(Translated by Nataly Oschipok)
PREFACE
It is no revelation but the true conclusion, the fruit of analysis. No, there is none of insight connected with the particular event. Do not believe anyone who would tell you for sure the evident moment when he or she became a wizard. The true wizard is a neophyte until the last breath. And the initiation takes the whole life. The potential of your power and opportunities is growing gradually and unwittingly; you do not realize it up to the breaking moment when someone turns to you with a simple “you-are-just-wizard” phrase. You cannot believe it, you smile, you blush, and then…
And then your dreams always come true.
This all seems ridiculous, just nonsense but you are already all about using the unexpected power. And losing your head of a great might you possess, you are storming with the stones all around you (not knowing you will have to pick them up). Just a natural tact so rarely forces you watch out and notice if the storm hurts anyone. You keep on climbing the life up to the hill, higher and higher, without any single thought of the point when you cannot change anything back – this moment has passed long ago (was it for real? was there anything to return at all?). It always takes so long to walk to the festive fair but it takes just a single breath to get back.
How many threads are to be interwoven in one: the inner energy; books which are the voices of wisdom; words which became friends and allowed sharing the deepest secrets. From time to time you dive into madness while waiting for your Dragon to visit you. There will be the last visit also. It will become the very peak and culmination prior to falling down. Inevitably you fall down into abyss.
The penetration into Wizard’s life is the Great Responsibility. Similar to the hot wave of magnesium injection covering your body from the toe tips up to the sunken heart you feel the Great Responsibility capturing you in a tension of magic with its piercing pain for the dearest ones up to the vague agony of the invisible, non-evident future, and the furthest past.
The Great Responsibility brings a new sense of time and distance. The Wizard does not need any wandering and travelling to catch new impressions. The Wizard is the very impression of Heaven: bright, orgasmic, inexhaustible, covering the furthest corners. And even the most advanced physicists have no idea of them; and even the most long-sighted astronomers do not see them. The Wizard can hardly keep in memory the dates of historical events. The whole historical body with its muscle traction of events, blood circulation inside the historical veins, and the heartbeat of history are seen by the Wizard as the X-ray image - such majestic rays of inner power.
The consciousness of the Great Responsibility and its spiritual acceptance, what is more important, are not the crowned ceremonies. These are just the start of initiation which takes the whole life. Thus, having met the person telling he or she knows the particular moment when became a Wizard – do not believe.
CHAPTER 1. Limn
At the moments when the cloudy sunset is sealing up the windows of my house with the crimson glow the sense of natural majesty is getting especially sharp and thrilling deep. The mankind childhood was penetrated with the thick horror and the awe weakening the knees in front of this majesty. The nature breathed with the wind into the closed eyes; it wrapped the world with the sunny blanket; it whipped with the rain; it frowned (even now we use to say so) lowering its eyebrow-clouds and carefully watched the phobias of polyphonic night through its semi-closed moon eye.
How presumptuously indifferent we are today! Stray air streams are flowing from the high pressure areas to the low ones; thermonuclear reactions are turning the hydrogen into helium; solar prominences are generously sending the thousands of kilowatts to the square meters of Earth surface. But once your tired eyes face the languor of the eternal heaven your feet cannot find the firm earth, the heart is sunken and the skin is all goosy. Oh, how many of us used to crane the necks and listen to the silent heaven roar with the illusive wings spread and ready to fly regretting however that the ability to fly is lost. How many times we were breaking the silence, we forgot how to keep the silence, - we were forcing the speech, lubberly pretending that these bare drops of the inexhaustible streams are the own voices, though we could not even understand the sense of our own words. The senseless knowledge together with all those chemistry and physics were rolling into the downfall where the Dragon of Universe was already waiting with open jaws. And only lyrics were still there… those epochal and dramatic lyrics of sympathy and empathy.
Particularly these life contemplation quantums purify our souls much better than any regretful confession. The lyrics of nature in its divine omnipotence praise the gods of great antiquity but vanish away any religious spirits. The contemplation is neither for weak ones…nor for those who seek for the master to be over them. Any sublimation does not belong to such contemplation. The consonance to the irrepressible songs of elements is born only inside of you. You find the way to melt in them and in moment you are already drawing the cloud-curtains aside and enjoying the view of the window in your own house as if you are a crimson sunset itself. There are no obligations any more but only pure might. And after might there come the desires. The “I must-I can-I want” triangle turns into the closed circle. And when the last obstacle goes away the night quietly comes in.
