Thursday, June 13, 2024

98

 Who goes there?

It's me, lower your weapons.

What are you talking about? I have no weapon.

Ah, that's just the edge of fear...

I am not your enemy.

You better not be...

Does it always have to be fear?

I don't know. Maybe one needs to go through the fear?

Alright, come sit by my side.

That's not the way it works.

You will stand guard? Keep me safe?

Maybe. I won't leave that's for sure.

I love you, bro.

Easy, you can like me for starters.

Okay, I like you.

That's better. I will sit there, near you.

I knew that we would be friends!

Don't do that, hahah.

Now that you are here, it is just a matter of time.

I don't like it. Sounds inevitable. I prefer to be surprised.

Hm... true... When I was just a boy I used to read books diagonally. Skipping paragraphs.

Yeah, I saw the way you eat.

Shall we share pizza?

Nah, chicken and salad will do. Maybe a soup?

On its way.

97

 It looked like our town had everything a town should have, just as much as it is appropriate. Our valley was spacious enough to fit all the streets and houses while giving plenty of room for everyone to grow into. River gave us banks for our restaurant, coffee shop and hotel terraces to hang above. There weren’t too many cars, though not everyone used bicycles to ferry around. Surrounding mountains were beautiful, though not too much so, therefore our summers and winters didn’t suffer from the invasion of tourists.


Although the town was located a bit away from the capital, it wasn’t a backwater. We had a decent library, a volunteer singing society quite harmoniously tuned up, a small theatre, as well as barbecue competition, fairs and sports events, a bit of everything after everyone’s taste.


Here and there, some of our citizens had troubles with paying the bills, but no one was homeless nor a spendthrift. Quite the contrary, you could say we had it going well for us. Products from our organic farms were sought after in the capital, we had a winery, a lumber mill, and cement works. Our furriers, leatherworkers, woodworkers, and tailors possessed superb skill and delicate taste which customers from the big city valued. Even my own miniature startup was the sign that our little town is ready for the new century.


What we didn’t have were - girls ready for marriage!


It seems that modern times are not kind to small, almost rural towns like ours were. The youth were leaving for the big city to get an education, but not everyone returned. While boys preferred to stay on the land of their ancestors, inheriting successful workshops, continuing their fathers’ trade, girls were attracted forever by the lights of the big city.


***


This state of affairs weighed heavily on the unofficial syndicate of aunts, matrons, grannies, and other matchmakers. I recall the encounter with Mrs. Boring one afternoon when I was returning from the walk along the riverbank. She was seated in “Under the Tilia tree” sipping tea. Dressed in lavender costume, with a matching hat, she resembled the English queen, down to the similar hair, short and gray. She was upset, as I’ve noticed her hurried waves to me:


  • Did you hear? Our Magda! Magdalen left us! - bemoaned aunt Amalia.


If I didn’t know that Magda was a luscious young lady, I would have thought that one of the reverend aunts moved to the Big Hairdresser in the sky. As soon as I approached her, she offered me a seat and started:


  • Magda! Can you believe it! She sent a note… by phone! Is that the way you kids do it nowadays? No explanation, no words, no voice! S - M - S!?


I hid the smile, though I did share her disappointment. Even if my job was to work with modern technology, I was still partial to a good old fashioned letter from an envelope. 


  • But, Magda was already at the end of her studies, you could expect that chances of her return were slim…

  • No, I did not expect anything of the sort! - the lavender lady whipped me with a withering glare - I certainly did not expect that, because my Damian always visited her in the city, returning with a firm promise that they will get married, move to the estate, and you know…

  • Oh, I thought Magda was dating Nikolai? - I furrowed my brow

  • Pah, nonsense, where did you get that from?


Mrs. B as it befits a retired teacher didn’t understand the concept of being wrong. Therefore, she gently took my wrist, spelling out word after word, while my confused wrist moved up and down in the rhythm of her scolding:


  • You. Young. Man. Do. Not. Understand. Gravity. Of the. Situation!


