The Blog

And I watched and saw—wow!—how beautiful was each and every form in that sculptured group portrait of the Hellos young demigods!.

The very moment off the run, the jet turned over to its side along the invisible banking so as not to fly over the ridge by the Noragiugh Village where from they could launch a thermal rocket…

While I’d been stomping to Stepanakert, it got completely dark. Nearing our rented one-room apartment, I heard some toddler kids twittered in the darkness of a nearby yard. And it shot thru me somehow too sharply that merely a couple of hours since we had parted but I was missing them already…

* * *

Bottle # 16: ~ Welcome back, Customer! ~

…but this all has certainly been already… a fit of raving déjà vu or what?. by the bye, is the noun of feminine or masculine gender?. depends on the inquirer's orientation… which one would be to our liking?. fooling around with the neutral seems most disturbing, when you don’t know where to, and how, and what… take it easy, love comes with time… but if it hurts?. then have a shoot at whining…

…but all of this has most definitely been already… this complete darkness is way too familiar… “darkness” is feminine in Russian if it makes it easier for you, feel better now? relieved?. can’t tell for sure… after that previous darkness the head was aching awfully… never get drunk over the limits… and where did it hurt most?. the back of the head… so it was not migraine then…

…yes! i remember now!. i have been in this here darkness and packed as tightly as right now… because everything comes back to square one and in the end you plump back into the sperm being squirted by your dad’s dick into the round hole of your mom’s vagina… you’re squarely unnormative in all of your fucked up crown, this will blow up to hell even 18+… 'cause of what was will be again, what has been done will come to be done again…

…truly, truly tell I unto y'all!. all’s definitely that very way and exactly so was I not able to stretch my legs out and this here lid above and I all crammed and confined inside this too tight Pe… Pec… Peccy?.

To use their sense of feel, the fingers pass thru thick, however, imperceptible darkness until they met invisible yet palpable hardness of calcium carbonate in the so familiar concave wall.

Yes, it's her, it’s Peccy. Here is the unmistakable cleavage between her two valves, yes, that lovely shallow split, not even a pinkie goes any deeper, the fucking bitch squeezes them too tight and there’s no space for doubting it any more – it’s nothing else but a déjà vu!

O? But what if he had never left it then and just fallen asleep, exhausted? What if banging the back of your head against something hard works as some sleeping pills, eh?

Three hearty bangs are equal to a couple of Zolpidem. Looking for Triazolam? Keep banging on. Doral is effing painful yet that way you earn a sound sleep for at least 8 hours…

…shut up, buddy! banging for a living is prostitution!. ha! as if digging a hole or sweating at a conveyor line is not the same? don’t they sell their body? ain’t they doing the routine job that makes them wanna puke?. shut up! we’re honest law-abiding sellers of our bodies! not a single article in the criminal code discourage our trade!. and, please, stop entering slippery grounds they can block your account, you do know…

The freaked out fingers recoiled back to the beard. Wa-ait! But where’s the blunderbuss?

The blunderbuss is there no more. Instead they feel some woolen cloth, rather thick yet not drape, maybe, rep, it’s hard to say in the darkness.

The hair is also gone. Well, not completely but shorn pretty much shorter because there’s not a chance to get an upper hand in a tiff with Maya…

…stop!. but who’s Maya?. and more details on this point, please…

Whoa, man! Easy! Easy! We are not rolling out any Kama Sutra here… just use some mnemotechnic knock up… no! hands off! draw your hands back, I tell you!.

There sounds a groan in the darkness, maybe, two… an ill-articulated, ’o! Maya! what a slut you are! ah! yeah! Wow-ow!’

Seems like amnesia has withdrawn about that neck of the woods…

Yes, he phases it out while there again is arising the same question: who am I and where from?

And one more pops up too, a bigger one – how to get back to Maya?

Think, buddy! think… fuck “who” it can wait, the shortcut to Maya lies thru “where from?”…

Think, Nobodya! Do think!

What the feck!. who’s Nobodya?

aargh!. it’s real hard to do business with you!. don’t you know English? or never seen that western with Henry Fonda? Damn!