The shower washes the skin from the traces of crimson sunset and cotton-soft dew of the clouds. I lie down by your side, our bed is large but we are cuddling up closer to each other, tighter, because together we mean more under a ginger moon smile. You even have no idea that I am just back from those incredible heights. I am your guard, your mediator, and your guide. But here on the earth I would not be able to walk alone without you. From the moment I met you we are living in Limn – in a liminality circle. You are holding me at this side similar to netsuke on the Japanese calligrapher’s belt.
It is too early for us to step out. But when the time comes, just hold my hand – I know the way. I myself pave this way. Even staying at this side – tomorrow you will see the yellow bricks will be delivered up to our gates. For you it will seem to be just a simple detail to accomplish our back yard. And so be it. We sleep now – tomorrow comes with the new day and I need the rest. I need my dream – to see how much I managed to do…
I do not like water parks. You are rushing down the tube without control. It takes a couple of seconds and a couple of bruises to notice an odd joy on the surrounding faces, it is a mystery for me what successes cause it. You pass through some stupid mass and fuss at the pool nosing, and here you are, again climbing the slippery stairs to queue up the slow line of noisy kids, out-of-place teenagers, fat men and overripe women. The line goes to the mouth of a bright tube. This tube is easily turning into a kind of God within those empty seconds of slope. It sends you in a strict direction – no way to change it, impossible to look around until the tube spits you outside into the pool with the chlorinated water. It is their life metaphor.
And then you flow in a stream, and it is nice. The stream is as shallow as the colorful water tubes but it is much broader and less hasty. The stream surface is mirror with a frame of houses at both sides of the street. On the smooth polish you rarely notice white fluffy spots whether of water foam or cloud reflections.
Lying on my back I like to watch the very these puffing white masses floating over the house roofs. I am floating together with them with the same freedom-loving pride for my significant move.
There are pale spots of human faces watching me from their skyscraper windows at both sides of the stream. Their eyes are following my slide. Some seem indifferent, others seem scared, those who are depressed envy.
It happens to meet even brave ones who dart off from their banks, jump in and joyfully swim to the middle of the water stream to join me for a short period of time. They smile happily and fall into relaxing delight with their hands behind the head. But a couple of minutes later they are already turning the heads back and checking if their homes are very far already, if their friends who stayed on the bank still look at them. More and more often their heads keep turning back with the growing concern. And in a moment they are already heading to the edge and climbing up without telling good-bye. And then standing with their feet on the firm land, they are waving me shortly and run hurriedly to be back with their friends who would listen to the bright details of those short minutes of careless freedom.
Once I will be ashore, too. And I will step on the other shore – on the one where sea waves are crashing against the rocks. And I will find I am different, absolutely different.
CHAPTER 2. Phu Thi
The art of the dream is so close to music. The expressive musical power is beyond the world of light. The human mentality believes the eyes, follows its advice and analyses the information received. But music and dreams belong neither to the world of normal logic nor to the traditional wisdom. When we listen to the music or see the dreams we do not believe our eyes. In the Oriental traditions this spiritual condition is called ‘djang chub’, ‘phu thi’, ’bodhi’. It was the bodhi tree, or fig-tree, that was shading Buddha when he awoke, when he reached the relief from his mind so blindly believing the eyes.
The dreams of that night caressed with a peaceful rest. The fatigue after the dream was quiet and sufficient – similar to the tiredness you experience after the long day of work, the one you adore, or after the sports when every tired muscle tells of self-respect and confidence in your own strengths. The peaceful dream is gone and you wake up. You wake up to start a happy day.
What a joyful and sunny morning when you are walking to the sea along silent narrow streets passing by ready-built houses and those which are still in the process. All these houses are so much different between each other but so much alike their owners. Behind the colorful- beige, grey, red, green and yellow - walls of the fence you notice one-two-three-storied buildings. Each one is unique: from very simple, wooden village houses to elegant and elaborate masterpieces of architecture; from primitive Minimalism to Baroque, Gothic and asymmetric Hi-tech.
Here and there once you hear a lazy bark of some dog earning its piece of bread. The flourishing surroundings weave a lace of scents which are so deep that reach the depth of childhood itself. And fantastic clouds are everywhere. In the city they often get hidden behind the skyscrapers’ roofs. But here you will never see cloudless sky – from one horizon line to another you can always notice a tall white castle over your head.
At these particular moments you stop living – you exceed the regular frames of life. And the truths arise inside of you. You yourself turn into the truth; the truths are absolute and eternal and, thus, have nothing to do with life. The aim is always beyond the system, outside the competence, outside the comfort zone. The Wizard (in those moments when he is Wizard) is beyond the life exceeding the rhythm of a human being.
