The day of Transfiguration had just passed. It was a good day to be on some mountain, looking up for a light. I couldn’t do it, though; I've spent my day in a hole, in darkness. Nevertheless, it never hurts to dream about light:
And why do we call it transfiguration? That's the question I’ve asked myself.
As the story went, Jesus took three of his best disciples (Peter, John, James), went to Mt. Hermon and there his countenance turned dazzling white; Moses and Elijah appeared before Him and paid Him homage; and Peter said... well, everyone knows the story [1].
You also probably know, that the Transfiguration of Jesus, like almost everything else in the New Testament, was preceded by Old Testament events - the transfiguration of Moses. Moses’ countenance irradiated bright light, when he went down from Mount Sinai. “The skin of his face shone because he had been speaking with the Lord.”[2].


 
 
“If only I had known what he would turn out to be,” said Henry Tandey, a British soldier of WWI, who had a chance to kill Adolph Hitler at the Battle of Marcoing.

According to Henry's account, he took aim but had a heart not to kill a wounded German soldier. “If I only had known what he would turn out to be. When I saw all the people, women and children he had killed and wounded, I was sorry to God to let him go.” [1]


 
 
We live in a world of words. Some people even make a living by weaving long and sometime quite elaborate strings of letters. Some of those strings worth more than strings of pearls.

The strings of words pierce the space on radio waves, fold into books, hide in CDS and microfiches and wave to us from banners pulled by crop dusters. They shake our air with acoustic booms of contraction and rarefaction. They carry meanings; at least some of them, while others are just pollution, toxic noise. Some words will stay with you for the rest of your life, like the first word of your baby. Or like the last words of your loved one. Words give life and words take life away.


 
 
Mountains and vineyards, burned out steppe where you still can walk onto a stone baba – Neolithic female figure once worshipped by mythic Scythians.  Gentle sandy beaches of Black Sea with its floors still covered with amphorae from Phoenician, Greek and Roman wrecks…

These wrecks lie undisturbed by greedy to artifacts divers.  Smell of wormwood at sunset.  Wailing of turtledoves in green quarters of Yalta and Simferopol.  And grave silence of ancient columns protruding from sandy cliffs.  It is a bit like California, if California would have several millennia of history.  It is almost like California, but no overcrowding, often more a desert, than even a steppe.  It is Crimea, and there is much more to it, but... 


 
 
I was patient and ignored all cognitive echoes which had happened to me since I’ve last time described this phenomenon in the Hummingbird.  Yet another echo had #happened and this time I’ve gave in.  Here is the story. 

I’ve lost a word.  And this was so embarrassing – I’ve lost a pretty common word, not an opisthoproct or cosidoron (those are coming wherever I need them).  It was a good word, a name of that pretty common shrub with purple or white clusters of flowers.  You know what I am talking about? 

 
 
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Perhaps, we had enough eschatology discussion, let's talk about something else, like, say, the relativity of truth. Lately this Subject was quite regularly on my mind. What is it coming from? I think, I can tell, but first I would like to take a bit longer look at it.


 
 
I just finished my second time reading Harry Potter, all seven books in a row.  Just like the first time, it was … magic.  The images of the novel were invoked so vividly, so truly, that afterwards it feels as if I’ve been there and witnessed it all, either under a cover of the invisibility cloak or from a dive into Dumbledore’s Pensieve.  I only wish it all was real, I wish it lasted longer, but the last book is finished and closed, while I remain where I am – a poor Muggle, locked in Muggle’s Azkaban. 

 
 
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My friend says: “I don’t understand that: another one fell today in the dorm, dead. Why anyone will be doing that thing to himself?”
So another flukka victim was rolled away on a stretcher. There will be no medical help, it was too late anyway and so in a few hours he will make a transfer to an undertaker's gurney and will be taken away. What is it, really, why young men, men who non-metaphorically speaking have nearly all their life ahead of them, prefer to smoke this stuff, which kills them here and there like flies? And they know what they are doing! That’s the hardest part to understand.


 
 
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Twenty years ago I wasn't in a place where I am now. I was in Copper Harbor, Michigan, on the north tip of Keweenaw Peninsula. I was in a small, likely family owned restaurant, which are pretty common in Upper Peninsula and most of them are very good. Our table was next to a window.
The dinner was abundant and there was also a bottle of wine, and then two. Then I didn't know yet that our bodies need much less food than we tend to take, so I ate until I've felt stuffed and stupid. And this was when I looked out the window. And my jaw went down.No, it was not a cheneque sitting on the window sill outside and looking at me with its hungry eyes or worse, with love. (By the way, the later happened to John Lithgow's character in the Twilight Zone movie, on a plane, remember?).


 
 
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He had slightly reddish-brown hair reaching down to his shoulders and a long, wispy beard. It was his first beard and he sported it with dignity against all snide remarks of his peers. With this long hair, beard and at a height of 62 he carried an uncanny resemblance to you know who. He knew it. And so, to make this resemblance even stronger, he developed this innocently benevolent expression, a subtle smile half-hidden under facial hair, which he carried around like an icon impersonator.