I signed and braced to be educated about the gravity of the situation.


  • Damian is now single again and I don’t mind that… - said the lavender lady, pausing for a moment as if to check if I believed her statement - ...but Magda was the last one! Do you understand now? She was the last eligible lady for marriage! There are no more!


Silent, I was browsing through my thoughts. The town wasn’t big, true, but I had a hard time believing that all the women have fled. So, I just shrugged.


  • What about Martika? - I asked.

  • Gone. Three months ago.

  • Ana-Maria?

  • In Paris. I don’t think she will be coming back.

  • How about Sarah? She’s still here, in the town.

  • Ah, Sarah… She waits for her Dutchman suitor, then she will be off to Holland with him…

  • Natalia?


Amalia just scoffed.


  • I have nothing against Natalia… however…


I nodded and raised my hand. I know gossip is the main entertainment in small towns, but it was always uncomfortable to listen to whatever follows the ‘however’.


  • So what you are saying is that there are no more eligible girls for marriage that are to your liking?


Lavender matron nodded sagely, sighing and nervously cracking her fingers.


  • Then we have to wait for the girls to grow up… - I said just to watch her shocked expression - …or to hope that a proper lady will wander into our little town.


Though I didn’t believe it at that moment, a few months later that’s exactly what happened.


***


She stayed at the hotel. Walked down the main street. Noticed at the market. Requested to see the houses for sale. Bought an estate bit out of town. Didn’t leave the hotel until the renovation crew fulfilled every one of her demands, and there were plenty.


Men agreed. She not only seems like a classy lady of the high society, but she also looks like a hot kitten. Women scolded their husbands, aunts and matrons tried to find a fault in the newcomer. Catalin, however, had only one but fatal flaw. She was almost perfect.


Kind and lovely, Catalin didn’t try to steal husbands, nor she showed much interest in local shirtless guys. She never allowed herself to be alone in the presence of a man, and she managed to win over all the aunts and matrons of the town with classy tea parties to which everyone was welcomed.


That was a sign for local bachelors to start courting her.


***


The first blood was Burly Builderman, owner of the cement works. A particularly gnarly task fried my mind, so I left my desk to stretch and make some sense of the twisted logic that wrangled my brain. That’s when I saw Burly, not a small man with a big heart, blushing, his necktie loosened, walking foot by foot down my street. He was probably returning from the main street, dressed for a big date. Propping my elbows at the bay window I wished him a good day and got vague gestures in response. Just when I thought he would just pass me by, he turned around and shrugged.


  • What am I missing? Is there something wrong with me? - he asked the universe as much as the question was aimed at me


Before I managed to reply, he carried on as if he didn’t care who’s listening in.


  • I simply don’t get it… I asked her out, she said yes, bada bum bada bing, I thought she likes me, so I bam bam went in straight, cards on the table, she says there was a misunderstanding, what the hell, I have everything I will pick the stars from the sky, no, no it’s not that, bada bum bada bing, I was shocked, is it me? No no, are you one of those ‘modern’ girls, no it’s not that… do you even want to get married, yes, but not for me…


I haven’t met Catalin yet by that moment, but I did sympathize with her in a sense. Our Burly was a good man, but too eager to get married to the point where he couldn’t recognize any longer mere politeness from a romantic interest.


  • What’s wrong with me? What am I missing? - echoed down the streets all the way to Burly’s home.


***


For the case of Johnathan Johnny Handsomberg, the second of the fallen heroes, we found out only after he packed his backs and fled the city. Aunties, apparently, gave him too high chances for success. He was, after all, the most desirable of all the city’s bachelors. Gene billiard didn’t only grace him with above-average height, wavy blue hair, and handsome build, but also several shops in the city and always full coffee shop. As a diligent and hard-working entrepreneur, he managed to build upon his inherited wealth to spread his fingers all the way to the capital city where the rumor had it, he opened a bureau and some sort of small manufacture.