The megalopolis inhabitant has no access to the universal rhythm of living any more. A city insect pays as little attention to the powerful measured metronome amplitude as to the beating of a healthy heart – simply does not feel it. The blood of nature elements is impossible to make out in the everyday stressful hustle of a stone hive. The connections are lost, the inner flow of power is split into the myriad of fine weak drops. The megalopolis Wizards (as far as tactful conservative categories are applied to the impudence and aggressiveness) stream these drops along a narrow gutter of the social activity. The megalopolis Wizards are also well-known, successful, surrounded by crowds but no love is found in the crowd; so much business but none of truth. They do not possess that Great Responsibility for everything happening in the space and time; they even fail to be responsible for their own deeds. Their activity is constructive only regarding the individual purposes, but it corrodes very vulnerable roots of the Universal Tree. The city loves its Wizards. It creates them more and more to praise and cherish.
Whereas we are getting less and less in number. It is getting harder to oppose the destruction; uneasy dreams are more anxious; presentiments are more shrilling. And more often it happens that shoulders weaken under the burden, and knees are wobbling again. At these moments you feel the fatigue all over capturing you and you just have to escape at least for a while. And you leave the defensive wall of the last bastion. Each Wizard has his own way to do it. For such breaks I have my wine cellar.
But last night the dream was easy and the new day was happy. The pavement bricks arrived by the afternoon. Together with the yellow bricks there were red and grey ones. The “Ancient Town” paving bricks…
CHAPTER 3. Kitsune
The truly scary death is the death (in the general sense of the word) without leaving an heir. The one whose might and wisdom keeps on living in sons and grandsons cannot melt without trace. For a human this is the only way to be immortal – only the memory of ages which is passing to the next generation. People do not lose their consciousness, do not search for an instant death but dream, build plans and think of future because their strength is in unity, not in individual. Be a human ever so talented, bright and all-round but the eternity is touched by him only as a part of the whole. Even the best triumpher has legions behind him.
To pass away in solitude without continuation is equal to laying down the arms and leaving the wall at the peak of citadel attack. The one who stands alone on the wall is far not a hero, but certainly lost one. A family for the Wizard is unconditional terms of life. The Wizard is faithful to his family seeing faithfulness as the domain but, in a common sense, any Wizard can hardly be called faithful.
The guardian is always there where his power is in need. The precious gift of love is getting blurred and empty if kept in store at some dusty attic. Miserable laws of morals are worthless; they are just ashes under feet. Being the pure spring of morality and tact, presenting the “lex sacrata” himself the true guardian lives beyond those artificial dimensions created in chaos and for chaos. A common woman is not to make a part of the Wizard’s family.
Wizard’s wife is a witch by nature, she is the very personation of intuition, the original destiny, the humanized element. Many women are longing to the spring tremulously anticipating something unreal and impossible. Many who received the long-awaited gift are firmly assured it will last the lifetime. The Wizard, however, is generous to many but faithful to the only one –too heavy her burden is, too important her mission is. For any other woman excessive closeness is dangerous – whether she runs away in scare, or will be burnt, drawn, smothered, hardened. Only Kitsune can live together with Otherkin, Kitsune – is a nine-tailed fox. She is the only one who can pacify the wind wildly straining at the leash without knowing the borders. She is the only one who can balance in the sharp edge transforming her witch’s wisdom into the tricks for life. And she is the only one who can relieve unbearable pressure of the Great Responsibility.
Kitsune, my dearest Kitsune! It has been a quarter of a century that we are together. This wedding anniversary is said to be “silvery” but yet the silver has not touched your beautiful fur. Your ninth tail has not appeared yet, and your shade on the grass is still the shade of a woman.
There are many around who watch us, who want to copy us with the confidence they have discovered all the secrets, and thus they follow us. But without the special magic ingredient the queen’s pie simply loses its fairy power and becomes tasteless. When cooked by other bakers, without following the receipt secrets, being served to the wrong table at the wrong moment, it becomes cruelly poisonous. Seekers often lose themselves seeking to obtain each other.
The city Wizards are much easier and safer to manipulate their own vigil. Their influences are clearly profiled - the instant moment of power is attached to a very particular spot of the desirable correction. The result is, as a rule, easily predictable. The same way it works when markets are segmented, the financial flows are processed, influence zones are shared; the same way psychoanalysts practice their sessions and the lawyers consult their clients.
Our destiny is in the careful choice of each word. Similar to Alpheus and Peneus, words of ours which are seething with the foamy substance can not only wash away the sewage in Augean stables but to flood the destiny of some lucky one. With the only wish to offer a small help to a person by a kind word we always bear a risk to burn by a stray spark the straw bridges which joined the false attachments and the future successes. They come to you for a piece of present-day advice but when they leave - they are already different. They truly become purer and brighter. And their way is now truly right. The first steps along the new way are decided and firm. Their attachments from the past, however, are people as well. Being abandoned those people stay on the shore of the wide stream and their eyes sadly follow the freedom of others.