A London tavern’s interior springs up in the memory… low ceiling, jittery illumination by the torches in the walls… Chris stretched out on the floor… so funny pants on him, skin tight… crumpled mesentery folds around his young neck sprayed with blood… the dagger handle sticking out from the forehead above his right eye… the control hit… no more poems, rhymer… but he was also a fink, eh?. as if there ever was someone who was not, okay, cut it out or else the audience would boo at being bored of… just mark well – anything would pass away besides the Muses that come to visit… now again, take two at beat one…

Chris on the floor… the veins in the whites of his eyes getting paler… Don’s bodyguard nearing with his handgun… and this very moment I catch on the meaning of the parting words by Chris – “escape!” that button in the left upper corner of the keyboard… the way of exodus, last hope when you hang up in no way out, cornered and stuck where it gives no loophole… Esc button or else that one, wide one, press it for 5 seconds and – your monitor’s black, Game over, sucker…

The stream of vehicles… it cannot stop me… whistle of the bullets piercing my beard… fuck it!. ‘Escape!’… the wall darting like a locomotive towards me… ESCAPE!!!

…The tight, pitch black darkness filled with the hollow beating of the heart—tah-da! tah-da!—which has been right now dashing within the runner’s body. But how can be possible all that? Don’t ask and just believe – There is no Might and Power but by Mnemotechnic the Great and Omnipotent and Adrenaline is the Prophet of It.

Fuck! I’ve really stepped into! It’s so tight in here and I wanna pee so what am I to do? To recollect the pampers of my childhood? But were there pampers? Were there pampers? When you do not even know if your mommy had money-money for pampers or if there was any mommy at all, maybe, you were just another foundling in a refugees camp?

Yet it is of no importance… for the time being… The task is to understand why…

…no one will ever understand why because the question “why?” has no answer. Well, just for the record, it has, however, not one but infinity power infinity, you know, and anything at all can be the reason for anything at all, even absence of a nail in a smithy to shod a hoof, so chew a banana and relax or, if you wish, I can treat you to an apple, huh?. do have a look, so ripe and juicy! – Ѽ…

You? Again at your damn tricks? When or where will I get rid of you?. There are heaps of other shells, not enough for you? Go and hiss there your serpentine lullaby…

…you have to open this one, first off, before to say “Get out!”, you, sclerotic one… and be quick too not to be wakened up by the yell outside, “Get out, Lazarus!”

But why-why-why had no one vehicle run him over? They were just sliding thru him… Or was it he to slide thru the car interiors and their drivers? And possibly thru the passengers too?.

Why did the bullets fly from his plexus with welcoming “phew-phew!” without setting his beard on fire? Not even combing it for that matter? Such things cannot happen, right?

There’s something not there… yes, really amiss… nothing but some creepy virtuality… but who?. Scurrying autos, them those bullets or he himself?. Who was virtual?. Or—and—here enters the most horrible godawful possibility—what if all of them at once?.

…well, well, well, welcome back again… copy-pasting Matrix season 7, eh?. shame on you, Ekibastuzenko! plagiarizing Poles?. while having such a good mom who sings about the revolutionary locomotive… oops!.

A-ha! Have blurted it out? You Prince of Darkness!

Now I know who I am – Inokenty, Kenty, Kesha-sunny and nothing of that Western Nobodya!

With hectic acceleration revved his thoughts shooting ever faster like a squirrel in the wheel in his cage…

I’ve got the squirrel syndrome?

…hold on, not everything at once yet nobody will ever bypass the inevitable…

And in the rumble of the squirrel’s plaything’s rolling rotor there grows and widens new rhythm over the mariana trenches of dismay, some full of hope dancing beat the shaggy horse fetlocks stomp out in the mincing step of claps and clops which they play up clip-clop-clap-cluppingly:

No trumps in the deck any more remains!

All of them are swept off by my virtual Ace!

Oh, My! The answer was so simple! Why did he tortured himself and Peccy so?. almost in vain?

Chris at his departure presented him the valueless clue and he used it, spontaneously and intuitively, before even guessing where it leads…

In the scorching surge of emotions, just to show that he got it, the meaning of Chris’ mutter, who tried to warn him while lying himself at the death's door… That's why instead of 'banzai!' hollered he the name of the button, one from among 104 in the keyboard. Same-sized as the majority of them yet the most important for those who knows a thing or two about virtuality. Yes, the one marked by three letters—the uppermost to the left, under the code number 27 (o, what a whale of meaning converges in that number for the knowing heart of a numerologist! And can you guess which one is coded by number 13, huh? 2Bsure! Who could ever doubt!)