Everyone seemed to have their own version of his charge at Catalin, mostly because Johnny in his wisdom decided to keep his activities low profile, away from the prying gaze of grannies and aunties. Some claimed that he came in too fast for the taste of a sophisticated lady which Catalin proved herself to be. Others said that he flaunted his riches too much as if Catalin was some poor peasant girl and not the woman who just purchased and furbished the entire mansion.


All agreed, though, that his hasty retreat could imply some sort of embarrassment. His, of course. Even though their favorite bachelor has just been torpedoed, all the ladies from the corps of matchmakers fiercely defended Catalin, finding this or that flaw in the runaway groom.


***


Not long after this event, silver-haired and very much respected city mayor, Mr. Bottoms started bragging that he will show everyone that, even in his advanced age, he is the one that possesses all the qualities that a lady might need.


He didn’t mind all the rumor mill commentaries and chuckling behind his back, claiming that ‘He’s old enough to be her father!’ Darron Bottoms took it as a compliment, no less. If it wasn’t the power or riches or handsome guy Catalin was after, maybe she has been waiting for someone mature, reputable, and respected, she repeated, again and again, probably to muster his courage.

Although he didn’t flee the city nor he made a fool of himself in public, like Mr. Burly, it was soon quite clear how did Mr. Bottoms fare.


It was announced in the message that Catalin disseminated through the network of the unofficial syndicate of interested mothers and matrons. Declaration stunned the city with its boldness, as much as with the unusual condition it set. Many fellows drew the conclusion that this was the sign that Catalin couldn’t care less which one of them will take her to the altar, while others warned that the mission is way harder than it seemed.


Catalin, namely, announced the following statement. She will no longer accept any invitations for dinner, coffee, walk along the river nor any other form of courtship. She will marry the one who unlocks the door to her house. The key was to be found around the neck of her cat, a shabby thing with gray coat fur that we’ve been spotting often on the roofs of our city. 


As you can imagine, the hunt for the kitty-cat had begun.


***


In the week after Catalin’s announcement, there wasn’t a bachelor in town who didn’t arm himself with a net, catchpole, laser pointer, catnip, ham, bacon, dry fish, jingle bells, or cat feather toys, though there were those crafty gits who strategically placed bowls throughout the city, I dare not imagine what was the milk laced with.


Cat hunters managed to herd a small regiment of yellow, gray, black, white, and calico cats. They even managed to find the runaway and long forlorn ginger of aunt Leilah. Oh, they caught a few stray dogs, dozens of rats, three ferrets, and a half-blind fox, but they didn’t get Catalin’s pussy.


Roderic Rod Wrigley got it the worst when he bumped into a few overly zealous hunters while he was riding his old Triumph back from the farm. The elderly motorbike, along with his rider, ended up in a ditch, cursing at the youngsters, their elusive lady, and the entire feline species.


The second week opened with a sharp divide among the hardiest of hunters. 


The more cunning of the bunch switched to finer kinds of baits, ground meat and poultry soup, fresh tuna and anchovies, and luxury cat food out of the gilded cans. Those more brutal cast their nets, set their traps, and released the coonhounds against the poor critter.

The kitty, it seems, took after her owner when it comes to tastes. She seemed utterly uninterested in any of the lures, no matter how appetizing. What would drive even the pickiest puss crazy wasn’t worthy of even a sniff from this tabby.


When it comes to agility, a shabby kitten made every hunter go livid with her ability to avoid traps, dodge ambushes, waylay dogs, and hide her tracks. She would disappear for a while and then as if to mock her hunters, kitty would be spotted again prancing atop of a roof with her tail swishing upright.


***

I wake up, sitting upright in my bed. Still drowsy, I glance around. I don’t know what wakes me up, but I am not bothered by the slightest. I am a light sleeper, and often get by with barely six hours in bed. So, I left my bed and almost stumbled across… a cat!