Kitsune, my dearest Kitsune! So free we are for each other. So dependent we are on each other. So responsible we are for the past and for the future – you are for mine, and I am for each dream lived through.
CHAPTER 4. Solitude
(solitudo lat. - solitude, seclusion, retirement; loneliness, helplessness, defencelessness)
The fables of anchorites, - hermit wizards, are the secondary folklore products. They were composed by ascetics at the times of Christianity. The idea of bleeding white and becoming, thus, useless for the world around, miserable and unable to the destructive aggression, was possible to put up with only through the stolen trust to the natural magic. It was the “inside-out” game.
The guardian’s service does not presuppose the renunciation in solitude. In solitude it is impossible to sense the Universal steady pulse. The Universe does not like singles. Loneliness is the inner disharmony. Tossing sharpens the intuition; hallucinations do bring a kind of insight (in this respect they are very much alike with dreams) but delirium sine delirio weakens the strength of the stream. A single one has the ability to foresee but fails to save anything. A single one can be a prophet but the prophecy is just one of the instruments in the endless variety of Wizard’s tools.
At the same time the desolate state is always prior the initiation process. It is primeval and appears long before the Great Responsibility is realized. In future, however, this state is the integral companion for any Wizard. It is the way to accept the world. It is the essential condition as a basis for the Universe to dab the colors on the canvas of life. But solitude is not a source because the true power comes only after you find the firm earth under your feet.
The loneliness is everywhere. Oh my dear Kitsune! And even when you are by my side there is no way to get hidden from it in our blessed house or under our warm woolen blanket. The same way a lonely traveler walking along the morning beach cannot find the escape when a sky-high tsunami covers it all with its merciless wave. Even my wine collar is just a refuge for short. The refuge, a shady and insidious place, can swallow you up and burry for ages inside its viscous and sticky depths of relief.
But not that loneliness is meant which comes to us when we are separated by the distance falling asleep in different beds; not the one which surrounds us as the white enamel in the hospital ward; and not the one which strikes you at the very height of revelry in a cheerful company. These all are mundane, two-dimensional, and possible to overcome. What truly meant is the abyss swallowing Diogenes in his search for humanity, and Socrates with his drunken talks at prytaneum, and tired Caesar who refused from his guards at his fatal day. Were they Wizards? Creators or destroyers? I just know for sure – each one of them sharply felt an echo of the loneliness that was the breath of our Universe in its versatile individuality.
City babies…some are restless shallow brooks silly gargling down the stream; others are vain fatigued stagnant ponds. But both are simmering in loneliness of the city. The city brings loneliness but not the meditative peace so essential for the resonance with the universal rhythm of reality. Instead one lives in annoying atmosphere of unsatisfaction which only causes regret, disappointment and anger. But most important, it disables creation. Day by day this disability makes prove the status, not the one of intelligent tribe, but the status in the mad troop that is walking, crawling, hobbling behind their city Wizard today while tomorrow they are ready to gobble Him triumphantly howling in exultation.
The single one is weak, unprotected and helpless. But the city kindly offers the help. The city is the best crutches store. Those who are one-legged need a crutch, a kind of spiritual refuge – religion, philosophy, gurus, doctors, or money. The city splits the stream. The city Wizards are discrete, one-legged orphans whose dolly wives have no idea of care and home warmth, they do not harmonize the power. The city Wizard’s scepter is a crutched stick. Stick for the battle. Crushing weapon. The product of a maximum liquidity. All-purpose device.
The loneliness is both the punishment and prize. It is the gain and award. A great might is hidden inside of it being the source of the fatal weakness as well. It is such a pitch-dark depth that can be equated to the heights of the sky. Each Wizard knows – to wrap the shoulders in clouds is easier when you have the support at the both feet.
CHAPTER 5. Servitude
Dependence, may it be chemical, psychological, or physical. Even reading poetry is dependence. I have recently read Nij;’s writing, Japanese Emperor’s maid of honor, thirteen century. It was Towazugatari (literally "An Unasked-For Tale", commonly translated into English as The Confessions of Lady Nijo) in five scrolls. Composing renga for her was as essential necessity of life as drinking whiskey for Anglo-Saxons. Than was the only way for Nijo to determine her position and to stay at the court that meant survival – she survived at the place where the death was a norm and even reward.
Only the degree in spirit liquid helped the island tribe to survive in times of the pandemics. We are dependent. All are dependent… on chemical processes in organism, on given promises, on universal rhythm…
…On each other.