Nobodya (not yet Inokenty at that moment but an innocent ignorant) not even knowing what he was doing, convoked “Escape!” and heard he was and the miracle came to pass!

Anyone is ready-made for doing wonders, actually.

Ain’t it a wonder to be born into this best of the worlds?

No less wonder is to survive in it for the duration of at least one Five-Year Plan. Or to live until you're big, and strong, and productive enough for pouring the mite of your own into the efforts for fulfillment of the current Five-Year Plan in just 4 years?

Yes! Proclaim we without hesitation, this is a real marvel, wonder, miracle and stuff.

But!

Only the wondermaker is capable of not just doing a one-stand wonder but of reproducing it time after time.

How?

Ask a jailbird doing his regular time in prison for the miracle foreseen by one and the same article in the penal code.

Ask Kenty, the poor devil incarcerated in the impenetrable darkness of Peccy’s hollow innards. He knows the magic formula which enables him to make wonder—even though one and the same—without marring his innocent back of the head.

Right now he’ll repeat his personal miracle – lo and hearken!

"Escape!"

With a dry click, the locked valves parted. The upper one started its slow raise, opening, widening the gap thru which in pours the shining twinkle in the waves running to the shore from the immeasurable span of the blue sea that merges, far far away, at the horizon, with the blue of the firmament adorned with the coquettish fluffy clouds, over there.

And here you can hear the idle surf and sexy moans of the gulls above the lolling waves.

Yes. He did manage.

He was apt enough.

It's finished.

* * *

Bottle #17: ~ A Mundane War ~

…but this all has certainly been already… a fit of raving déjà vu or what?. by the bye, is the noun of feminine or masculine gender?. depends on the inquirer's orientation… which one would be to our liking?. fooling around with the neutral seems most disturbing, when you don’t know where to, and how, and what… take it easy, love comes with time… but if it hurts?. then have a shoot at whining…

…but all of this has most definitely been already… this complete darkness is way too familiar… “darkness” is feminine in Russian if it makes it easier for you, feel better now? relieved?. can’t tell for sure… after that previous darkness the head was aching awfully… never get drunk over the limits… and where did it hurt most?. the back of the head… so it was not migraine then…

…yes! i remember now!. i have been in this here darkness and packed as tightly as right now… because everything comes back to square one and in the end you plump back into the sperm being squirted by your dad’s dick into the round hole of your mom’s vagina… you’re squarely unnormative in all of your fucked up crown, this will blow up to hell even 18+… 'cause of what was will be again, what has been done will come to be done again…

…truly, truly tell I unto y'all!. all’s definitely that very way and exactly so was I not able to stretch my legs out and this here lid above and I all crammed and confined inside this too tight Pe… Pec… Peccy?.

To use their sense of feel, the fingers pass thru thick, however, imperceptible darkness until they met invisible yet palpable hardness of calcium carbonate in the so familiar concave wall.

Yes, it's her, it’s Peccy. Here is the unmistakable cleavage between her two valves, yes, that lovely shallow split, not even a pinkie goes any deeper, the fucking bitch squeezes them too tight and there’s no space for doubting it any more – it’s nothing else but a déjà vu!

O? But what if he had never left it then and just fallen asleep, exhausted? What if banging the back of your head against something hard works as some sleeping pills, eh?

Three hearty bangs are equal to a couple of Zolpidem. Looking for Triazolam? Keep banging on. Doral is effing painful yet that way you earn a sound sleep for at least 8 hours…

…shut up, buddy! banging for a living is prostitution!. ha! as if digging a hole or sweating at a conveyor line is not the same? don’t they sell their body? ain’t they doing the routine job that makes them wanna puke?. shut up! we’re honest law-abiding sellers of our bodies! not a single article in the criminal code discourage our trade!. and, please, stop entering slippery grounds they can block your account, you do know…

The freaked out fingers recoiled back to the beard. Wa-ait! But where’s the blunderbuss?

The blunderbuss is there no more. Instead they feel some woolen cloth, rather thick yet not drape, maybe, rep, it’s hard to say in the darkness.

