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She Came…

Andrei Rublev. Virgin Mary. Detail

I woke up, because someone from outside was in my bedroom and stared at me. Gradually, my eyes got used to the darkness, and I realized that this was a woman who was looking at me, dressed strangely, like Soviet Kino superstar Lubov Orlova in the role of a Soviet collective farm milkmaid in rubber boots, wearing a gray dress, belted with a dark apron, her hair tied up with a headscarf, heading to milk a cow at sunrise … But that night, the sunrise was far away, and I, either out of fear or amazement, did not think to get out of bed and turn on the light …

The stranger was saying something to me in an unfamiliar language, but realizing that I did not understand her, she fell silent. However, she continued to stare at me, as if searching in me for some words in my mother tongue.  Finally, she spoke quietly and slowly, “You have forgotten me, you are not praying, but I am here now …” She did not finish the sentence, and, as if in search of additional words, she repeated the phrase from the beginning … “You forgot me, you forgot my son, in a foreign country you have forgotten our heavenly father, pray, pray every day … “

She pronounced the words separately and strongly, her eyes did not smile, but she tried to inspire me with something …

Suddenly there was a crash, our old one-story house with a swimming pool and a garden and a ridiculous hillock shuddered, trembled, and it seemed that the house was about to collapse and bury us, and we, I m in a body, my guest in spirit,  although I saw her clearly, in full size like a woman of slightly less than average height with huge bright eyes – we rushed to the exit. We had to cross the corridor and run into the bedroom of my nephew Volodya, because from his bedroom the door opened into the garden, right to the pool. He was already in the yard, waiting for me, pointing to an old cypress tree that fell perpendicular, away from the wall of the house, from the very wall behind which Volodya’s bedroom and his bed were standing… It seemed that the cypress tree, like a giant candle, was choosing which way to fall, on the house or away from the house on the hillock.  If it would fall directly onto Volodya’s bedroom, it would punch through the roof that has not been repaired for eons, and continuing to fall, bumping right on the head of the sleeping Volodya!

Later, I never asked Volodya if he noticed a third woman, a stranger, who was next to me, carefully examining the fallen tree. It seemed to me that he knew who she was, and was not surprised at her appearance … We talked, sighed, were glad that everything was okay, and the tree did not hurt anyone, and returned to the house, went to our bedrooms.

In my bedroom, a stranger suddenly disappeared. But the whole outer wall of the room was also gone, normally it was leading to the path that led to the garden gate, to the courtyard cleared for parking of visiting guests.

Now, instead of a wall, I was looking at the open starry sky, suddenly it came to life, and I saw our visiting stranger. Unknown forces lifted her upward. She ascended into the night, starlit sky, upright and calm. She no longer saw me, her appearance began to change, rubber boots, Orlova’s attire in her films about collective farmers disappeared … As she rose, moving away from our house, her attire turned into something elegant, trimmed with precious stones, on her head appeared a crown made from the same precious stones. Bright light, no, not sunlight, some Divine Light enveloped her and carried her higher, and the whole vision was dissolved in a sea of ​​golden light. The bedroom wall slid back into place, and the room returned to its usual boring mundane appearance.

Volodya believed my story about this wonderful vision, but no one else did! Once I tried to tell this to an American woman, a clairvoyant in an esoteric literature store … Let’s call her Miriam. She listened to me patiently, becoming more and more upset. She chewed some polite words, but she wanted to tell me that the Mother of God will certainly not come to me, an immigrant. “You, baby, need to see a doctor, not me with your ridiculous stories,” was what she would like to utter instead o saying me a bunch of false soothing words.

Years passed, I grew old, and decided to give my grand-nieces a prayer to the Mother of God, who once saved my nephew, the father of the children, because I know it was She! And something tells me that she showed me  who she was , because she wants me to remind people that her help was available to many, if the help would reach her, if asked sincerely and faithfully!

Here is my prayer, which I dared to edit a little freeing it from unnecessary wordiness…

Holy Mother of God, Queen of Heaven,
Carrier of hope
You are a shelter for orphans and wanderers
Protector of the sufferers
Patroness of the offended
You see our pain and sorrow
Help me as a weak
Guide me like a wanderer
You know my difficulties
Resolve them by Your will
You are our help
You are our guardian
You are our good comforter
Mother of God, save me, protect me
Forever and ever, amen.

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Она явилась спасти, а не карать

Богоматерь Владимирская

Я проснулась от того, что кто-то посторонний находился в моей спальне и пристально смотрел на меня. Постепенно, глаза привыкли к темноте, и я поняла, что на меня смотрит женщина, одетая странно, как Любовь Орлова в роли советской колхозницы-доярки в резиновых сапогах, в сером платье, подпоясанным темным передником, волосы подобраны косынкой, направляющейся доить корову на восходе солнца… Но в ту ночь, до восхода было далеко, а я, то ли от страха, либо изумления, не догадывалась  встать с постели и зажечь свет…

Незнакомка говорила мне что-то сердито на незнакомом языке, но заметив, что я не понимаю ее, она замолчала. Тем не менее, она продолжала смотреть на меня в упор. Наконец, она тихо и медленно заговорила по-русски, «Ты забыла меня, не молишься, а я здесь, сейчас…» Она не договорила фразу, и как бы в поиске дополнительных слов, повторила фразу сначала… «Ты забыла меня, ты забыла сына моего, в стране чужой ты забыла Отца нашего небесного, молись, каждый день молись…»
Она произносила слова раздельно и сильно, глаза ее не улыбались, но она старалась внушить мне что-то…

Вдруг раздался грохот, наш старый одноэтажный домик с бассейном и садиком и нелепым пригорком вздрогнули, задрожали, и казалось, дом вот-вот рухнет и похоронит нас. И мы, я в теле, моя  неожиданная гостья в состоянии духа — я наконец поняла это, хотя и видела ее отчетливо, в натуральную величину, женщину чуть меньше среднего роста с огромными яркими глазами – помчались к выходу. Нам надо было пересечь коридор, и вбежать в спальню моего племянника Володи, потому что из его спальни дверь открывалась в сад, прямо к бассейну.  Он уже был на дворе, поджидая меня, указывая на старое кипарисовое дерево, которое упало перпендикулярно к стене дома, к той самой стене, за которой находилась спальня Володи, и его постель… Кипарис, похожий на гигантскую свечу,  рос близко к дому и мог либо упасть прямо на  Володину спальню, пробить десятилетиями не ремонтированную крышу, и продолжая падение, стукнуться прямо о голову спящего Володи… либо упасть на противоположную сторону, на медленно вздымающийся широкий пригорок, очень неудобный для садоводства и поэтому мною не освоенный. Кипарис упал на пригорок.   

Позднее, я никогда не спрашивала Володю, заметил ли он третью женщину, незнакомку, которая оказалась рядом со мной, внимательно разглядывая упавшее, дерево. Мне казалось он знал, кто она, и не удивился ее появлению… Мы поговорили, по-охали, порадовались, что все обошлось, и дерево никого не ушибло, и вернулись в дом, разошлись по спальням.

В моей спальне, незнакомка вдруг пропала. Но пропала и целая внешняя стена комнаты, выходящая к дорожке, которая вела к воротам сада, на дворик, расчищенный для стоянок автомобилей приезжих гостей.

А в комнате, тем временем, я смотрела вместо стены на не наше пространство, а открытое звездное небо, вдруг оно ожило, и я увидела незнакомку, которую силы мне неведомые поднимали ввысь. Она поднималась в ночное, освещенное звездами небо вертикально и спокойно. Меня она уже не видела, ее облик стал меняться, пропали резиновые сапоги, одеяние Орловой в фильмах о колхозниках и колхозницах… По мере того, как она поднималась, отдаляясь от нашего дома, ее одеяние превращалось в нечто нарядное, обшитое драгоценными каменьями, на голове появилась корона в тех же драгоценных камнях.  Яркий свет, нет не солнечный свет, некий Божественный свет окутал ее и понес выше, и все видение растворилось в море золотого света. Стена спальни водворилась на место, и комната обрела свой привычный вид.

Володя поверил моему рассказу обо этом чудном видении, но более никто мне не верил. Я как-то попыталась рассказать это одной американке, ясновидящей в магазине эзотерической литературы. Назовем ее Мирьям.  Она выслушала меня терпеливо, огорчаясь все более и более. Она прожевывала какие-то вежливые слова, но хотелось ей сказать мне, мол, акстись, Матерь Божья к тебе, иммигрантке, уж точно не придет, тебе, детка надо к доктору, а не ко мне с твоими нелепыми россказнями.

Прошли годы, я состарилась, и решила внучатым моим племянницам подарить молитву Богородице, которая когда-то спасла моего племянника, отца деточек, потому что я знаю, это была Она! И что-то мне говорит, что она хочет, чтобы я напомнила людям, что  ее помощь доступна, если ее искренне и с верой попросить об этом.

Вот моя молитва, которую я посмела чуть отредактировать, и освободить от лишних слов…

Святая Богородица, царица небесная,
Надежду несущая
Ты приют сирот и странников
Защитница страждущих
Покровительница обиженных
Ты видишь нашу боль и скорбь
Помоги мне как немощной
Направь как странницу
Ты знаешь мои трудности
Разреши их своею волею
Ты наша помощь
Ты наша заступница
Ты наша благая утешительница
Матерь Божья, сохрани меня, защити,
Во веки веков, аминь.    

Молитесь, когда трудно, и нет ответа, что делать, как быть, что сказать, что сделать… Тонкий мир отзовется…

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A Minute in a White Cloud of Love and Forgiveness

Here comes a story from my past, when I lived in Tallinn, Estonia, and worked as a journalist in a Estonia government’s newsletter Rahva Hääl People’s Voice. This was blessed time of hope for the profound changes… The Party Twentieth’s Congress, 1956 that denounced Stalin’s cult happened some years ago. Gulags’ inmates started to return home free from charges that Stalin’s regime had put on them… Adzhubey, Khruschev daughter Rada’s husband was Moscow most popular newspaper Izvestiya chief editor and future seemed to bring justice to all! So, it seemed to me at that time. 

The only cloud on my horizon, was upcoming deadline. Tomorrow morning at 8 am, I had to submit them a story about women at the Kiviõli, an enterprise of refining oil of the shale coal mined in the North Estonia. My hand refused to advance that story, but my young will made me to continue. The story about women in their gray overalls and red hard hats was slowly sliding toward its “happy ending” ….  

When, about 5 am, I got up from my chair, I met an unpleasant surprise. A threatening red line was sliding quietly down as a reddish snake along the armchair’s leg toward the carpet. Today I would consider this an important warning sign and call for an ambulance. But 50 years ago, the deadline of submission of an article to the board of the newspaper where I worked seemed to me more important than the obvious – the beginning of the miscarriage in my body… So, I learned that I was pregnant. Was it a cherry on my destiny pie or a curse? I was not in love with him. He was not in love with me, he forced on me a casual sex at a party, and I had no strength to say “no.”