Momentarily I am wide awake. Not far from my bed. Just a few steps away. There is Catalin’s fluffy cat. With that key around her neck. Does it cross my mind to reach for that piece of brass? Yes. I don’t know why, though. Maybe I felt the pang thinking, hey I’m not a bad catch. Catalin surely wouldn’t regret it if I were the one to unlock her door. I guess I’d love to see the expression on the faces of all those urban hunters who piss me off endlessly with their crazy chase and causing all the raucous, but above all with their eagerness and readiness to escalate the cruelty of the hunt.


Then I spot the curled paw and blood-matted fur. Carefully I approach and move her leg slightly to inspect the injury. Seems it’s not that grave, but it does need attention. Luckily, I google everything, so I quickly learn that neither alcohol nor peroxide is recommended. I return from the bathroom with some lukewarm water and a piece of cloth. Gently I take the wounded limb and start cleaning the gash. Cat doesn’t attempt to wiggle away, nor she scratches and bites, as I’d expect. I only get a silent, mouthed meaow. I do admit. I am excited, maybe a little apprehensive, so I started talking to the animal.


  • Who is that beast who maimed you like this? See, your lovely coat is ruined here. And it’s a really nice silky fur you have. Was it a mutt? I guess it was a mongrel. Look, here. I ain’t no doc, but I’d say you got hit, the wound isn’t deep. Glass? Nah, I saw your kitty parkour. I guess it was a pellet gun or something…


Cat is, of course, silent. She does, however, stop wiggling her ears and lifts her head.


  • Ah, yes. You must be thirsty. Wait a sec. - I return from the kitchen with an improvised cardboard water bowl. - Here you go your kittyness, I’m freshly out of gilded watering bowls, but this is the proof that a pair of scissors is the handiest object you could have in your kitchen. They surely haven’t let me down now. Here is your water.


I move away. She makes a few painful steps. Drinks thirstily. Then curls next to the cardboard bowl. 


  • We ain’t done, miss kitty. Wait here, I’ll go get some bandages.


I find a piece of gauze. Wrapping the wound, I tie it with a cute bow.


  • There, why be just injured, now you are hurt, but as lovely as ever.


Cat yawns lazily blink a few times and rolls on her side. I don’t really understand her kind. I’m more of a dog person myself. But I can tell she’s exhausted. Which is the perfect moment to…


...oh no… boy, oh boy! I don’t even think about grabbing that key. To be honest, I probably enjoyed the visit from this highly sought after guest. Or any guest for that matter. What happens is that I spot the perfect moment to cuddle her tummy as I would do with a pupper. Yea, I get a warning questioning glare. Okay, under the chin it is, then. She purrs, no surprise there.


  • Look at you. Such a gorgeous kitten, even when you are so shabbily fluffy. I am surprised, though. I would expect better grooming from your lady, or even some accessory if it’s just a nicer collar.


Cat stops purring. Then she starts licking her paws.


  • Alrighty, you deal with your bath and I’ll go fix some food.


I arrange a quick meal, fried eggs with a piece of graham bread. I do take a few slices of turkey ham with me. Expecting from cat to snort at my paltry offering I am surprised to see her lick her lips and devour the meat. I go back to my breakfast.


  • Okay, kitty. That’s about it. I have work to do now. You sleep or idle or whatever, just watch out. The flat is tiny and I am not used to sharing it with feline guests. So, be mindful or I might step on your tail.


Well, my own crudeness stings me. I promise to myself that I will be the one who is mindful and remind myself not to wheel around the flat on my office chair.


I don’t know when the kitty left. When I start working I usually don’t stop till lunchtime.


***


Although I did my grocery shopping once in two weeks, I would drop by the farmer’s market on Thursdays to check the fresh goods; aunt Millie’s creamiest of cream cheese, uncle Boris’ bell peppers, big and red, so perfect for stuffing, granny Bertha’s zucchini, the size of a small torpedo, grandpa Sean’s onions, always milky and rather hot. 