It is impossible to know the origin of dependence, a lover, doctor, mathematician or nuclear physicist cannot know where it comes from. Even for philosopher it is hard. And all his wisdom arsenal and penetration tools are of no use.
This is the very reason poets come into this world.
Impudent muddlers who have hardly touched the depth of life with their own Self (since that moment already not their own), who are roaring, singing, drinking… What intelligent being could stand such lasciviousness on the skin, what creature could absorb their vibrations?
The Mankind only.
In spite the ugliness of theirs, the poets fall into symbiotic connection with the heart beats of this huge and wise creature whose name is Mankind. This is the very might that makes us strong, that keeps us alive. And no alien evil will overcome us - as we are the Mankind whose poetic phenomenon is superior both to rational intellect and to madness. We are the very madness the song of which, with each constructive chord, is slashing into megaparsecs and teraseconds of visible and invisible.
Word is a poet’s tool. Neither a speech element, nor a magic formula but word is powerful system of all conventionalities and paradigms. Word is the structure.
Carelessly dropped or forgotten by chance on the table, the word can pierce, flog, harm, and destroy. How many such careless words are eroding the world! But only the one who was initiated into the Great Responsibility, whose talent is not the arms “against” but the bricklayer's trowel “for the sake of”, only such person, is alone able to face the cracks and break-ups. The voice of one man is the voice of a strong man…roaring alone in a vast expanse.
One of clouds was a red burst in the blue depth of sky; an unexpected dab of a fire-brush.
Only those who at certain moment became two halves of a whole can feel the dependence on each other. They are the ones who were able, who wished and had to face the endlessness as a unity standing shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm next to another burst of life.
CHAPTER 6. Dithyrambs
Dionysus, great and powerful he is! The muses were his wet-nurses. And he treated them with drinks in return. Named “thoughtful”, the muses-sisters in a cheerful covey were always following the vine god whose magic disables thoughts, sober thoughts – “sober” in the common sense of the word. This sense is in trend now.
The Ecumene myth-makers felt different. They were beyond any trend. The thoughts of antic philosophers were not stuck with the labels of all those dialectics and metaphysics; their thoughts were not fogged by propagandists of a sober way of life (‘sober’ for nowadays crowd) in the smog of city wizards. They were happy hovering beyond trends, conventionalities, and vain declarations of will. The Hellenes had no complexes about small nothings, they hovered freely on the wings of non-sober thoughts, created depravity (in the empty heads of intelligent masses), and drank wine. It seems now they say it was watery-thin wine. It is said by those who water their non-sober thoughts by self-invented solution of the social engineering. Those who do not hover already, who lost the wings and only creep.
And this is the reason why their Bacchanal magic, according to the ancient Mediterranean belief, allowed the combination of a primitive thinking and intoxicant feeling of the Universal freedom. It was the union that was strictly framed by Yin-Yang in the philosophy of Oriental sages matured under the severe State.
Great is Dionysus! His songs – the origins of the theater, history, erotic desires, panic horror, and virgin poetry – they are still playing… above the waves pacifying the wind and melting in time and distance. And great his power is!
It is so great that ruins nations. It blows countries into pieces, turns life into shade and death – into ashes. The power of his is the embodiment of abstraction which creates the reality. The tunnel of his vines either leads to the circles next after Limn, or invites to the conversation.
But are we able to converse? We are those who are all corked up with ambitions, turned inside out by trends and brands. Are we able to talk to each other at least, not to mention Dionysus?
While wine is caressing my glass I will be drunken, and still alive. I praise Dionysus!
CHAPTER 7. Krosno
Luckily the wave of the wand does not work and the goldfish from a popular fairy tale does not serve the Wizard as a courier of wishes making them come true. “I want!” is the most destructive formula. The more often our universe hears I-want-words or –thoughts the harder it is to keep the balance of the world. A deep and penetrating sense of the Great Responsibility finds the correlation of “want” with the universal rhythm. The guardian-creator does not use the category “I want”. The Wizard’s thoughts, words, actions and dreams are the weaver’s loom – ‘krosna’ of the Universe. I do not recognize the ratio of one to hundred, one to thousand, one to billion; I just know it takes an enormous effort for everyone to gather into one stream tiny splashes sprayed by selfish “sic volo” declarations of many-many city wizards.
Tearing the Universe into shreds is not only easier than weaving such a staunch and at the same time so fragile cloth, but as the process, tearing is showy and striking. There are two ways to reach the top: you can either build the podium brick by brick or crash the ground around you. The ground is shaking, and this earthquake is always a grand show, so spectacle and attractive that grabs a big noisy crowd around.