I was writing the conclusion of my Kiviõli story. Who were the women who worked there? My writing did not clarify it. Some pieces of bloody meat were falling out of me on the floor, wrecking the carpet. My body refused to accept that pregnancy. My consciousness did not accept it either.  

He was not a bad man, he was all-around nice person, professional, with his apartment, a rare thing in these days in the Soviet Union, where people still lived in communal apartments, one toilet room on many families…. But he did not love me, and I did not love him, we were only distant acquaintances… He and family?  No, no and no!

I was rewriting the ending of the story, and last time reading my cold, nasty text about the women I knew nothing about and do not want to know anything about them, why they worked in a place where they had to wear red  and heavy and metal hats… … I flied out of my apartment and caught a taxi. At 7: 30 am the story was on the table of people who had already gathered to work together in the name of salary, position, and expectation of some changes in future.  They asked me, if I was OK, as I looked, they said – awful!

Instead of getting to a Tallinn’s café – to sip some black morning coffee in company of fresh newspaper… I changed my route, and rushed to the nearest taxi stand to get as soon as possible to the proper hospital to stop bleeding…

In other words, I was bleeding and walking! And then something happened, something unusual and not expected. When I was walking so bravely toward taxi parking spot, my consciousness took off lifting my hidden, invisible part – my  soul, my awareness, whatever it was — into a milky cloud of pure love! It was high up there – out of this world, that I, a Soviet journalist, knew nothing about! My body continued stepping toward a waiting taxi on the street.

I was a beginner, chosen amidst the crowd registered to quick course to learn to writer to newspapers to get a position in the “People’s Voice.” However, the bleeding was not slowing down. My legs continued stepping along the street, but my consciousness found itself high up in the subtle air of love and forgiveness… If someone happened to be there, live there, they breathed in instead of oxygen pure love. The bliss of pure love and happiness was the material that the space there was made of…

I felt being forgiven for all my trespassing… I was pardoned and my world was transforming! My consciousness was overcoming the dualism of good versus bad, young versus old… In one short instance, my enemies, anger, ego, judgmental attitude were melting away, out of my way to … taxi. My hand grabbed the handle of the taxi door, and soon I was in the hospital.     

Regrettably, I was not allowed to stay in this blissful state of mind too long.  Soon I was “on the table’’ and a gynecologist was asking me pronounce some random words time to time. She explained, “… then I knew that you are alive, you lost too much blood!” Yes, I survived, I was meant to stay on earth and learn more from its hard lessons of survival and love of life that can sometimes turn its threatening face to you, and ask for all attention you have.  

Nevertheless, the brief meeting with subtle empire of love up there, never abandoned me entirely. How many times it had reminded me about The Great Oneness that had helped me resolve many harsh and seemingly none resolvable problems of my life.

The next day, I was supposed to leave the hospital, and I was invited to step by at the doctor’s office. Instead of greeting, and asking me to utter some random words to confirm being still alive, the same nice doctor shouted, being angry as hell, “What did you do to yourself! Have you forgotten that self-abortion is forbidden by law. I will report you to police and you will be out of “People’s Voice” in an instant, and sentenced do time in prison!”

But the milky world was still in me fresh and acute. I kept some pause and answered quietly, “Do what you have to do! I told you the truth…what did happen to me!”

She continued throwing angry words into my face.

But touch of white paradise was still protecting me. And I thanked her for saving my life and encouraged her to do her duty, recommend me to serve time in prison, if necessary! My mind remained calm and peaceful.

She continued looking straight in my eyes. Suddenly her hands grabbed the report from the table and tore it apart sending the pieces of paper into the “round file” under her desk. “Go to your “People’s Voice,” am I the judge of your words and deeds?”

Lately, a person familiar with this kind of finer matters commented that usually people find themselves in high realm of milky cloud of love and forgiveness shortly before they near transition to the next world, before facing death itself. So, I faced death, but it was not my hour to leave this planet yet.

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A Sip of Water

With the ticket in my pocket to fly the next morning to Berlin, I was registering as a guest into hotel Moskva, as the trip to the Berlin’s International Film Festival  started still from the airport Sheremetyevo near Moscow, the capital of the Soviet Union. I had slight headache, and some unwanted body temperature.  It was important to stay healthy, as the Soviets did not pay hospitalization bills of their citizens, if they fell ill during their business trips abroad. In general, the sick were not allowed to board the planes, and their  boarding passes were rendered to the status of a useless pieces of paper. If you happen to be one of these disappointed travelers, you would be advised go home and drink herb tea to fasten your recovery.

I had increasing chances to become tomorrow morning one of those who would be denied boarding the plane to Berlin. My flu was becoming more and more visible on the hourly bases. At the evening before flying date, the temperature reached over 40 Celsius, my nose was stuffy and running, throat sore, lips were visibly chapped and cracked. To cut long story short, I had a legal flu! I crawled into my Moskva hotel’s luxurious bed that I did not have at home, and decided, if tomorrow I will be denied the flight to Berlin, let today enjoy this incredible bed, and have a good sleep, no matter what!

At night I woke up. I was not in hotel Moskva, but in picturesque Rila, a Bulgarian Alpine monastery trying to drink water from a small fountain set to satisfy the thrust of those who were approaching the church. The entrance was invitingly open and candles’ light was bright enough to see what was going on in the church – a traditional Eastern Orthodox sermon for complaining to God and His angels on difficulties, never ending problems of daily life of a person in flesh.

I took one more sip of water at that outdoor fountain and wondered, how I got here, and what was I doing here? The instant when these deep thoughts touched me, I was back in Moskva hotel and fell asleep again.

The next morning my temperature was normal, and my cracked lips … were no cracked anymore, they were absolutely clean and normal. I was flying to Berlin. Was a Baltic Documentary Retrospective a success? Yes and no!

Already back in Moscow, I went straight to Sheremetyevo to catch my flight to Tallinn. TV stands aired reports from Soviet delegation adventures in Berlin Film Festival.  None of these reports mentioned the Baltic retrospective that I, as a witness, as a participant, saw attracting enough Western media attention to be mentioned by Moscow Central TV programs.  But they kept their mouths shut about Baltic retrospective, unique program, maybe the first and the only one that proved the existence of multinational filming in the Soviet Union. Yes, we had our “Moscow Hollywood” in form of the Moscow film fabric – Mosfilm, but we had something that Hollywood did not have, and cannot have – multinational cinema –Gruzia films, Latvian and Estonian documentaries, Kirgiz films… but perestroika did not recognize it as an achievement, rather a nedorazumenye—a misunderstanding! When West started to by documentaries from Baltic Retrospective, Moscow Goskino asked for every documentary prices as high, if they were feature films,  flicks for public entertainment in city theaters, money makers, not cultural phenomena.

I was standing in front of a Sheremetyevo TV stand and while waiting my flight to Tallinn, watching every Moscow Central TV report from Berlin, and the truth about perestroika started to dawn in my stupid, naive, Estonian film critic head. The game was changing. Forget rules that worked in the Soviet Union, learn new rules that will come from the West, forget our so called national cinemas… They will stay in past with both good and bad experiences. Soon two Latvian filmmakers Andreas Lapinsh and Gvido Zvaizgne would be shot in broad daytime on a Riga street by the Soviet military during confrontation with the local national movement forces.

I, the participant of the Berlin film festival, a insignificant film critic, will receive death threats over the repeated phone calls from local KGB. “We will first torture and shot your son in front of you – then you!” In 1989, this repeated over and over announcement made me fled  from Estonia with $15 in my pocket, and zero English on my lips to California.

Did I survive? I have forgotten details of my awaited so passionately trip to Berlin International Film Festival, and there was only one “lesson” that counted – a sip of holy water that eliminated flu with stuffy nose, sore throat, high temperature and swollen lips – overnight, giving me chance to learn deeper  truth about perestroika, and many other things so beautiful on the surface, and so unimportant in its essence.

Did the sip of holy water change me? Of course – not,  I was too superficial, I did not see a real value of that lesson, I forgot it, I took it for granted… and only now, when leaving this planet, I see real value of it, the true power of our mind that we ignore, do not trust, and have no idea how to handle it for benefit of ourselves and others.  Nevertheless, the memory of this experience survived my long and not so easy life — without teaching me, only reminding me that out there are great things that had nothing to do with our boring daily existence. But they are there for those who care reaching for the stars.       

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Mary of Magdala Speaks from Beyond

May 5, 2009

On that day May 5, 2009, about 11 years ago, I had a most unlikely spirit visitor honoring my lonely apartment in Simi Valley, a Los Angeles’ skirt area near Thousand Oaks and 101 freeway. The visitor announced her name Mary of Magdala and the goal of her visitation to clarify the misconception regarding her status among Biblical characters. I recorded her words as quickly as I could. Reading her message today, I learned that it is as interesting today, as it was eleven years ago when I recorded it, and I decided to publish it again.

El Greco. Mary of Magdala

I was neither someone’s mistress, nor His wife! I repeat, I was not HIS wife. I was HIS disciple. And I was never a prostitute.  I was a Judea woman from a wealthy family.

I was seeking and working for liberation of my soul — a way  liberation that was achieved in solitude via spiritual practices, like  meditation and prayer, and healing the sick and feeding the hungry. It is  true that I was seen as His favorite disciple.  He did not like me as a woman, but he often preferred my company for the ability to listen and understand what He was talking about.  There were not many who did, if any.   Most of His disciples who became apostles, developed strong psychic abilities and became incomparable healers.  Today it is, probably, impossible to imagine, how hard was the work that they did back in these days. They had no time to refine themselves as philosophers. They healed crowds of the sick. And there were always prostitutes in these crowds.

They flocked around Jesus and his disciples seeking healing and absolution from their sins. Most of the prostitutes had been battered and awful smell issued from their festering wounds. Jesus healed many of them and most never returned to that “easy” profession again. Jesus had no intimate relations with them or any other woman at a time. He devoted his energy to healing.

Many people want to know if he had a wife.  I think, he had a wife during the “secret period,” simply, the undiscovered period of His life before He emerged as a teacher to acquire the necessary number of disciples. The followers and believers were needed to build a certain level of power to “germinate” the seeds of His teaching.  A new religion had to be born to create a new civilization.  The life and death of Jesus released the energy for a new stepping stone in history of humanity.

I believe, Jesus’ wife lived in a Jewish colony around Alexandria, and she remained there during the years of Jesus’ teaching. After the Crucifixion, she was forced to flee to France for the sake of their children.

Many of Jesus’ followers fled to France in fear of being charged with dissent. I did not know all the refugees personally and I never met His wife in person. But I met Jesus’ children in France. We continued healing and spreading esoteric awareness.  There we trained and helped people to expand their awareness with a variety of spiritual practices. For instance, I do not speak Russian and there is no one here right now to translate, or help me, but I can take Russian out of your mind and I convey this simple text back to you easily.