The hair is also gone. Well, not completely but shorn pretty much shorter because there’s not a chance to get an upper hand in a tiff with Maya…

…stop!. but who’s Maya?. and more details on this point, please…

Whoa, man! Easy! Easy! We are not rolling out any Kama Sutra here… just use some mnemotechnic knock up… no! hands off! draw your hands back, I tell you!.

There sounds a groan in the darkness, maybe, two… an ill-articulated, ’o! Maya! what a slut you are! ah! yeah! Wow-ow!’

Seems like amnesia has withdrawn about that neck of the woods…

Yes, he phases it out while there again is arising the same question: who am I and where from?

And one more pops up too, a bigger one – how to get back to Maya?

Think, buddy! think… fuck “who” it can wait, the shortcut to Maya lies thru “where from?”…

Think, Nobodya! Do think!

What the feck!. who’s Nobodya?

aargh!. it’s real hard to do business with you!. don’t you know English? or never seen that western with Henry Fonda? Damn!

A London tavern’s interior springs up in the memory… low ceiling, jittery illumination by the torches in the walls… Chris stretched out on the floor… so funny pants on him, skin tight… crumpled mesentery folds around his young neck sprayed with blood… the dagger handle sticking out from the forehead above his right eye… the control hit… no more poems, rhymer… but he was also a fink, eh?. as if there ever was someone who was not, okay, cut it out or else the audience would boo at being bored of… just mark well – anything would pass away besides the Muses that come to visit… now again, take two at beat one…

Chris on the floor… the veins in the whites of his eyes getting paler… Don’s bodyguard nearing with his handgun… and this very moment I catch on the meaning of the parting words by Chris – “escape!” that button in the left upper corner of the keyboard… the way of exodus, last hope when you hang up in no way out, cornered and stuck where it gives no loophole… Esc button or else that one, wide one, press it for 5 seconds and – your monitor’s black, Game over, sucker…

The stream of vehicles… it cannot stop me… whistle of the bullets piercing my beard… fuck it!. ‘Escape!’… the wall darting like a locomotive towards me… ESCAPE!!!

…The tight, pitch black darkness filled with the hollow beating of the heart—tah-da! tah-da!—which has been right now dashing within the runner’s body. But how can be possible all that? Don’t ask and just believe – There is no Might and Power but by Mnemotechnic the Great and Omnipotent and Adrenaline is the Prophet of It.

Fuck! I’ve really stepped into! It’s so tight in here and I wanna pee so what am I to do? To recollect the pampers of my childhood? But were there pampers? Were there pampers? When you do not even know if your mommy had money-money for pampers or if there was any mommy at all, maybe, you were just another foundling in a refugees camp?

Yet it is of no importance… for the time being… The task is to understand why…

…no one will ever understand why because the question “why?” has no answer. Well, just for the record, it has, however, not one but infinity power infinity, you know, and anything at all can be the reason for anything at all, even absence of a nail in a smithy to shod a hoof, so chew a banana and relax or, if you wish, I can treat you to an apple, huh?. do have a look, so ripe and juicy! – Ѽ…

You? Again at your damn tricks? When or where will I get rid of you?. There are heaps of other shells, not enough for you? Go and hiss there your serpentine lullaby…

…you have to open this one, first off, before to say “Get out!”, you, sclerotic one… and be quick too not to be wakened up by the yell outside, “Get out, Lazarus!”

But why-why-why had no one vehicle run him over? They were just sliding thru him… Or was it he to slide thru the car interiors and their drivers? And possibly thru the passengers too?.

Why did the bullets fly from his plexus with welcoming “phew-phew!” without setting his beard on fire? Not even combing it for that matter? Such things cannot happen, right?

There’s something not there… yes, really amiss… nothing but some creepy virtuality… but who?. Scurrying autos, them those bullets or he himself?. Who was virtual?. Or—and—here enters the most horrible godawful possibility—what if all of them at once?.

…well, well, well, welcome back again… copy-pasting Matrix season 7, eh?. shame on you, Ekibastuzenko! plagiarizing Poles?. while having such a good mom who sings about the revolutionary locomotive… oops!.

A-ha! Have blurted it out? You Prince of Darkness!

Now I know who I am – Inokenty, Kenty, Kesha-sunny and nothing of that Western Nobodya!