The crowd is growing and filling the ditch. The mass is swirling under manipulator’s feet fixing the eyes higher but not on the stars, much closer – on the bright picture of such a desirable destroyer’s success. Not an evil will, however, rules the destroyer – he is under the beast’s instincts. And there are no strengths, no desire, and no necessity to protest this call of the blood.
“Crash and dig! Keep on digging to be here! I have dug and you shall!” And they dig, broaden, and deepen in a desperate hope and languor without any answer to the questions “What? How? When? Where?” They only destroy in an irreversible chain reaction.
The talent to transform the world around by a wish is rarely given. If everyone looking at stars could send the dream to the origins and wait for response the world had not had Zemun Cow, Yggdrasil, Dagon-Oannes, Anubis-Vaala and other primary animals, trees, humans, and fish. The bigger your might is, the stronger you strive not to destroy, not to harm – and therefore the more modest, more delicate and virtuosic the will is.
What a great seduction it is to use the imperative! But at the same time what a big trial it is to pass the imperative to the executor! The executor will be the one who will send armored legions – whether conquistadors, or cuirassiers, or maybe tanks - charged to roam and destroy my world! A stupid strive to create by destroying. It is a total absence of the Great Responsibility sense.
Historical overturn – what a kitsch, mainstream, clutch. Anabasis epic. These are just senseless words, senseless deeds and useless facts in the school textbooks.
CHAPTER 8. Selenism
Do you still trust doctors? Not the Guardians of the universal balance, but those whose medical degree gives the right to rule the destiny? These insinuating people stuffed with Latin terms which, as they think, build insuperable barrier around their limited social group, but in reality this Latin barrier is a poorly made thin fence which can impress only those ones who since early childhood were not taught to read books. So there!
If I were a doctor who was so stupid and therefore so self-confident to interfere into human’s brains I would tell the world about some disease common for those people who cannot sleep at nights. Let’s say, it is named “selenism”. Let it be connected with the encephalitis, cerebral cortex destruction (indeed, is it possible to diagnose the destruction without any idea of creation?!), and with some somatic catatonia (who had ever invented such nonsense?). I would name as the selenism the sleep disorder with the chronic biorhythm imbalance. And I would prescribe the medicines of several groups for restoring the balance.
But I have never pretended to be a doctor.
Have you already developed any trust to the self-named and self-risen to Olympus poets? With their allegories and metaphors, with their paeons praising peonies, with their impudence and self-conceit desalting Hippocrene’s waters, leaving no trace of spirit strength for Pegasus, but only spondees and pyrrhic with extra-seme ictus. So there!
If I were so foolish to declare myself a poet, by myself without any help of others or being assured in my calling under the influence of admired crowd I would definitely mention the blessing by Moon. I would tell about flowing glimmer of deep marks on the soul, about pervasive insight, and about the system in general.
But I have never pretended to be a poet.
Selene, who is coming at night to those who are tired and seared by Ra, you are watching and smiling. And your smile is not craters or spots on your lunar face but the twining vine of love.
If the greatness of mine clouded my mind, I would call myself the Moon.
But I have never pretended to be the Moon.
If I were not the Dragon with the dissipated lunar head (hey, Moon! what is it in medicine, and how do poets call it?) I would keep silence. I would not sing at night.
But I sing.
CHAPTER 9. Dragon’s Laugh
You see the world rich in colors, scents, sounds and sense. We see the bright Suspension getting heavy with sense at our own will. Your world is the Suspension disturbed by the flapping of our wings. The time means nothing for us while for the Suspension it is an essential and inviolable rule. The time will pass by and at some moment the Suspension will bed in sludge.
The faithful will get disappointed; the foolish will get scared; the strong will be astonished. Those who forgot most important will be reminded. Those who never knew most important will be taught. And even the torrent of tears will not be enough to vent the grief when you face the vanity of your power, the weakness of your strength, the falsity of your wisdom, and the pettiness of your aims.
The good and evil will change their places. And then change them back. Once they will be interwoven. There will be neither good, nor evil as they have never been. The same way there was neither life nor death since your life and death are no more than fruits of our will.
Your knowledge of the good and evil is not the truth, your writings of the good and evil are only the combination of hieroglyphs. The hieroglyphs are the pictorial forms which have lost their original meaning but found the new one – the one you want them to mean, the one you created by interchanging the symbols.
Once we were closer. There is no human among your nation who would not remember of Dragons. But there is no nation on Earth who would consider us real. We are soaring above your Suspension leaving a transparent shadow of myths.
We were as close as kindred the words “to know” and “to believe”. I believe means I know; I know means I believe. But now we are as far as alien the belief and the knowledge.