Mirra Alfassa, the Indian guru who had such a great impact on you, was my disciple in France. In that incarnation she was a Judean refugee, and she also fled from Jerusalem. She was a fragile, tender young girl passionately in love with Jesus. Out of desperation over the events that brought us to France, she contemplated suicide. I thought her an alternative way of carrying the torch, by going out of body and traveling in spirit to the multiple worlds beyond. She did not live long. While out of body, at one point, she decided not to return and went on in search of Jesus. In her last incarnation, Mirra’s three marriages did not prevent her from her search of Jesus. Instead, she found Aurobindo.

The medium, this message was given to you to pass it into your e-newsletter to start to clear   the misconception. I was never Jesus’ wife, mistress or harlot. I was a scholar in my own right. That’s all. I am Mary of Magdala and I advise you go to church, spend more time meditating and praying, because you are already on the path.

Without saying good bye she disappeared in thin air. She was gone, but not entirely, leaving behind a stream of the finest aroma of blooming violets. Vladimir, my nephew, gifted me BVLGARI perfume lately. I put a few drops of it on my hand to compare both aromas. The one, left behind by Mary of Magdala was finer and cleaner beyond comparison… To me it confirmed the origin of my guest from one of the  higher vibrational realms, completely unreachable to us, mere mortals.    

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Второй Залп Авроры

Мена зовут Владимир Владимирович Маяковский, и я умер 14 апреля 1930 году. Версия самоубийства была запущена как пуля в публику, которая ожидала моего появления на очередной дискуссионной встрече тех, кого заботило будущее России. Мы были непослушными детьми, которых предстояло освоить, переучить и переделать в нового советского человека, как казалось новоиспеченному правительству пролетариата.  

Я рассказал вам в общих чертах, что никакого самоубийства не было, а был вызов зайти на Лубянку опознать какого-то мелкого шпиона, который втирался в московские компании «около» литературных кругов.  Я пришел. Мне показали фотографии, и я опознал бедолагу, которого признали за шпиона, и как я выяснил с последствии, уже освоившись в астральном мире, что его  расстреляли, и что он отлично устроен в астрале на довольно приличном уровне. Хватит о нем. 

Далее, разобравшись с не-шпионом, люди с Лубянки принялись за меня, и я от страха стал неловко отшучиваться, пока не понял, что отсюда я вряд ли выйду, и что они меня не из-за шпиона к себе в гости пригласили, а из-за моей последней поездки во Францию.  Там я ухаживал совершенно безуспешно за Татьяной Яковлевой, отчаянной буржуйкой и модницей, и женщиной, которая была благополучно замужем за миллионером. В ее глазах я был нищим, который зарился на деньги ее мужа, и не более того. Кроме того, я покупал там Пижо для Лили Брик, и съездил в Ниццу повидать мою американскую любовь Элли и мою дочь Елену, которую Америка назовет по мужу Патришей Томпсон. В будущем у ней будет сын, мой внук Родя, то есть Roger.

А в Ницце моя трехлетняя дочь смотрела на меня моими глазами, так мне казалось.  У нее были мои глаза.  У меня не возникло никаких сомнений, что она моя дочь, и сердце мое скрипело, потому что я предчувствовал, что более я ее никогда не увижу. Судьба позаботилась о моей дочери. Элли вышла удачно замуж за человека, который обожал их обоих, и мать, и дочь, и Томпсон был в сто раз более удачлив в финансовых делах, чем я. Я знал и понимал, что Елена получит хорошее американское образование, а следовательно и работу и будет обеспеченным человеком, не в пример мне, который, не имея  приличного костюма, покупал «автомобильчик» не своей жене, с последующей расплатой на Лубянке, потому что в то время «честные советские пролетарии» и думать не смели о буржуазной забаве – собственном автомобиле.   

Поговорим лучше о Булгакове и Мастере и Маргарите. Уже тогда ходили по рукам версии романа, которые я прочел все без исключения.  Как я уже говорил вам, меня ошарашили подозрениями, которые в те времена считались обвинениями — окончательными, и пересмотру не подлежащими. Итак, мне предъявили обвинение в том, что я, якобы, искал русских иммигрантов по всей Франции, включая Ниццу, чтобы договариваться о кодах по тексту булгаковского романа «Мастер и Маргарита» для системы общения во французской заговорческой контрреволюционной организации  Бульдозер, цель которой являлась свержение советской власти со всеми ее свершениями… Бред сумасшедшего.  Я где-то когда-то неосторожно пошутил, что считаю наивысшим свершением пролетариата создание коммунальных квартир для решения проблемы перенаселенности Москвы. После создания колхозов, русское крестьянство ринулось в города перекрещиваться в пролетариат.

Короче, на Лубянке, они перешли от шуток к делу. Меня связали и били профессионалы заплечных дел.  Ответить я не мог, потому что руки мои были связаны. В процессе избиения я понял, что настала расплата за сотрудничество с властью, которой я доверился, не понимая, с кем я на самом деле имел дело.

Обратно в тело я уже не вошел, а они продолжали бить мертвеца. Мой труп привезли в мою квартиру. Из него лилась кров на пол, на ковер. Затем они решали, какая пуля подходила более к имитации самоубийства, ее оставили, остальные вытащили, и кровь смыли, подтерли.

Я кричал, орал, но меня никто не слышал, я кидался на них, но мой кулак пролетал  сквозь их грязные физиономии… пока  неведомая мне сила не унесла меня из моей квартиры в иной мир, о котором людям на земле ничего не известно.    

«Вы сотрудничали с органами НКВД?»

«Нет, меня туда звали, но я говорил, что занят, вашей работой пусть занимаются другие».

Самое страшное началось после смерти в Храме Правосудия. Мы миновали толпу, и меня усадили на одинокий стул за длинным столом в небольшом помещении. Во мне промелькнуло, неужели будут снова бить? Неожиданно все места за продолговатом столом оказались занятыми, и я понял, что меня разглядывают с любопытством, как дикого зверя в зверинце. 

Воцарилась молчание, я надеялся, что на этот раз обойдется без  бития, но кто знал, чем дело кончится. Самый важный из судей спросил меня, какое обращение будет мне милее, господин Маяковский, или товарищ Маяковский. То есть, битье продолжалось, но на этот раз не кулаками, а словами и понятиями. Почему-то я не знал, что ответить.Снова воцарилось молчание. На этот раз я решил осмотреть их, чтобы понять каково ответа они ждут. Я ответил не очень громко, но строго: «Как хотите!»

Мой ответ им не понравился, и я решил ничего не отвечать, если это сойдет мне с рук. Кто-то, видимо бывший белый офицер, спросил, давая мне понять, что им известно обо мне все до деталей. «Так значит, вас, верного слугу коммунистов, били в застенках НКВД? Судить вас пришли не совсем обычные судья, здесь те, которых били, и палачи, которые били».

Мне хотелось встать и уйти, но идти было некуда. Меня спросили, мол, какого бы наказания я пожелал тем, кто били меня до смерти?

Я ответил, это не моя забота, мне бы сперва свои поломанные кости залечить…

Голос Маяковского замолк. Наше интервью завершилось.

Недавно я написала пост «Ужасная догадка» о вкладе американцев в построение сталинского социализма в России.

Массовые аресты по всей стране родили страх и ужас, которой вскорости дорисует образ нового человека, советского человека, который пока ни у кого восторга не вызывает. А в тридцатые годы всех арестованных обвиняли в связи с некой иностранной державой и подозрительными сделками с иностранцами. Мне кажется, что смерть Маяковского в 1930 год мог бы прозвучать как второй залп Авроры.   

Первый залп символизировал начало Великой Октябрьской революции, второй залп ознаменовал начало страшной эры массовых арестов в тридцатые годы с их сегодня забытым страданием миллионов невинных людей.  

Уже закончив интервью, Маяковский добавил:

«Когда я покупал Пижо для Лилии Брик в Париже, она писала тот смертельный донос, который убил меня 14 апреля 1930 года».

 Поистине, второй залп Авроры ознаменовал начало той мрачной эпохи в советской истории, которая сломала дух народа на века.

Через несколько часов Маяковский вернулся, заявив следующее, мол,
оказывается, в архиве Лубянки, в вполне доступной форме все это время лежали папки с протоколами о моем избиении, и моей насильственной смерти.

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The Second Volley of Aurora

I am Vladimir Mayakovski, and I died on April 14, 1930. The announcement of my suicide had the effect of a bullet shot into the public, which was waiting for my appearance at the meeting of those who cared about the future of Russia. We were naughty children who were to be mastered, retrained and remade into Soviet men, according to the plan of the newly minted government of the proletariat.

As I already mentioned, I did not commit a suicide. Instead, I received an invitation to come to Lubyanka, the NKVD’s headquarter, to identify a petty spy who was rubbing himself in Moscow literary circles. So, I had to obey and pay a visit to them. They showed me some photographs, and I identified the poor fellow, who was recognized as a spy. Later, when I became more familiar with the astral world, I learned that he was shot, and on the Judgment Day he received a perfectly arranged stay on the fairly decent level of the astral world. Enough about him.

Having dealt with the spy identification, the Lubyanka people started picking on me. Out of creepy fear, I joked awkwardly until I realized that I may not get out of here and that the aim of their invitation was not the identification of a spy, but my last trip to France, where I courted unsuccessfully for Tatyana Yakovleva, a complete bourgeois and fashionista, safely married to a millionaire. In her eyes, I was a beggar who cried for her husband’s money, and nothing more. In addition, I bought Pajo there for Lily Brick, and went to Nice to see my American love Ally and my daughter Elena, whom America will call Patricia Thompson by husband. In future she will have sone, my grandson Rodya, in other words, Rodger. My three-year-old daughter looked at me with my eyes. She had my eyes. I had no doubt that she was my daughter, and my heart was squeaking, because I had a hunch that I would never see her again. Destiny took care of my daughter. Ellie married a man who adored them both, mother and daughter, and Mr. Thompson was a hundred times more successful in financial matters than me. I knew and understood that Elena would receive a good American education, and therefore work, and would be a wealthy person, unlike me, a person without a decent suit, who was looking for a “little car” not for his wife, but a mistress — with sad pay-off at Lubyanka. It was time, when a “honest Soviet proletarian” could not imagine of owning an item of the bourgeois fun — a personal car.

Let’s talk better about Bulgakov and his novel Master and Margarita. The copies of the manuscript were changing readers’ hands and I was one of them. I hunt for all versions of this masterpiece and red them all. As I already told, I was shocked by suspicions of being involved in some mystical dealings. In those days, suspicions were as good as final accusations, and never revised. And KGB accused me approaching Russian immigrants throughout France, including Nice, to set codes out of the text of  Bulgakov’s novel for the communication system in the French conspiratorial counter-revolutionary organization Bulldozer. They purpose was to overthrow the Soviet regime with all its accomplishments …  Somewhere I once inadvertently joked that I consider the highest achievement of the proletariat the creation of communal apartments to solve the problem of Moscow overpopulation. After the creation of collective farms, the Russian peasantry rushed into the cities to cross themselves in the proletarians. In short, in the Lubyanka, they switched from jokes to business.

