus-ted. The reason I left the US… Here it is. The reason. SD Trump and all who support him. All his men. MAGA is a fascist clan. I am still in shock. Wishing Maduro to stand tall. Looks like he intends to do so.

On the brighton side. We have had the first snow here. Fell during the night. View from the window in my bedroom. Not too much by Russian standards, but hey!

My mom looked at the picture and did not recognize that it was snow. She does not see very well((

06.01.2026. I need to stop reading the news. But it is hard. It is like smoking. Addictive and very bad. You know it is bad but cannot stop. The problem is that there is no alternative – I mean on the computer. You go to check you mail and hoppa! some catchy news report grabs you and then the Maduro effect. You get in a huff but what can you do? Only stay in a huff. Oh, man. I try reading fiction. Not a replacement for that new fix. One has to be pretty disciplined, and I am not. May be going some place remote where there is no TV, no Internet, no papers, no nothing, like that cabin from Breaking Bad. To go there for the self-imposed news detox. But I don’t want to live there. I will get bonkers. Oh, man. All right, the problem is identified. I need to work on it (you are too old for that kind of transformation, Alex, whispers the little bastard in my head. What is the point?). I need to work on it even if I have to read all of Dante’s work (that is some healthy solution, boy).

Tonight, we watched, for the family watching hour, the first episode of Netflix’s Man on the Inside with Ted Denson. In that episode, they made fun of an American small liberal arts college. A good caricature. I was there. I know. The word ‘semiotics’ was one of the funnies. Sadly, one of my former allegiances. Sadly because I never made a career out of it. But if I did, Trump would have fired me for being useless. What a schmuck! But, still, for the better. Oh, yeah, semiotics is what could be a good good night read. Yeah, that thing))

07.01.2026. С Рождеством! Со светлым праздником! Yes, it is Christmas in Russia, but the bad news keep on coming. Perhaps, it is time to crank up at the front. And grab an American vessel in the Pacific. Destroy all the foreign ships in the Black Sea. Something of that kind. Perhaps, if nothing is done, Vlad shall go. Too old, too careful, too much into playing games. The Americans have become untrustworthy and unpredictable. Their bullying has reached the point when someone ought to kick their ass. Someone or a couple of biggies. Like Kong and Godzilla. After the attack on Putin’s residence, nukes shall become an option. Putin has miscalculated Trump’s rationality, his ability to project his decisions into the future and assume risks. If no strong reaction follows again, give me a new president! I am so tired! I again introduce a moratorium on reading news. Internet for e-mailing, shopping and info only. Bye-bye lenta.ru, gazeta.ru, tass.ru, dzen.ru, kommersant.ru. Arrivederci!!

08.01.2026. A day without news was a relief. In itself. At the same time, I do not want to become emotionally and intellectually detached from what has been (for five f…ing years) my greatest focus of attention and straight commitment. I therefore owe it to myself to continue to support the Russian side and to make my position clear on demand. This means that I must somehow find a way to keep abreast but with minimum losses to myself. How about then I read the news once a week? For most news, it is quite sufficient. I will try it. Like in the good old times – the Sunday paper.

In my dream last night I met the Queen of Carcassone. She was a stocky Jewish-looking middle-aged woman with big dark hair and blue eyes. Nobody that I know or knew. She was my guide in the Carcassonian labyrinth. She took me to the ‘church’ (a piece in the game), and then we were making our way to the ‘ocean’ (not in Carcassone). On the way we encountered other creatures but not at all like the meeples in the game. It was a little bit like Alice in Wonderland. Our journey ended abruptly – most likely I needed to pee and got up or something of that kind. This is one dream I want to return to. It had promise.

Tanja’s birthday today. Nik and Luka were very sweet – bought flowers and candy. In the evening, we are going to an Italian place we designated as our hangout for all sorts of celebrations. It is called Colosseo. Nice mid-range place. Few thrills foodwise but good service and solid menu. We do not take the kids out often, so it is always a special treat for them just to go out))

09.01.2026. Tanja alerted me this morning about some potentially good news from the front. I looked it up. Well, that strike was underwhelming. A waste of Oreshnik, as far as I am concerned. It should have fallen on Kiev. Meaning, back to the no-news mode. In the meantime, the wind over here is absolutely wicked! Feels like you are in the ocean struggling to make it back to the shore – 100 miles an hour or so (probably not, but sounds impressive)). A proper storm, anyway. Want to enclose a pic of the stupid cat who has never seen snow and is trying to save herself from it by climbing as high as she could! Pretty, isn’t she?

10.01.2026. A friend sent me this pic. Moscow. Last Wednesday

13.01.2026. Dreamt of ‘mushroom’ people all night. They are nasty! They smoke pot and play cards all day long and they do not care to help a stranded traveller :((

The stupid cat has never seen snow! At first she wanted to eat it, then got scared of it and tried to get as high as she could not to feel it. Imagine how freaked out she would have been if she lived in Russia (see below. This January).

14.01.2026. I am soo stupid! And soo old! I posted the cat on the fence twice! I am taking one out. My friend’s worker may stay and shovel the snow more – they say snowbanks in Moscow are about 60cm! Cannot wait to climb over the fence at the dacha!

Last night I dreamt about the mushroom people again. What the hell!, as Luka would say. They locked me in the wardrobe and didn’t give me water ((

15.01.2026. Surrounded by books:

Tu l’as voulu, George Dandin! (Moliere, George Dandin)

vicisti, Galilae! (Julian the Apostate at his time of death)

You are deep and heavy, snow. Let me go as far as I can. Till I stumble and fall. Witnessed by whiteness only (Basho, The Narrow Road)

Ranciere in his Figures of History on the images that stunned him: Stalin, Hitler, Tolstoy, Mao. I rummaged my mind for some of the images that meant history for me, my life – nobody came to mind.

Carl Jung – Flying Saucers. UFO’s in Dreams. Metanoia. I have never seen aliens in dreams. Only the mushroom people 😉

Pasticcio is a composite of several styles and motifs. A very postmodern thing, I have heard 😉

18.01.2026. Off to Russia tomorrow. Kinda sad and kinda excited. Sad because of my mom getting worse. Also, I like it here in England. Excited about the snow. Will let you know how it went. The flight sucks. Turkish Airlines thru Istanbul. Arrives in Moscow at 6am – tiring. But again, maybe I manage to get myself emergency aisle seats both ways – that is gonna be super!