There is no space for us among you, there is no place for us in your history. We are above you but not aside. We are inside and outside.
We are myth. We are miracle. We are fantasy. We are the fruit of your imagination.
Your imagination, your history and your reality are the fruits of our will, the Dragons’ will.
You conceal the truth inside the clew of symbols. You depict some winged reptiles. And then you find some sacred meaning in your own invented symbols. A serpent is the symbol of earth, wisdom; a bird is the symbol of air, freedom. For you we are Tlaloc and Quetzalcoatl – the symbols of wisdom and freedom. But we are not the symbols - we are absolute wisdom and absolute freedom. For you we are the symbols of power. But we are the true absolute power and it is silly to compare it with your sleeping weakness.
Thus you are losing the limits. The true semantics of the limit framed into symbol and watered with empty sounds are not true any longer, these are not semantics any longer, and these are not the limits any longer.
Contemplating, you cognize the Universe inside of you. Venturing, you cognize the Universe outside. This way you behave like the blind who recognize an elephant by touching its trunk or tail and form their judgment by this poor knowledge.
We are the Universe itself.
We are outside since you had started your way by our wish. We lived in each water body charging it with energy to provide you with life. Jormungand* Dragon had encircled your regular world with the Great Ridge running through the bed of the great oceans.
Many of you are preparing for the exodus to new lands. Do not worry – in the new world we are already waiting for those who are ready for the exodus. As well, do not worry, those who will be left on the dying Earth – we will stay at your side. Ouroboros* Dragon will not deprive of your eternity and will care of you. There are no weak or strong, no gone or abandoned under our wings. And there are those who feel the back itching between the shoulders – these are the Dragon’s wings growing.
As we are inside each of you.
The Dragon is sleeping in each of you. You call it Kundalini* curled in three and a half winds. Those who experience Kundalini awakening from inside find the might but lose the peace. They are striving, seeking but cannot find. And this is the due norm: the one who asks wakes the Dragon up – the one who answers loses the Dragon forever.
The Dragon’s time is not gone, the Dragon’s time will not come. The time is one of the rules of our game. We invented the rules, you are not to violate them.
We gave you the gods – mediators. “The Dragons’ children are the gods’ grandchildren”, you say. However, the gods are the Dragons’ envoys. Their words were our words, their power was our power. But the bravest of you caught and prisoned our words. They replaced the gods we created with the human gods. And we fell silent.
The human gods gave you the prophets. We had been keeping silence and the prophets were too weak – the awakening was just brairding inside of them. The prophets prohibited you to name another shell-man madman but you often see the shell-man in those who woke up Kundalini inside. The Dragon’s awakening is madness, you think. You see the loss of mind in those who are just obtaining it. You will never be able to perceive the depth of your madness.
The creator will always be a madman in your eyes.
Creation belongs to the one who was able to hear the Dragon inside. Destruction is the destiny for the one who ruined the Dragon inside. The Parnassus Mountain is circled with nine rings of Python* Dragon which are the stairs for the one who learnt to create. The man will reach the Parnassus peak to perceive the Dragon but not to kill him. The one who comes with the light cannot kill the Dragon because the Dragon is the light itself. The one who brings darkness cannot kill the Dragon because the Dragon is the dark itself. Only the Dragon knows where the border between the light and the dark because he lives in this border. Veles* Dragon lives on the bridge of Kalinov Most between Yav and Nav*.
We are not those who created the light and water, the air and earth. We created the sense of the light, water, air and earth – and we ourselves became their sense. The water fills your bodies with life. We breathe the life into water. The sun light fills your bodies with energy. We are the energy of light. The air is the flap of our wings. The earth is the cold of our bodies.
Makara* Dragon carries Varuna* out of the great waters. Makara is not Varuna’s vahana, not a riding animal of the just judge. The Dragon is both the judge and the justice. But in the Dragon you will not find even the thousandth part of the bare justice of your hierophants.
The hierophants were swallowed by us; they went through our bodies and returned to you. This way they gained immortality. They are the priests of gods we created. But they are one of you.
The priests thought themselves pendragons*. They created for you new gods and put into their mouths new truths. We praised them and rejoiced for knowing the new. The Dragons had never known lies.
The priests deprived some of you of knowledge but gave the belief. Thus, the lie was born. Others were deprived of belief but endowed with knowledge. Thus, the lie was born. Then the knowledge and belief lost their original truth. Thus, the lie was born.
We live in different universes. We saw the distorting mirrors of alien world. These mirrors falsify the truth, diminish the truth, and turn the truth inside out. But we did not know that the truth could be torn apart and these tiny shreds could be presented as new truths. That was repeated again and again and even a word lost its soul scattering in the kaleidoscope of distorted truths.