I was tied up and beaten by professionals. I could not answer, because my hands were tied. In the process of beating, I realized that it was a retribution for cooperation with the authorities, which I trusted, not understanding with whom I actually dealt. I did not enter the body back, and they continued to beat and shot the dead man. My corpse was brought to my apartment. The blood was dripping on the carpet. Then they decided which bullet was more suited to simulate suicide. Finally, they found a proper one, and others were pulled out. The blood was wiped from the carpet.

 I screamed and screamed, but no one heard me, I rushed at them, but my fist flew through their dirty faces … until an unknown force took me from my apartment to another world that people on earth do not know about.

“Have you cooperated with the NKVD?”

“No, they called me there, but I said that I was busy, let others do your work.”

The worst thing started later, when the injuries inflicted on me by the beating in the Lubyanka were healed.

As soon as I landed in a new world, some serviceable personalities led me to the Temple of Justice. I understood the importance of what is happening. We passed the crowd, and I was seated on a lonely chair at a long table in a small room. Will they beat me again? Flashed through my head. Suddenly, all the places behind the oblong table were occupied, and I realized that they were looking at me curiously as at a wild beast in a menagerie. Gradually, the picture began to clear up. I was in the Temple of Justice as a defendant, that is, in the same capacity as in Lubyanka. Silence reigned, I hoped that this time it would do without beating, but who knew how the matter would end?

The most important judge asked me which appeal would be prettier to me, Mr. Mayakovski, or Comrade  Mayakovski. That is, the beating continued, but this time not with fists, but with words and concepts. For some reason I did not know what to answer. Silence reigned again, but this time I decided to look at them all in order to understand what kind of answer they were waiting for. I answered not very loudly, but strictly: “As you wish!”

They did not like my answer, and I decided to keep my mouth shut. Someone, apparently a former white officer, asked, letting me know that they knew all the details about me. “So, you, a faithful servant of the Communists, were beaten in the dungeons of the NKVD? It was not the ordinary judge who came to judge you, here are those who were beaten and the executioners who beat.”

I wanted to leave, but there was nowhere to go. They asked me, what punishment I would wish for those who beat me to death?

I replied, this is not my concern, should I first heal my broken bones?

Our interview stopped here. Vladimir Mayakovski went silent. The interview was over.

Lately I wrote a post “Scary Guess,” about strange reasons why no one remembered American industrialists input into building Stalin’s socialism in Russia.

Massarrests of people covered the truth with clouds of fear. Accusations always connected people with some foreign power and some suspicious deals with these foreign powers. 

In my mind, arrest of Mayakovsky for cooperation with anti-Soviet organization Bulldozer sounded like the second volley of Aurora. The first volley started the Great October Revolution in Russia, the second volley started the terrible wave of mass arrests through the thirties – fear, denunciations, lies, Gulags, incredible suffering of people.

And the final note. Later , Mayakovski added a sentence:

“When I bought Pijo for Lilian Brick in Paris, she was writing the lethal denunciation on me that killed me on April 14, 1930.”   

 Truly, this was an ideal blast marking the start one of the darkest era in the Soviet history that broke the spirit of the nation for centuries.   

A few hours later, Mayakovski returned, saying the following.
It turned out that all this time the protocols about my beating, and my violent death were safe and sound in the Lubyanka archive, in quite accessible form. I hope that soon we can read more interesting materials from that archive.

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БОГ, кто он?

Троица Андрея Рублева
Trinity by Andrei Rublev

Мудрейшие говорят, что лица Бога мы не знаем, потому что его никто никогда не видел. Говорят и так, у Бога нет лица, и священные писания добовляют, что у Бога более 49 имен, и поэтому можно считать, что истинное имя Бога либо скрыто от нас, либо непостижимо. И атеисты делают поспешный вывод, что коль нет ни лица, ни имеми, то Бога и вовсе нет, а люди его придумали – в основном для того, чтобы было на кого валить вину за все наши безобразия, которые мы творим на земле, мол, как он , вселюбящий и прощющий, допускает  войны, голод, всякие там  нагасаки и хиросимы, аушвитцы и сибирские гулаги, болезни, чуму, обезвоживание земли, будто одной планеты Марс мало, и надо завести вторю похожую планету, так как пустыни Сахара и Кара Кум мы уже имеем, много ли останется обезвоживать. К тому же, обезвоживание мировой влажной губки – тропического леса вокруг реки Амазонки, похоже, уже началось.  Вдруг стало подозротельно тихо вокруг возможной гибели девственных лесов, а с ними и наших неиссякаемых водяных запасов.

Так Бог есть или его нет? Думаю,  Бога как личности, нет, но Он-Она-Оно существует в совершенно иной ипостасии, выраженной коротким словом Бог,  по-английски God, по латыни Deus.

Я медиум, то есть человек, который слышит и может разговаривать со спиритами как верующих так и неверующих людей, со спиритами евреев, немцев, русских, советских русских – о да, это два разных народа, со спиритами американцев и эстонцев, с духами животных, птиц и растений….  

Однажды, я имела честь записать краткое сообщение от спирита Рут Монтгомери, известной журналистки, и одной из первых американских авторов, написавшей книги о всех главных направлениях движения New Age – Новая ера. Мне удалось познакомиться с госпажей Монтгомери за три месяца до ее смерти.  После Велокого Перехода, она говорила со мной уже из астрального мира.  
«Например, вы подумали обо мне. Между нами возоникает канал связи, нечто, что нас соединяет. (……) Ваше обращение ко мне подкармливает меня, и чтобы «прочесть» ваши мысли, я беру энергию у вас. Но я и возвращаю ее вам, и часто на более высоком вибрационном уровне, чем ваша энергия.»

Моцарт не изобретал свою музыку, а записывал то, что ему посылали из вселенной на значительно более высоком вибрационном уровне, чем его вибрация.  Пушкин получал стихи оттуда же, о чем он часто упоминает. Пересказываю, как мне это запомнилось. Вне стихосложения поэт может быть нижайшим из нижайших, но когда боги зовут поэта к алтарю, все меняется, оно может стать выше многих.  

А  непостижимые изобретения Николы Тесла, главные из которых до сих пор не освоены, те самые,  в которых теятся возможности спасения человечества – получения энергии прямо из космоса бесплатно в тех количествах, в которых нуждается человечество… И он получил это открытие «оттуда»!

Из космоса к нам льется «все»!  Но мы как маленькие радиоприемники, настраиваемся на то, на что у нас открываются наши каналы восприятия – у Моцарта на музыку, у Пушкина на прием стихов, у Теслы – на научные открытия.

Из моего скромного опыта —  чтобы вы не думали, что надо быть Моцартом или Пушкиным или Теслой, чтобы получать «оттуда».  Уже начинающей журналисткой  я заметила, что если  план и выводы в моей статье не меняются в процессе ее написания, то статья получается посредсвенной и скучной. Но если происходит что-то, она вдруг  наполняется тем, о чем я ранее не думала, и не догадывалась, то она получается превосходной…. Мне ее давали, подправляя мое более чем скромное писание на ходу…

Я думаю, творя, мы все, дети и старики, умные и не очень умные,  пытаемся услышать космос, даже хозяйки знают, что самый простой пирог, когда его пекут с вдохоновением и любовью, намного вкуснее того же пирога, который печется в раздражении… И многие из  нас, того не ведая «карабкаются» навстречу волнам энергии с более высокой частотой вибрации.   

И мне кажется, что весь уходящий в высь и совершенно недоступный нам сегодня тонкий мир и назван мудрецами прошлого одним коротким и очень емким сливом Бог сбольшой буквы, в котором все – все наши знания и многое такого, о чем мы сегодня понятия не имеем, Мы же не даром говорим: «Это одному Богу известно!»

Молитва – инстримент подтягивания нашего сознание как можно выше в мир высокочастотных волн космического сознания, медитация испытанное веками орудие сближения человека с его  истинной духовной сущностью.  Доброе настроение, люибовь к жизни – возможно превыше всего! Любить жизнь, значит любить Бога, как сказал Толстой. Что можно добавить к этому? Вот почему иногда такая слабая и нежная, и трепетная любовь в наших сердцах, и в особенности в сердцах наших детей так важна, безценна, так неотъемлима от всего самого лучего в нас, основа всех наших талантов и способностей, живая связь с тонким миром, с божественным, что льется на нас “оттуда” и дается нам для приобщния к божественной благодати. Похоже, что Бог есть, и он всегда с нами.

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The Sirotin Brothers in Spirit

Lost on the Crossroads of History

This is a story about  the extraordinaire power of the negative thought forms that may create most dramatic family events through generations.  Say, one such significant event happened in year 1918 near St. Petersburg when my grandmother was raped and murdered by Kronstadt navy. In two decades later, this fatal event echoed in destiny of Anna’s two sons, Victor and Erast, who perished faraway in a Siberian Gulag.

… Up to present days, speaking about Soviet mass deportations of average citizens to  Gulags, Estonian call them “free trips to Siberia.” The Sirotin brothers, White Army officers,  lived at that time in Estonia.  And despite being Russians, they were taken tо this “free trip” on the very first day when Baltic states were occupied by The Red Army in 1940. The Stalin’s “falcons,” the spies trained to infiltrate life at West by all means, including homosexual relationships, probably, obtained the list of members in Tartu White Officers Club long before the annexation of Baltic States occurred.

In Siberia, they were sent to different Gulags, but brother’s managed to reunite only to be killed in the strangest accident thinkable. An unexperienced inmate, a Tadzhik national, who did not speak a word in Russian, and therefore, could not be instructed or stopped, started a root bulldozer and this behemoth moved both brothers who were resting nearby in high grass during their lunch break. Was this double death orchestrated by destiny, or a meaningless accident?

In 2015, about 75 years after their transition, Viktor and Erast, now in spirit, showed up in my California apartment asking for a healing and advice how to learn some English. Sensing that they were interested more in talking, we reduced healing to a shower of the golden light. In some 30 minutes the brothers reported experiencing lightness, and it meant that they were ready for a talk.

Affable Viktor asked some questions how such kind of healing works and recalled suddenly that once I asked about times, when Yudenich’s army was treacherously disarmed by Estonians, and the victorious general, according to the records of his successes in WWI battles, was arrested.  “Moving toward Petrograd, we were sure of victory, but Trotsky emerged as devil out of the sniffing box, out from nowhere on our way. No one ever heard his name, and we were taken by surprise and secrecy. We were not ready to meet him. Later, we learned that Stalin murdered Trotsky somewhere abroad. Trotsky gave him a victory over the White Army under Petrograd, and claimed, as it should, the position of the leader of the nation. They called it a position of the First Secretary of their party, or some committee, I am not sure that I remember their political titles.