Farmer’s market was rarely crowded, but today it was full of Catalin’s suitors. They disgusted me. Not only because by flocking around Catalin many of the market’s aunts and aunties were crudely pushed out of the way, not only because they eagerly tripped each other whenever it seemed like Catalin could use their assistance, but because I knew that any of them could be the same cold-hearted hunter who injured that poor cat.


Catalin wore a black wide-brimmed hat, short cream-colored jacket, pencil skirt of matching color, and long opera gloves that reached almost up to her elbow. Those gloves made her whole appearance movie glamour. What genre was the movie, though, tragic, comic, or parody, it wasn’t really clear to me. I tried to stay out of their way and mind my own business. My gaze did often slip to Catalin, however. It was clear to me that she is a special kind of lady, but to wear such gloves in this weather? They were more suited for a ballroom than for grocery shopping. The thought that she was simply odd or eccentric crossed my mind, but then I almost tagged her crazy when she suddenly turned and headed straight at me.


Somewhat confused, as to why would she approach me at all, I assumed that she saw a friend or someone else behind me. I changed my direction and went for the exit when she addressed me.


  • Excuse me!

  • Oh, good morning…

  • Good morning - she said as if it was me who surprised her, so she paused for an eyeblink.

  • You must be Catalin, we’ve never been officially introduced - I offered her my name and my hand.


She grasped my hand, as a shadow of slight discomfort flashed across her face. I didn’t say anything.


  • Yes. Well. Thank you… for everything, you did for my cat. It was you, wasn’t it?


How could she possibly know that?


  • When my cat didn’t show up at her usual time, I went looking for her everywhere. I spotted her on your balcony… - she took a step forward, close enough for the delicate fragrance of jasmine to reach me - I saw what you did for her. I’m grateful.


She didn’t speak another word, simply gazing into my confused expression. Then she stepped away.


  • Hey, well. You’re welcome - was the only thing I could mutter, my brain exhausted from whirring trying to soak in the whole, almost surreal, encounter.


Catalin was gone, and so were the drooling dogs trailing after her. I returned home.





Tuesday, August 20, 2019

96

Zenon was standing in the chilly part of the supermarket, just at the fruit stall, holding an apple. He swung around as if he was seeking those jumbo packs of apple juice, five, ten, twenty-liter cartons. Apple juice was mixed with other flavors because apples are cheap, right? Then there was cider and calvados, then apple vinegar, what else... ah yes, Germans are crazy for apple mousse, then there is baby food, Zenon nodded to himself. He wondered if apple pies are still America's favorite. Every store carries at least apples in their fruit sections. But the entire world production was close to a million metric tons. Some of it goes bad, never reaching the customers, but still... There simply can't be enough apples for everyone.

What about strawberries, then? Zenon shook his head and put back apple on the rack, turning to face those red berries. Well, there aren't more than ten million metric tons of those and they are quite a popular flavor! Strawberry ice cream, strawberry chocolates, strawberry jam-filled biscuits, and tarts, then fresh strawberries consumption, then factor in their short shelf life. Impossible! Zenon angrily thumped with his food.

They lie to us!

Either there are more strawberries in this world than the statistics report, or there are fewer strawberries in the product than the label declares. Maybe both are correct, mused Zenon. Whatever the answer may be, Zenon left the supermarket firmly determined to discover where do our strawberries go.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

95

I slept for a thousand years.

It all started as a nap. I didn't even cover myself. I just let go and gravity pulled my flesh sank into the rut of the bed. Behind me remained an invisible cloud of thoughts, fears, dreams, and foggy notions, but it lingered just for a split second and started flowing downwards.

Absence of my consciousness already started sucking all that I've left behind by embracing the other side.