The Dragons play and set the rules of their game. The one who plays with words plays with the rules. Playing with rules misleads. But who can mislead the Dragon?
The false belief and the false knowledge – these are your despair which is deeper than the despair of ignorance and unbelief. You are deprived of the truth semantics. Only the Dragon can kill another Dragon. And you were given a new Dragon by interchanging the hieroglyphs, by adding a joyful sonorant consonant. Money became your new Dragon. And you refused from the ancient Dragons’ gift by choosing a new way – the money way. But that Dragon was born dead.
We cannot laugh but take our impulse as laugh. Do not be afraid, however, we keep our original words. The words will be said when the Suspension beds.
And you are, writing these lines, decide whose bear totem received from his guiding Dragon as the precious gift. You learnt the magic power of word. But even the most powerful word is crashed by the alien might; the words are bent, melted and burnt on the morpheme joints unable to oppose the almighty energy of fatal processes. The words lose former sense and former power and gain new meanings and new strength.
And so we shall crash the course of your history, we will melt the logic of your worldview, will deprive you of human hopes and give you new hopes dictated by our voice and exalted by our will.
The Dragons’ words will be said when the Suspension beds in sludge.
CHAPTER 10. Dostoevsky and Tsarevitch Ivan
When the twilight covers quiet broad streets of my town you feel the atmosphere of primeval grandeur of myths, the freedom of rich Russian literature. It is a different kind of literature; not the one all saturated with city dirt, not the one which is now so popular in the Western culture where the main character, the destroyer, is unable to take a decision but acts only by his reflexes. This is the great literature where the main character is a hero, proudly rising his chin facing the Moon, ready to catch any demon by its tail; where any evil is not spread but beaten, where the decisions are taken and realized for the good.
Early in the morning the frost on the grass is sparkling like the frozen dew of Ginnungagap’s twelve springs. As if the jewel stones scattered, the rime frost shines on the green carpet in the first rays of the rising sun. You feel the Scandinavian myths coming to life, furious giants, snow and frost spirits arising around - you even can hear their heavy steps. But the sun cleans the sky from the clouds , smiles to the world and the frost steps back hiding in its shelter for a while. December is coming and soon the bright sun rays will lose their power. It is the never-ending confrontation of the warmth and cold, good and evil.
The rime frost will come again. Again and again it will sparkle on the grass meeting the weakening rays with a more impudent smile. The frost will reign. As a master it will paint the windows of my house with its frosty pattern; it will decorate the fur of my huge dog with icy diamonds; it will break the chains from the wild winds.
The winds will fly through the streets flooding the yard, scattering the rubbish around the snow, howling in the chimneys, piercing the skin as if with needles, mixing with the blood, and changing the minds. The furious giants will toss and turn waking up slowly; invisible for humans, without noticing the humans. They are a dear company for my moonlight dialogues.
The cold of nature will not destroy, but quite the opposite, will restore the harmony covering with snow the scorched traces of summer hustle. This confrontation is not a bloody battle to win but a peaceful transit of numerous facets of the original sense. The cold, darkness and death harbor the only evil which our fears bring.
Tsarevitch Ivan* saddles his horse. Ahead he has a long and rough road through the Dark Wood to Far-Far Away Kingdom. On his way he is going to meet three dangers thrice; he will spare, rescue, cut heads avoiding death, he will love and meet such supernatural forces that even the most scaring nightmare cannot tell to a miserable insect from the narrow city streets. There is no fear in the heart. And he easily passed the border across the bridge of Kalinov Most from the light to the dark. In his restless fair-haired head there is no single shade of doubt if he has any right to. If one only dares to call him a craven coward his requital will be quick – with his club still hanging at the saddle he will deftly take out the boot knife or will simply land his punch over the ribs.
The white shirt on him will not be worn for repentance. What is to repent of if there are no doubts? The white shirt will be for the battle when he will stand in the wide field with the sword, without a shield, helmet and armors - alone against a legion. At that moment in his head there will be no single thought of tenderness or truth, or maybe not to be born at all. What nonsense, what an absurd?!
The word heals – the word hurts. So many lords of souls and thoughts, without any intention, not realizing what they did, penetrated into the minds of the unwise. Their thin thread was pouring the poison drop by drop within hundreds years, killing the consciousness, destroying and crippling with a firm belief they cure and create. Thus, some dull Nobody has been sorting out and still is with his unfeeling fingers the poisoned words for the hopeless mass, exhausted by the city.
We are not those who lead the flock to the water. But we will be with you in the very sincere moment. When the bad time comes we will be with you – my good Dragon and me.