“Trotsky began to drive us back and we found ourselves again at Narva, the Estonian border town. A fast train covered the distance between Petrograd and Narva too soon to learn what had happened meanwhile in Estonia. When train stopped at Narva railway station, we were met by Estonians armed to the teeth. We took them for friends, and did not throw up our rifles, and instead of hugs, we were showered by bullets! Our losses were big, we had to fight embracing the enemy’s bayonets. Nevertheless, we killed and dispersed them despite the deception and betrayal. The wartime betrayal is a terrible thing.

“I cannot stand Estonians ever since, and as I heard, Estonians cannot stand us after Stalin’s betrayal, when “the father of all nations” ordered mass deportation of Estonians. to Gulags.”

The free trip to Siberia was granted to intelligentsia charged with cosmopolitism (what it is, really, who knows? I did not know what it is! — T.E.) and to farmers who were suspected in resistance to collectivization of the Estonian farming. In brief, Estonian farmers who  did not want to join kolkhozes and give up their lands and horses and cows and lambs that they had taken good care of during centuries on stony shores of the Baltic Sea were doomed to deportation leaving behind whatever they had. The mass arrests were supposed to brake the nation people’s  resistance. Arrested people were put in the the cattle wagons on very long trips in trains that crossed the flat part of the Russia, then entered the Asian part covered with Taiga thick forests, forests and forests that could swallow an uncountable number of prisoners and return home only very few ones. But in year 1918 Baltic people got a short break enjoying 20 years of independent existence.  Victor and Erast happened to be the involuntary witnesses how this coveted independence was achieved.

“In independent Estonia, we lived in Tartu in poor conditions. Erast and I, we worked for Estonians in their construction business. We were trusted only with manual jobs, as your father was. We knew that he dug marsh near Paide for drying turf pellets. Our manual jobs did not turn us and Estonians into friends, and your father was not happy with his manual job either. They treated us like Americans treated their black slaves, it was all the same slavery everywhere. Estonians did not let us to fight Trotsky forces that would stop Bolsheviks, and Bolsheviks turned Communists paid them with mass deportation to Siberia. Such was the small tragedy that took place on the railroad between Narva and Petrograd in times, when the fate of small and large nations was decided!
I wanted you to know how it really was.”

“You ask, how did happen that the sons of a Russian priest attended the school of cadets, designed for nobility’s posterity to become officers. Our father was a soldier who became officer for his military merits. When we grow up to go to school, father wrote a letter to the Excellency Nikolai the Second, and we were accepted into the cadet’s school for our father’s military achievements, as he distinguished himself in the Caucasus. No one knows if his stories contained exaggerations or not. Maybe he spoke the truth after all, because if he would lie, no one would accept us as the cadets. You are right, in his soul, our father was a warrior, not a priest, a smart man who was left without any education whatsoever, so, growing up in monastery, the only thing he learned was to play a role of a priest and make it a source of his income. Warrior and priest can hardly become friends, and this conflict, I think, was the root of his alcoholism. He was a reveler and alcoholic and at the same time a lost clever man. We became Cadets, and after school, we were sent straight to the front line of WW I.”

 

“You also asked about our life in the Siberian labor camp. I tell you one thing. After my Estonian experience, for me and Erast, there were no difference between our Estonian life with being doomed to the manual jobs, similar to manual jobs in the Gulag! We understand that getting a better job in future, we have to learn English, but how?”

What could I tell them? Many and many generation of immigrants has proven that the most prolific way of learning a spoken language is casting himself or herself into the environment where no one speaks a single word of your mother tongue, and the miracle happens, the foreign language will open up to you, it will embrace you and, suddenly, you start understand it.  Thinking about Victor’s story how Yudenich was betrayed,  I found оn Internet an article “Nikolai Yudenich” written by a professional historians. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolai_Yudenich

It contained the listing of Yudenich’s victorious battles on the WWI fronts, the base of his reputation as a distinguished war commander. The same article included the description of the disarmament of the North West Army and arrest of Yudenich by Estonians when was time to fight Bolshevik’s upheaval in Petrograd (St. Petersburg)  This article confirmed the “ghost story” told by Viktor and Erast, the testimony of the participants of the Yudenich’s army last battle during the Russian Civil War. Estonians fought for their independence by all means, and it included the betrayal of Yudenich’s White North Western army. It helped considerably Trotsky to take the power from The Provisional Government and turning it to Bolsheviks.

Estonian independence, received in 1919 for switching sides, would last, as already mentioned, two decades and in year 1940, all three Baltic states would be annexed by Stalin, in other words, swallowed back into merciless and always hungry guts of the Stalinist Russia. Estonia independence will be restored as part of collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.

Wikipeda had also another article “North Western Army” about the same Russian Civil War episode written from the Estonian point of view.  According to this article, the Estonian “switch of mind” from supporters of the White Army to supporters of the Trotsky came from the political views of Alexander Kolchak, the leader of Russia at a time. Kolchak refused to consider autonomy for ethnic minorities. In other words, Trotsky was more flexible than Kolchak, and he recognized the autonomy of ethnic minority that sought freedom from tsarist Russia considered to be the Imperial prison for multitude of nations all around the skirt of that giant country.

http://www.estonica.org/en/North-Western_Army/

For explanation of the disarmament of the North Western Army at the most critical moment of the fight against Bolshevism, this article said only a couple of words: Yudenich’s army “was finally disbanded.” For more details, the academic authors of this article send readers to Trotsky’s archive, pointing at the real force that granted them their swift independence!

Soon we, Viktor and Erast met again, and I asked how it happened that the Sirotin’s family left their mother Anna behind, fleeing to Estonia when the Reds terrorized the Russian Church? Of course, no one could foresee the size and cruelty of Bolsheviks war against their own church. Probably father Mikhail wanted to shield his already elderly and fragile wife from dangers of the boat trip across the stormy lake Peipus to Estonia where no one was waiting them with open arms. Viktor told that at first, he did not get what was happening.

“Father said that we will return in three days and our mother will wait for us at home with the hot samovar, and we will have tea together, and mother will bring jam preserves from the storeroom… We believed him, we sailed in boat crossing Chudskoye or Peipus, in Estonian, the natural border between the Russia and Estonia. I was with the fisherman Vasya on the oars. I was already strong and agile, and by the today’s standards, I would fit to be a member of some hockey team. Thank God, today I’m not attracted to football or hockey, but to something else, like healing animals. I’ll try to find out what is wrong with your cat’s kidneys.”

“Thank you! I will be grateful! When did you realize that there was no return home, and your mother was left alone home, and she could be exposed to mortal danger.”

“I understood it soon. I can see when my father was telling a lie. I began to jerk him, asking when we go for our mother back to Russia? He did not answer, and then, suddenly, he shouted ‘Let it go, it’s not your business!’ I wanted to sail back alone. But I did not have the spirit to act, and I still cannot forgive myself for it.”

“How did you learn the truth?”

“As a member of the White Officers’ Club I visited it quite often. Over there, a person whispered in my ear the terrible truth and introduced me to his friend who had arrived from Russia shortly. We met in the same officers’ club, and he shared everything he knew — the names of many murdered people, including the names of our mother and the widow of neighboring priest’s, whom my mother was friends with, and whom she had visited the day, when they both were murdered.

“This officer who brought this terrible news took my word that I would not say anything to my sisters. I gave my word. I learned the whole truth from him, to the last details. And he said that everything is being recorded… and our tears will be avenged. Were they avenged? I knew what had happened to Kronstadt sailors and how they fled after their failed uprising. Estonians did not take in a single man of them. Finland did, they sent them to North to do timber, where these bastards were fed and paid for their work.

“Za upokoj dushi, a burial sermon “for soul’s peace” was ordered in a local Russian church in Estonia. I asked my father to cross the lake one more time and bury our mother according to our custom. But he doubted that we, or someone else would find her body in that mess? I think that at that time he was right. How would we find her there? We raised the cross in the cemetery near the place where we lived in Estonia. Of course, father was right, who would know where the rapist threw her body? People were shaking from terror.”

“All this horror was returning to me in my nightmares,” Victor continued. “I hated myself for obeying the fool and failing to go for my mother’s body alone. I did not have money, fishermen of the Old Believers in Estonia were the ones who crossed in boats that sometimes stormy Peipus, and, of course, they asked a pay for this two-way trip and I did not have any money at a time.

“We arrived as beggars, my father fled in terror. At home, in Russia, he has told us such wonderful tales of his courage, but when it got to the point, he turned to be a coward. Now I see that he is not a spiritual person, all his priesthood thing was a sham only!

“You know that in year 1940, the Reds arrested us immediately after their arrival to Estonia. They had to have the list of the members of the White Guard Club handy. Traitors were everywhere. Our Club’s charter recognized the Russian Tsar, the authority of his government, and everything that Reds fight to change. The Reds sent to Gulags all white officers to the last member of Tartu White Officers Club. The Reds had to have the membership list long before occupation of Estonia, they knew where to find us, they get us where Erast and I were painting a new apartment… The Reds get us at the very first hour of marching into Tartu in 1940. Instead of going home to change our working clothing, we were guided straight to the Tartu Railway station where a train was waiting us and our “free trip” to Siberia began.

“How you got in your psychic vision how we died?” – Viktor asked me. “You saw that we were laying in the tall grass to rest during our brief lunchtime. The sun was shining straight into the eyes of the motorist who was moving the bulldozer, sun was blindingly bright, and he did not see us.

“I even smelled that thick grass, but it can be my imagination.” – I added. “The grass was high, straight and very thick.”

“Yes, once, the grain seed bags were hidden there probably by farmers in the War Communism time, when all the wheat was appropriated by government in the name to “feed the hungry.”  The seeds were sprouting every year making their way to the light. Finally, wheat grew wild and then it was overgrown with wood, and we sat there during the lunch breaks. On that fatal day we fell asleep and did not feel a thing.

“Only suddenly I woke up screaming, “Erast, Erast,” and his face was cold, and the next instant I was gone as well.

“We met later, already in disembodied state, in the astral bodies. We got used to the fact that sometimes you fly and swim and you can move around in space, and your thoughts, and imagination create things, happenings and situations. Talk to Erast, he does not know you, but he can tell a lot.”

ErastErast’s voice was softer and quieter. “This is true. In Gulags, we found each other and reunited as the saying goes, only to die together! But in astral world, we began to look for each other, because, at first, it was very lonely here. You do not understand at once what is going on and, like on earth, maybe more openly, some strangers try to take advantage of your hesitations. Good that we were immediately dragged to the Palace of Justice, and as you did, they questioned me about life in Gulag. They asked humorously, whether we liked that life and laughed… Yes, I forgot to say that I found Viktor, and they let us through the judges on the same day.