With hectic acceleration revved his thoughts shooting ever faster like a squirrel in the wheel in his cage…

I’ve got the squirrel syndrome?

…hold on, not everything at once yet nobody will ever bypass the inevitable…

And in the rumble of the squirrel’s plaything’s rolling rotor there grows and widens new rhythm over the mariana trenches of dismay, some full of hope dancing beat the shaggy horse fetlocks stomp out in the mincing step of claps and clops which they play up clip-clop-clap-cluppingly:

No trumps in the deck any more remains!

All of them are swept off by my virtual Ace!

As to when exactly the Lieutenant-General arrived in Karabakh the sources keep mum, and only mention scantily that it happened in 1992.

A Teacher at a military school in St. Petersburg aged 72, he left his wife, his job and the city on the Neva-River to fly to Karabakh. That’s how he worried about the motherland because he was born in Tbilisi (Georgia), both like Sayat-Nova (1712 – 1795), the great master of amorous lyrics, and Mikhail Loris-Melikov (1824 – 1888), the Minister of Interior in the Russian Empire, and the famous film director from Hollywood Ruben Mamulian (1897 – 1987), and the Soviet composer Aram Khachaturian (1903 – 1978), and lots of other differently praise-worthy Armenians.

Yet, about the date of his arrival in Karabakh Google keeps zipped sternly, which is a pity because it's interesting, anyway to me, personally.

I like his photo in the company of the Minister of Defense of Armenia, and a couple of local Lieutenant-Generals scratching their head-gear in a puzzled manner. He’s so unrestrained and ritzy there in his T-shirt and no cap at all.

My prying attitude is warmed up by the ambiguity – did he come before or after the capture of Shushi City?

I maintain a firm suspicion that it happened before the affair. Unfortunately, this opinion cannot be substantiated without Google and, on the other hand, I am reluctant to bother his relatives or venture knocking at the germane archives doors because of my sloth and timidity – why leaving a wrongly prejudiced impression of myself in certain structures of appropriate security organs? The like thirst for knowledge can very easily invoke a boomerang response and eff squarely across my skull holding this here inquisitive mind. Do I really need that?

Still and yet, all my pros are for “before” and here are my circumstantial evidence —

While phedais were busy fighting to defend Armenian settlements, in the rear (Stepanakert City), in defiance to the blockade and bombardments, went on the process of creation of the elitist-political superstructure titled the Committee of Self-Defense. As a result, the phedai groups were automatically handled the Mountainous Karabakh Self-Defense Forces, although they did not give a fuck about change of stickers being constantly on the go to fight the Turks (in Mountainous Karabakh they never had learned to call Azerbaijanis otherwise) back off this or that village, to catch on a herd of cattle stolen and driven away from one or another kolkhoz farm but not clear yet by whose assistance and/or permission and so forth, and so on.

And even if taking the village of Khojalu with such a motley company might seem feasible (moreover when supported by machine-guns of 3 armed vehicles) then capture of a city situated on the commanding heights by employment of the yesterday's barbers and auto mechanics is quite another kettle of fish.

OK, fine, there was present a military specialist of the brave nom de guerre – “Komandos”, a Major from Yerevan who besides his experience in straightening out the Czecho-Slovakia's deviation (1968) was active in Afghanistan too (true, not the all 10 years 1979-1989, but…), however, (in the way of a buddy-to-buddy talk) even a Major is not qualified for capturing cities.

That’s why before storming Shushi his function consisted of visiting villages in the Askeran District (Stepanakert, by the bye, has no district of its own and is situated in the aforementioned one) where mujiks were happy to entertain Komandos during which proceedings he assured them that everything would be all right, and together with the present in the village house of celebrations drank tutovka under the flowery toasts to the imminent victory.

Nope. Only a man with a General’s past could codename the battle for Shushi “Wedding in the Mountains”.

I was not invited to the celebration and had to observe it from aside, from Stepanakert, where in the main square they set 1 (one) GRAD installation that each half an hour fired a singleton missile in the direction of Shushi.

Take my word, the launching thunder is not a grain less disgusting than the explosion concluding the flight.

At two-hour intervals, the building of the former Regional Committee of the Communist Party of the USSR, whose basement was used for the hospital, saw arrival of another KAMAZ truck with a load of wounded in its dump.