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? 

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. 

While the world was celebrating the birth of #Jesus, a new #demonic scourge came down to us all, and his name is #flukka.
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.

Sometimes you don’t have to look for #supernatural in supernatural places. #Awesome things, #magical things, things that will make you wonder for the rest of your life, can be found right next door.

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.

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.

A week or so ago I finished writing story Melor and Makakey, His Marxist Monkey. The story was originally intended for the fifth book, but the publisher had shuffled it down to the Chronicles of Bayboro Correctional Facility IV. So I took a break, and used it for reading something that I had a long time in mind to read: Lars Kepler, all three thrillers of theirs. And I didn’t make a mistake when I said theirs: Lars Kepler is a literary pseudonym of a couple: Alexandra and Alexander Abndorilj. If I like an author I tend to read everything written by him (or her) in a row, and I found that Lars Kepler is the one (or two). But this is not the story I am about to tell, the story is:

I've developed a quite scientifically-looking theory on the subject of spontaneous human combustion (SHC), which I’ve put into the pretty head of Dr. Sabina Spitzyn, a scientist in residence from a strange house on Proudhon 38. One of my three novels in waiting for better times, and Proudhon 38 fits 100% into the fantasy genre. So, according to Dr. Spitzyn, spontaneous human combustion is ... not a combustion at all. This is just a misnomer.

I think my last entry is asking for an extra comment.
Dreams. I am talking about dreams that are not a subconscious reflection of the thoughts and feelings of a past day, but dreams that open to us the other side. Telepathic dreams (see PETRUSHKAI), prophetic dreams, dreams as a universal meeting place for everyone and everything. Dreams which act as Heaven's venue where we can see again our long gone friends, relatives and loved ones, and more.