“The judgement court passed quickly, because what demands they could make on us? We judged ourselves for leaving our mother in Russia alone to meet her terrible destiny. Was the unwilling murderer an Uzbek or Georgian, or some other national? At a time, we did not distinguish them, we had never heard about, say, Tajikistan. But there we were, all in the same Siberian camp, created by Bolsheviks and their brainchild, the Communist Party, and Felix Dzerzhinsky, the executioner of the Red Terror, the red hell to us all. Here, on the Astral Plane, on the contrary, we learned that each nation has its own “heaven,” in other words, here we have right to be different from others.

“As you also asked about our life in the Siberian labor camp, I would like to confirm that after our Estonian experience of manual jobs, we were well prepared to face Taiga logging operations. But it was not logging that killed us in Gulag, it was our consciousness regarding our mother’s destiny. It was our painful sense of guilt that did us in.

“Finally, we met our mother in our Russian heaven. We kind of made up, but I know she did not forgive neither me, nor Viktor. I know, we’ll still ask for her forgiveness, because we loved her very much. I know, she will forgive us, because we purged our souls to the extent that we went through the same thing, we died the same way, as she did being raped and murdered by Kronstadt matrosnya — navy! It had bonded us, maybe for eons!”

 

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Waiting for a Miracle

Орен со щенком

I was about six years old, when I healed our puppy after it had suffered an accident 

The Unusual Meeting with Oren Zarif  

In my Inbox, I found the interview with the sensational Israeli healer Oren Zarif, forwarded by one of my Russian-speaking friend. My attention was attracted by the interviewer’s questions. They were impolite and carried a shadow of arrogance toward the controversial healer, as the interviewer called him. But who was this healer? Google’s search bar returned a list of pro and con opinions. The happy healed sang praises calling Zarif a miracle man, but the ones who did not recuperate labeled him as sham.

The healer does not work for free, and the price for treatment is considered high by those whom the healer did not help. They shout, “Fraud, fraud, fraud,” because they were promised to experience the miracle of the instantaneous recovery, as we see it in films, or read about it in Bible, or was trumpeted by unprofessional marketer. They say that for Zarif there are no incurable illnesses! Paradoxically, it is true! If not Zarif, or medical doctor, then, sure, mister Death will do it! One stroke of his mythical scythe releases pain from wounds, cancer, hunger, thirst, diabetes, anemia — you name it!

In addition, I found on the Internet the Oren Zarif’s photo that was supposed to stream healing energy to every onlooker for free. For some reason, I recalled the Biblical story of a woman who having “a flow of blood for 12 years” touched the hem of His garment and was healed. Jesus turned around and said, “Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.” (Matthew, chapter 9, 20-22). I strongly believe that faith or strong wish to become well helps the healer to do his job. And lack of faith, doubts, jealousy, anger, disbelief, hopelessness, desperation, depression may wreck any caretaker’s good healing work.

Here I have to squeeze in two words about myself. I am a medium who communicates with the dead, and had written some books based on spirit communication. I tell you this in hope that you will believe me when I tell what happened next. Suddenly I became aware that the spirit or consciousness of the Oren Zarif was in my room. Was he stepping out of his photo? I had never met him in flesh, but I could talk with him, as I talk with the spirits of the dead!

He offered me help. My God, but how to take advantage of this offer? I was lately hospitalized, and the doctor assured me that every single test they did on me was off. Doctor let me go, adding, “See you soon again!” Being aware that negativity is the reason of all our diseases, I asked Zarif, if he can fix my loud irritability, the common companion of the elderly people. When my inner volcano explodes, I throw into faces of people what I think of them. This nasty habit had wrecked my relationship with good and bad alike; in long run, I have lost many friends, and gained many enemies.

Zarif in spirit asked me to continue sitting behind the computer relaxing as in meditation. During the “treatment” I did not feel anything at all. Nevertheless, soon I noticed that “angry screaming fits” started losing its power. I get a second or two for preventing volcano outbursts. Every little victory in irritation department brought me relief. I did not expect a miracle to happen, and Oren Zarif did not produce one. Way more important things started to happen. I obtained inner freedom to say “no” to pushy people who tried to take advantage of me, causing unbearable irritation in my entire life, practically ruining it! Could I doubt that Oren Zarif was a “real thing”? And I was not able to pay him a penny, as being out of body person cannot take money and put it into his pocket. I asked where I could send money for healing, he laughed. He did not need any money from me. As truly talented person, he was not a greedy one.

It was obvious that his life would be anything but easy! The stronger the healer, the more people will demand miracles from him, and the bigger will be the helpers circle surrounding him, including naysayers. They would doubt healer’s ability to stream healing energy to the sick, as not all diseases can be healed instantaneously, many of them need long term healing and cooperation of the sick person, his will to become well.

Similar attitude is known to professional mediums. When a client does not believe the produced messages from the beyond, the medium can experience a severe blow into the solar plexus open chakra area. Leslie Flint told me that some doubters’ blow can be so strong that you want return it and sank your fist into client’s stomach. But what will happen to your rep, if you start a fist fight with a paying client? A patient of a medical doctor will tolerate the mistakes in diagnose, wrongly prescribed medicine, and pay for unnecessary expensive tests conducted using shiny, mystical high-tech devises. The cool look of these devices instills trust and respect toward science! Nevertheless, too often, the sick person winds up seeking miracles from the healer, because “nothing helped”. Still, if the miracle of instantaneous recovery did not occur, he blames the healer. The respect did not allow him to blame science, but it allows to blame a healer, because his instrument  — high frequency energy waves are invisible, recognizable only to the chosen ones! But how do you know who is who in this highly regarded world of the science versus invisible world of healers and shamans, filled with shams and few the chosen ones?

The Internet reports that the oldest medical journal “The Lancet” has funded a study to determine how often doctors prescribe unnecessary procedures or medicines, how many incorrect diagnoses are made. 30 experts studied the relevant statistics of different countries of the world, and an amazing picture had emerged. All over the world, the number of incorrect diagnoses is huge.   http://www.pharmocean.ru/articles/nepravilnyy-diagnoz.

The truth is that on both sides are the chosen geniuses and normal average professionals, on both sides happens mistakes, great healing and breakthroughs. And both, doctors and healers know that patience, or clients are their “partners in crime”, they depend on each other.

An American alternative healer D told a funny-sad story that speaks about any energy healer’s greatest problem. “Once upon a time, a nice lady arrived for healing. We put her on the therapeutic table and treated her with a stream of good energy. We melted loads of darkness out of her.  Soon she felt better. Having no much time, she jumped off the table, paid us money, thanked, and rushed toward her car parked near our kitchen window. I looked at he through the window and saw how the mindless “motor” of her negativity started pulsing in her aura automatically. It filled her energy system with darkness fast. When she started her car, all my treatment was literally eaten up, and swept away by the flow of firmly entrenched negative thoughts. Probably, arriving home he would think, why I paid them, my headache is back, my back is burning from pain again…  Nobody can help me!  How wrong she was!  Help was so close to her, so available, if she only knew that she could help herself more than any healer does, if she will stop the automatic circulation of her negative thoughts.”

I have heard that there is one more problem chasing healers — the danger taking over client’s stuff during healing. … It was time to ask questions from Oren Zarif as long as his out of body consciousness was in my room.

If the person whom you heal has doubts, regrets and he resists to accept your energy considering it “not enough pure”, or “coming from some suspicious energy source” what would you do? Will you ignore gossip mongers, or have other means to overcome client’s resistance? 

Oren Zarif: — I have never confronted this problem.

Does it happen sometimes, that you finish healing, your patience feels better, but his automatic negativity wakes up, and thoughts like “no one can help me,” “the healing was too short, I am wasting my money here,” “he is a sham as all doctors and healers are,” “they are thieves” starts revolving in the person’s mind, because the person was used to see a thief in everyone who offered services for pay, and this would impact the healing results, diminishing or ruining them?

O.Z.: — This is a very interesting question, the answer may need about 25 pages explanations how it really works, what these thoughts are, and how people create these monsters in their minds. These negative thoughts are real robbers who can leave them penniless, ruin their careers, family life and relationships with children and grandchildren, but reader will not understand what we are talking here. All I would say, if you decide to meet a healer, learn to trust him, he will never harm you on purpose. An honest healer will give you always more than you are capable to pay for, do not worry about “wasted money”, worry about your negativity. Negativity can create and oftentimes does the effect of losing what healer was giving you, rob them from their money, wealth, leave …

Do you feel compassion toward your clients, or maybe too much compassion will transfer clients’ stuff, or junk from their chakras into yours? How do you protect yourself from this to happen?

O.Z. — It has happened to any healer, if he or she had healed someone with compassion, and sometimes, it is very difficult to get rid from other people’s dirt in your own energy system.  Sometimes healer’s come together to cleanse each other’s chakras, helping each other as doctors cannot do this to us. Of course, we feel compassion to a sick person, but good healing needs compose, concentration and you think only about streaming light into right places in the person’s body. If I would meet you at your age 17, I would train you as a seer and healer, as you could become a capable healer. Now  I can only encourage you to continue meditation, relaxation, and concentration on resolving your personal problems. By the way, I would recommend meditation technique to all people, healthy and sick alike. Say, a compassionate surgeon is operating, if he did not switch from compassion to concentration on what he is doing with his scalpel, does he can operate? Same is with the healer, compassion connects you with higher power that will work through you, but in the process you switch to concentration on patient’s damaged organs or difficult emotions while working on his or her problems.

How old you were when you understood that you can heal the other person, who was that person, family member, a pet, a friend?

O.Z.: — I like this question, it was a pet, a puppy who liked me and was my true friend.  There was an accident, his leg was broken, and I took him in my arms and hold him about an hour, maybe longer, without questioning what I was doing, I think, I knew what I was doing, but yet not realizing it. And when I put him down on the floor, his leg was healed…  And no one believed that this leg was ever broken.  And I learned that I was a bit different than my family members, and I started seeking my soul mates everywhere I could reach out, but there was none of them, and I had to trust myself, and I learned to keep such stories to myself, as many healing stories started to occur spontaneously. There  was a bird with damaged wing, there was a boy in our neighborhood who needed help, and when I did help him, they forget to thank me, because they liked me, but could not imagine that I helped nature to heal their kid. So I learned both, to heal and to shut up about this preventing harm from grownup people. I was about 6 years old when healing with mysterious power, as if awakened by compassion, started flowing out of me.

Do you know who is working through you?

O.Z.: — I know him, but he does not like me talking about it.

How many people do you heal daily?

O.Z: — It varies. But there was once a case when I had to heal over 100 persons after an earthquake in Uzbekistan.

How many have you healed already?

O.Z.: — I have no time or energy for a diary. After healing you fell asleep for recuperation of your depleted energy supply.  They tell, I have healed thousands already, but I truly did not care how many …  I am not interested in statistics.

How you handle money, do you pay for your helpers?