I don't remember what came next. I was probably sweating till my pillow could not soak any more, trickling my acrid flow onto the scarred flooring, pouring on and on till the bed started floating, with me in it as my cradle.

That made my dreams softer, fluffier as if someone was whispering kind words to me.

And that's all.

Whatever I've seen on the other side is none of your business, and even if you think it is, I would never ever tell you.

Monday, July 2, 2018

R94

They caught us, red handed.

We sat on the sand, watching the breeze sift it. Mep and Tuni managed to roll a spliff from crumbs in their pockets. Rul watched them, inhaling their puffs greedily, but they didn't let him toke. They didn't offer me, either, but even if they did I was in no mood or condition for it. I was barely able to keep down sickness from fear, grass didn't smell like relaxing, more like nauseating. Guard frowned as he felt the spliff. He didn't move, just sneered at them, reaching for a sucker that snaked from his helmet down the jawline. Guard audibly sucked few gulps of rasa.

That attracted Rul's attention.

"Just look a that, we can't even get a puff and this guy sucks like there's no tomorrow", Rul was acrid.

I could bet that behind that dark visor guard's eyes were shining like opals, his mind being sprinkled with orange shreds of pleasure. Dull pain in my stomach reminded me that there is no peace or joy for me, not even in daydreaming. I shivered and spat, Rul got slapped. Mep and Tuni were determined to defend their spliff. Fucking fools, anyway.

We would never get caught if they weren't high. We were just about to dig to the lower levels. Rul found some pictures, real photos, shiny glossy paper and all... whole bunch, too. Tuni unearthed something that could be an ashtray, and damn coppers took from me a real glass Coke bottle, you know, that sweet little 0.2 thing... fuuuuu!

Monday, April 16, 2018

R94


Bird has to fly, man has to dream. My friend Sergiu and I were close to fulfilling our dream. Monkette Kelsang Namtso was also on the brink of her dream. It happened one autumn morning high in the Himalaya.

Last base before Cho Oyu peak was near the Nangpa La Pass. Some mountain climbers thought that Turquoise Goddess was therefore a less of a challenge. That morning, refugees from Tibet were traveling trough Nangpa Pass.

To Sergiu and me, this morning was about the final test. Snow and ice of Cho Oyu was challenge to us, just because "it was there". We were grateful to Edmund Hillary for putting the essence of mountaineering in this concise sentence. To hundreds of frozen people that we saw as thin thread of hope in the distance, Cho Oyu was the cruel goddess. They prayed to her to let them pass trough Nangpa La.

The climb was exausting. Thin air was draining our energy fast and we didn't bring our oxygen tank. I chiseled ice and glacier retaliated with snow dust that stung at my cheekbones. I was panting into the jacket and marveled at the heat that made me sweat, eight thousand meters high up in the mountains. From above, I could see row of freezing refugees. They snaked down the glacier, trying to find the easiest way to the valley below.

At the last stop, Sergiu was panting like a tired puppy. I manged to smile and pat his back. Though we were exhausted from heights, cold and wind, we felt some kind of magic that was pushing us upwards and onwards. We moved slowly, like in a dream, like in a slow motion. Down there, refugees were moving trough the pass. Little Kelsang cheered her friends and smiled to them, her cheeks all flushed up. Their hearts were pounding, their desire to see Dalai-Lama gave them strenght to fight their way trough the snow. The Spirit was guiding us, The Body just obeyed.

Finally, we advanced step by step, inching towards the top. And then we just climbed to our dream. We made it to the peak! Sergiu removed his hood, we kissed and hugged. Squinting at the sun we enjoyed in quiet ecstasy. I didn't have the strength to scream, nor to laugh, nor to feel happiness.

Then shots echoed trough the valley and filled our universe with dread. We rushed down the cliff, towards our base. Soldiers appeared on the far ridge. They took potshots at refugees, as if they were hunting rats or rabbits. Thin line kept going on, like enthralled. To them, bullets were not important, only their pilgrimage was. Shots were falling closer to the column of people. Sergiu reached the base and grabbed his cam. Refugees broke into run, slow, painfully slow, much slower than the bullets were falling.