O.Z.: — I do not need much money for himself, but I need money for doing this work and quite a bit of money for living, transportation, paying assistants, marketers, appointment setters, cleaners, accountant, and security guards, you name it. Yes, I need guards, and sometimes good ones who can protect me from attacks of any kind of street aggression that can occur in our days, including guards for protection from attacks of too hot love of my fans.

Do you have time to enjoy life on earth?

O.Z.: — Nothing can be compared with the joy, if you can prompt the recovery of a doomed child or an elderly who had said his goodbyes, signed his last will, and readied himself for the last breath on earth. Instead, he discovers that he can stay some time longer on earth. If he likes it, it makes me happy as well.

How long do you plan to stay on earth?

O.Z.: — As long as my body can stand of what I am doing right now, healing others.

Do you say that healers like you sacrifice themselves inevitably in the name of a mission? What mission it is?

O.Z.: — The mission is to spread the knowledge about the exclusive power of high-vibrational energies, freely available to everybody on earth. It will heal and bring good life, health, wealth and happiness. God did not send us here to suffer. God had given us tools to be happy. All we have to do is to learn to use these tools, open given channels to receive good energy to satisfy our daily needs. About this mission can be said that the healers pave the way for future prophets who would change the word by building the next civilization, higher and more sophisticated than the present one. The prophets need the people who would understand them, crowds of them, and we try spread the knowledge by showing what is available for people if they lift their consciousness. We, the healers, help lift consciousness of as many individuals as possible.

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Cleansing the Spirit of My Mother Tamara

November 23, 2017

Cannot say how others passed such tests, but in my case, when the attempts to support my spiritual growth with prayers and meditations enabled me to communicate with spirits, when I started to hear them, and could talk to them, it made me face my childish idealizations of  my loved ones. In brief, instead of finding more love in my heart, oftentimes  I found vacuum…

…and the real struggle began to learn tо love what I saw, not what I believed to be there!

For instance, for me the idealization number ONE turned to be the belief shared by so many that death will make us omnipotent, will increase our memory about 100 times, will better our ability to assimilate knowledge in no time, and make us, if we chose so, to become guardians for people on earth. And I had mentioned it in my book “Prisoners of Fame”.

Today it has become common knowledge that death is not a baby sitter.  It helps a soul to fly over limbo abyss to the astral world, but it would not change the soul immediately, on the contrary, it freezes the soul’s change! Stupid remains stupid, talented remains talented, angry remains angry…  Mediums, OBE travelers, alternative healers started write about it already some years ago. Still, in most cases, readers do not think that this revelation goes to them as well.  The power of a long enough nourished superstition is strong, indeed!

The next shiny idealization of mine crowned what I was thinking about the seers! I will not point my finger at any soul adviser on earth who had become drug addict or alcoholic in our so-called heaven, as a matter of fact “a couple of spins” away from us, as a talented spirit said once! In brief, I saw seers almost like saints on earth, and experienced true shock discovering that after their transition some souls of them dwell on the lowest levels of the astral world – for considering themselves above people like you and me.

And, there is a hardest to deal with idealization of our parents that we try to avoid dealing with as long as possible.

… On one fateful day, back in 2005, I could not stop thinking about my mother in Estonia. There was no reason for a call as we had talked some days ago about everything we had to tell each other.  I tried to think about some decent excuses to call, found none, and called anyway – from my Los Angeles apartment to Tallinn, Estonia. My brother Vsevolod happened to be in her room at that late hour in North Europe, and picked up the phone. He said that Mother was having flue and he dropped by to check that she had taken her medicine and now she was trying to get some sleep. Nevertheless, he announced my call and advised my mother to talk to me on the phone. Mother did not talk, she was listening… or sensing what was coming from me to her. She was glad that I had called as she had to tell me something important beyond words… I also stopped making up words, and fell in silence letting our wordless messages to fly back and forth from Tallinn to Los Angeles. “Mama, talk,” my brother rushed her. However, she kept her silence, we continued to listen in quietude how our souls were conversing, and this was the best, and maybe the only sensible “conversation” we ever had.
In four hours, brother called me from Estonia. After my phone call mother fell asleep and died shortly, leaving her body for good in sleep! She was 3 weeks short from her 99th birthday. Here comes a funny picture of her at that age.
Yes, granny, look, my house is now on the other sxde of this little lake

Once visiting Estonia, her grandson Vladimir Elmanovich, American architect, walked his grandmother to the beach and joked, “Look, granny, across that Atlantic lake, over there, by the sea, is my house, do you see it?’ Granny laughed, and played along, “looking across the Atlantic lake!” Despite her age, she managed to keep her sense of humor alive and mind clear up to the last day on earth. 

After my mother’s transition to the better world, I received two spirit messages from her.  She asked me to light a candle when I was thinking of her as the same candle would appear in her dwelling nook enlivening the sense of being in touch with family on earth. In the last message, she said that my father Vladimir, who was enlisted into army at the beginning of the WWII, and whom war had never returned to her, found her, and now they were together in their afterlife.

However, “they lived happily ever after” turned to be the next idealization – now theirs, not mine that they had let go. Father’s war, and mother’s joyless life on earth had changed both. And this was not my father, but my mother who made me rethink everything that I have learned about her so far. I was approached by a spirit of a Hollywood star of the 50s who asked solemnly to be heard out regarding my mother’s situation. He said that my mother was … pregnant! He added, “She will give birth to a creature and she will be fine again, but…” I decided that my guest was rehearsing a role of a sci-fy movie in his upcoming incarnation. However, my guest was not done yet, as he had more to say. He reminded that after my mother’s transition she was met nicely by everyone who shared their afterlife stories for the book “Prisoners of fame.” Nevertheless, she misread that kindness and crossed the boundaries. In other words, I was asked to talk to her, and explain her who was who in the astral field allotted for the Golden Hollywood stars. He said that time to time they had similar problems with family members of some successful actors and, especially, actresses. My mother arrived to visit Golden Hollywood garden on her own pestering actors in search on certain experiences.

The cold shiver ran down my spine. My promise to take care of her improper intrusions onto their lives wrapped up our pleasant conversation. He left, and I started my investigation what did happen to my mother on the other side of the veil. In short, my mother fell in love with a suspicious stranger whom she met on the streets of the astral world. Or he befriended her, as a promising subject? I was told that he was a handsome brunet with sexy mustache, friendly smile and very white teeth that helped him, a recruiter of volunteers to be Guinea pigs for researchers in exchange for a small piece of independent living space. My mother Tamara was introduced to the boss of these researchers, and she agreed … to give birth in experimental condition to an experimental entity… The new man in her life was supposed to wait for her on “their bench” in a small park close to the laboratory building. But he was not there when my excited mother was looking for him to share the great news that she was accepted, and that since now, since the very moment in her “now” she was already earning independent space for him and her – for living happily ever after independently, in a small house or apartment as long as it would be needed! She said that she was impregnated artificially immediately, and released back to the streets to share with him this great news.

The only problem was that there was no one to share this news. The new man in her life has disappeared in thin air. My mother was looking for him, the one whom she preferred to my father. Soon the truth started to dawn on her that she was used for becoming a volunteer to aid a dark undertaking.  The rumors that these researchers were in Frankenstein business started to catch up with her. And she started annoying men in the streets with certain offerings. She hated when her acquaintances tried to straight her out. She asked them to stop moralizing as they had no idea what her life on earth was all about. All she knew was hard work, and no fun some months short from 100 years on earth. She was convinced that it entitled her for compensation so freely available in her afterlife! She, the daughter of a Russian priest, will not burden God with her problems, instead, she will take her destiny in her own hands. She continued to terrorize her acquaintances with hypothetic question why they were itching to educate her now after she had dragged children, husband’s sick mother, and her two helpless sisters through the war, then across the hungry and dangerous post war decades, the terror of mass deportations to Siberia, and being persuaded to become a KGB informer, and looking daily at her hook in dusty attic for hanging herself, if she would be not able to get them off her back. At that time, nobody taught her how to survive and make hay for the cow to feed children. She threw into their faces, “Mind your business, leave me alone!” to all her former relatives, friends, and – me included!

However, the day arrived, when she accepted my modest offer to attempt to heal her.

After usual preparation for healing, prayer and meditation, I appealed for help to my mother Tamara’s guides and asked my IT,  stands for Invisible Translator, to turn the current energy of healing into metaphorical images for guides to erase or transform them.

When I focused on the condition of Tamara’s solar plexus chakra on earth, I got images about her hay making days. … She was in a hurry to remove dry hay into barn, because the dark heavy rain clouds were thickening above her head, above her rented piece of land where the hay was growing, had been mowed, dried, and transported to the barn. Dry grass was scratching her hands and legs, it slipped under her shirt, but she continued to lift pitchfork after pitchfork with heavy loads of hay on the cart to get it under the protective roof of the barn. When the first heavy drops of rain began to fell on her sweaty face, hay was already removed, she managed to save not only hay, but all her unbearable haymaking overwork, at least for now! I prayed asking LIGHT to remove these hay images out of her solar plexus area. Of course, the cleansing did not end there, it continued…

Later I was approached by a spirit friend, and the load of hay was taken out… from my third chakra area and instruction was given how to avoid picking up trash from my relatives’ and friends’ solar plexus area, the energy center that is so readily harboring our and other people’s negativity, if we do not know how to let it go!

Mother’s spirit did not show up anymore and the day arrived when I thanked her in my mind, sending her light and love and releasing this woman who once gave me body into her life, her experiences and her future incarnations. This was when we parted for good!

She did not needed my love, or healing, or family any more. All what she was looking for was freedom of expression. Instead of fulfilling obligation almost 100 years on earth, she started on her path of self discovery that did not included me or my father or her parents any more.

 

School Desks Instead of Prison Bunks

October 2, 2013 — January 15, 2020

Raisa M. Gorbachev Speaks from Afterlife

Raisa Maximovna Gorbachev (1932-1999), the spouse of Mikhail Gorbachev, was known for supporting preservation of Russian cultural heritage.

Hello Tatyana, they told me that you recorded the B.B. story, where he denied committing suicide and suspected Abramovich’s lawyers in silencing him in fear that he could file the contra criminal charges and win back money that he had lost to Abramovich during first trial. The fewer names, the better! We still live in world of our past. It wouldn’t leave us any time soon. Putin is neither bad nor good, he is sitting there, because he was put there by higher powers. He was chosen, because he was “nikakojcolorless. As a matter of fact, the world is ruled by different forces that people know nothing about. So, bleak Putin was OK for the job!

In Russia, someone’s pocket swells, but from our point of view, it doesn’t matter much, because after his death, everything that went in —will come out the same way, and finally, it will fall into the national treasury, possibly at time when Russia will truly need it. Let’s proceed quietly and calmly… Let’s forget all these eccentric women who bothered my husband with all thinkable and unthinkable claims. You happened to know some of them. I took them out of Misha’s (Mikhail’s) way, because they strangled him, crowding under the door day and night … Do not interrupt me. I want to convey a few words to Mikhail, whom I love very much and who, I believe, loves me too. I know everything about you, I asked around and was pleased to learn that you are a person who does not pain for belonging to usually sought-after social classes or ranks.