Glacier turned red. Young monk-girl Kelsang Namtso dropped to her knees. She looked into the sky and her soul started to ascend to heavens.

As if the wind from Cho Oyu scattered them, refugees split up. Frantic people swamped our base camp. Like a pack of wolves, Chinese soldiers fell on them, picking on those who strayed. I felt anger but I was unable to react. I turned to the mountain peek and felt as if the entire Cho Oyu is standing on my chest. I gasped in the thin Himalayan air, too petrified to cry. Shots kept echoing, glacier was still bleeding.

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Pain rose from my guts. Pressure was pounding in my temples. Bowl of sufferance gathered in my central chakra. I wanted to breathe air, to inhale hope, but cries of children and rattle of gunfire cut deeply into my soul.

Base camp Crew were enjoying the autumn day in the mountains. Chinese soldiers were just a nuisance, a minor menace. Mountaineers were having their coffee, lazily milling about. They chose to be invisible to frenzied soldiers. No one helped the fallen man, no one fed the hungry, no one sheltered the hunted.

I found Sergiu, he was giving some biscuits to the kid and showing to refugees how to evade soldiers, how to reach Nepal quickly. I fought trough my pain and horror and I joined Sergiu. Thin thread of hope was was broken, eight of them were lying dead in the snow. Thirty of them were captured by Chinese soldiers and herded across the border, like cattle. Half of them reached the valley, some of them died on the way down.

Day was reaching it's end. But for me it will never pass. Sergiu and me decided to speak up. It was the only way to save our souls and fight back at the doom of Turquoise Goddess.

-

Dedicated to Matei Sergiu and Gavan Alexandru, two Romanian climbers who taped the massacre of Nangpa La and forced Chinese government to admit the crime. This story is also dedicated to all those mountaineers that did not 'mind their own business', to those who spoke out and helped Tibetan refugees.

Also, this story is dedicated to monk girl Kelsang Namtso, seventeen years old, who left her body eight thousand meters high up in the Himalaya.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

R93

Some people just don't have a story in them. They just don't. And they live without a story. They maybe have some anecdotes, but that's it. However, what is a writer to do if he or she has no story? That's hell, right?

I can't create a story. I feel empty. But not just empty, I feel like I have a leaking holes. It's not a tragedy if artist is empty. They can fill up. I don't claim it's an easy task, but it is doable. You listen to the classical music, or read good books, or go to excursion, collect the impressions. You get filled up. But when a man is hollow, full of holes, you know, then the story just leaks out. And if you are trying to be a writer, then it's pure hell. Stories just elude you, they wiggle out of you as if you were a rotten apple abanoned by even the worms.

So what else can I do, but record my dreams. They are the stories from the other side. I hunt them carefully. Gently wielding my net. But dreams are like creatures from the bottom of the ocean. Brought to surface they decompose with suprising speed. Rotting almost instantly. Then only the jellified bits remain. I try to stitch them together. Taxidermy them. Decorate them. Color with random colors, I have no idea what I'm doing there. Then I wait for them to dry and solidify. They don't turn bad. Almost the real thing. But they are not stories. I can sell them to a naive tourist, but not to real experts. I can't even show them to everyone. What if there is an expert among the crowds?

Sometimes even the dreams die. Sometimes they don't survive the journey to the surface. They remain without form. Like untold prophecies. Just hints. Some dull impulse.

And what if I told everything there is to be told? What if the whole story expired and there will no more be any. That's it. You had a pocket able to hold a single story and now it's gone. And you still want to write. Then you fill the void with anything, evn trash. Sure, the stories will be trashy too, but they will at least be stories, don't you think? Maybe there is something there... But what kind of writer am I, if I write trashy stories? Is that writer any better than the one who robs from his dreams?