I would like to tell Misha that I love him and often visit him. Being in spirit, I suggest cook not to feed him wrong food. I succeeded to remove the sweetened juices from his menu, and he does not need to drink natural juices glass after glass either. I asked cook to give him Gruzian mineral water Borjomi. And when they run out of Borjomi, I let them go by with the local mineral water. It is recommended to everybody to drink plenty of mineral water containing salts that are good to us.

I was told to be careful, as my every move is checked, and here, in afterlife, I still don’t have full freedom. Some day I would like to talk about it more, if God gives me pleasure see you again in your humble cloister-like living space. 

Some words about you — what you do not know about yourself. You are given only one opportunity to return to normal life provided that you will tolerate the same difficulties from someone that you do in your present circumstances… You know who I’m talking about. In future it will not be worse or better, it will stay the same. If you will not accept it, you will find yourself in a monastery.  But this is not your time to be there yet. Accepting him for what he is, you will find your own writing style. Break off all ends in your present life, you do not need nobody here, including your dearest relatives. … I am waiting for you to fully enter the channel, so I can start writing letter to Misha.

 “Misha, I am not alone, but I am with you. I am with you always, and more often than you think. Oftentimes, I am in your kitchen, where I command the cook to prepare healthy food for you. Sometimes I get very tired, because he is stubborn and does not listen to me. And he makes me to turn the sauce-boats on his apron in order to divert his stubborn attention and make him listen to my suggestions.

Misha, I don’t like that you grieve over trifles. Nobody wants what we had in the Soviet Union that you let go. If someone want it back, those were old decrepit Communists of the last convocation—alcoholics and sick from gluttony—as any thinkable food has appeared in the Russian stores. No longer people stand in lines to get it, there are no food lines anymore! Does it has bettered the today’s Russia? Of course not.  People are still stealing, deceiving, finger pointing and denouncing at each other. But there are no queues, and everyone can buy what he likes, and ride whatever car he wishes. Russia got what it wanted, but so far freedom has not changed them.

Doubts torment you, Misha, but it is not your fault that they still steel and complain. You gave them their coveted freedom that they asked for, but for the starters, they kicked you out of our homeland. Nobody can give them happiness and dignity; they must begin to look for dignity for themselves! But how? Misha, you did not suppose to heal their genes, because it is beyond the human power. No one can change their genes damaged for centuries of slavery. And it was not you who killed the genes of the Russian nobility. You could not remake their history for their liking. Neither you, nor anyone else could do anything else for them. You opened the gates for growth and development. I want to assure you that, oddly enough, the signs of growth and development are there. The sprouts of changes may be weak, there are not as many of them as we would like to have them, but they are there, and no force will strangle them. Khodorkovsky, and Berezovsky, and Abramovich and many others will remain examples of entrepreneurship for many years. They proved that it is possible to think with your own head, if on a man shoulders sits a head, not a watermelon. 

People will seek to work, produce, and crate without stealing. When it becomes more profitable not to steal then steal, people will change. Anyway, people will change after wars and ruin caused by the upcoming gigantic devastation when the powers that be ruin this planet, our Earth, and will seek another planet in some other Galaxy in order to start it all over again.

I’m glad that our medium knows something, but not enough to fully understand what I’m talking about. But you will understand. You did exactly what you had to do. You opened the gates for salvation, and some pushed through that gate. And it will save more folks when people will get it that there are not milk-and-honey countries accepting the Russian runaways. The day is near when Russians start discover their own country with its options to grow and create lasting wealth for their posterity. And they, the advanced ones, or those who consider themselves as such, will stop hanging around in restaurants squandering money, but they will attend to study in universities. School desks instead of bunks, isn’t it what you dreamed about!  

………………………………..

Tatyana, you will live long enough to write some more. Keep writing, you heard me right…

My husband keeps vintage closets, I tell him throw out everything for air and space, as I have done it all my life on earth. Do it for aiding easier breathing at home. You are afraid to throw it out on your own. But Samuel will come in and take care of reducing the contents of the cabinets, and deciding wat to keep, and what to through out. Throw away those cherry and bluish tracksuits. You love them so much that you have worn them to holes. Go with Sam to the stores or ask him to order new ones straight from computer web stores. When you will go out with Samuel to look for them in stores, put on your black glasses, and no one will recognize you, Americans have their own problems to think about, and you will buy everything undisturbed—taking time to chose and think what you really need and like. Look in fashion magazines what people are wearing in nowadays, and Sam will find for you everything you like. Here people don’t carry clothes to holes. Let them throw everything away and bring in 12 new sets, 4 for the winter, 8 for the summer, the summer is longer than the winter, and the summer clothes wear out faster because of the Southern heat. Sam will tell you everything about shoes to wear. Leave the costumes for the official appearances, but change everything else, I said. The fashion is changing rapidly, Sam knows everything about it and he will gladly enlighten you regarding swings of fashion and trends. I, and some others, I will not give their names, will whisper Sam what to buy, if he himself will not guess it. Do not be afraid to spend an extra penny, you have earned it!

The Reagans have prepared a nice place for us, we will be their neighbors. And do not take too seriously the endless whining that comes from Russia. They whined during both Alexanders and both Nicholas. And under Lenin, and under Прощалыга (‘Rouge,’ a nickname for Stalin) Do not ask where he is, and what happened to him. They say that about 137 million human souls hang on him, for which the reckoning has not yet begun.

Pray for yourself and pray for us. God is merciful. You ended that terrible era bloodlessly. Whoever died during that time did it by his personal destiny.  

If you want to talk to me, do it however you like—in thoughts or out loud, I will hear you.

I would like to change your tableware; but it can wait. The simpler the better. I am hugging you. I do not say goodbye to you, time will pass by quickly. I hope talking to you with help of a medium soon.”

I miss Misha terribly, but I do not want to rush him to leave earth before his time. He needs to endure everything to the end. … Tata, you also need to stay for a while, because you have not reached the point of giving up your fights and challenges. Let do not forget each other. We will have something to talk about.

© 2019

Recorder by Tatyana Elmanovich, the certified medium

Парты вместо нар

October 2, 2013

Image result for Raissa Gorbacheva

Раиса Максимовна Горбачева говорит из астрального мира

Здравствуйте, Татьяна, мне рассказывали, как вы записали рассказ Б.Б. (рассказ Бориса Березовского). Пусть так, чем меньше имен, тем лучше! Мы все еще в том мире, мире нашего прошлого. Мы из него не выбрались и не выберемся в ближайшее будущее. Путин не плохой и не хороший, он сидит, его держат, потому что он никакой совершенно, а властвуют миром сейчас совершенно иные силы, о которых на земле практически ничего неизвестно.
В России, карман кое кого набухает, но с нашей точки зрения, это имеет мало значения, так как после его смерти, все что вошло, таким же путем и выйдет, и, наконец, попадет в народную казну, возможно, в момент, когда казна будет действительно нуждаться в деньгах. Давайте говорить спокойно. …Давайте, забудем ту взбалмошную бабу, которая у всех на голове сидела, надоедая до одури своими претензиями. Я таких убирала с пути Мишы, потому что они его душили, стоя толпами под дверьми денно и нощно… Не перебивайте меня. Я хочу передать несколько слов Михаилу, которого я очень люблю и который, как мне кажется, и меня любит. Мне все известно о вас, я поинтересовалась, мне доложили, и я осталась довольна тем, что вы человек, который ни в какие ряды не лезет.
Передайте Мише, что я его люблю и часто навещаю. Я помогаю повару не кормить его тем, чем не надо. Я убрала полностью соки подслащенные, да и натуральных соков ему не надо пить стаканами. Я прошу давать ему боржоми. А когда не подвозят боржоми, прошу давать ему местную минеральную воду. Вообще всем бы надо пить побольше минеральной воды, в которой есть те соли, которые нужны организму.
Мне сказали, чтобы я была осторожной, потому что следят за каждым моим шагом, мне и здесь нет свободы, мне бы хотелось с вами и об этом поговорить, если Бог даст мне такую возможность и такое удовольствие вырываться к вам в гости, в вашу скромную обитель, если можно так выразиться.
О вас два слова, кто вы есть и чего вы о себе не знаете, и что мне доложили. Вам дана только одна возможность вернуться к нормальной жизни при условии, что вы будете терпеть то, что вы терпите от него сейчас. Вам известно, о ком я говорю. Хуже не будет, но и не лучше. Иначе будет обитель сразу. Вам просто рано в обитель, и через него вы пройдете свой писательский путь. Обрывайте всякие концы земные. На уровне, на котором, вы провели жизнь, вам уже никто не нужен, включая ваших дражайших родственников. … Не отвлекайтесь, я жду, когда вы полностью войдете в канал, и я смогу начать письмо Мише.
«Миша, я не одна, я с тобой. Я с тобой всегда, и чаще, чем ты думаешь. И я не только на кухне, где я командую поваром, чтобы он кормил тебя по-человечески. Иногда я очень устаю, потому что он упрям и меня не слушает, мне приходится переворачивать соусники ему на передник, чтобы отвлечь его упорное внимание, и заставить прислушиваться к тому, что ему говорят.
Миша, мне не нравится, что ты печалишься по пустякам. Никто не хочет того, что было кроме полоумных состарившихся и одряхлевших коммунистов последнего созыва, спившихся и обожравшихся снедью, которая появилась в продаже в России, и за которой больше не надо стоять в мучительных очередях, вообще не надо стоять в очередях. Стало ли лучше в России? Конечно, нет. Там все также воруют, обманывают и друг на друга капают. Но очередей нет, и все могут кататься куда пожелают. Россия получила, чего хотела, но пока это ее не изменило.
Тебя томят сомнения, но пойми, ты ни при чем. Ты дал им свободу, ты дал им то, чего они просили, а они тебя из дому выгнали. Счастья и достоинства им никто дать не может, они должны начать сами искать, чем заняться, что делать, и научиться достоинству. Сами, сами. Но как? Миша, ты им гены не обязан был переделывать, потому что это не в силах человека. Никто им их рабских генов изменить не может. А русские дворянские гены не ты убивал. Ты им их историю не мог переделать. Ни ты, да и никто другой ничего более сделать для них не смог. Ты открыл им ворота к росту и развитию. И я хочу тебя заверить, что, как ни странно, рост и развитие происходят, ростки могут быть слабыми, их не так много как хотелось бы, но они есть, и их уже никакая сила не задушит. И Ходоровский, и Березовский, и Абрамович и многие другие останутся примерами предпринимательства на долгие годы. Они показали, что это возможно, что возможно своей головой думать, если она на плечах имеется. Если на плечах не арбуз, а голова!
Люди будут искать сделать что-либо не воруя, и когда станет выгоднее не воровать, чем воровать—воровать перестанут. Но это сделают уже другие, те кто пойдут далее после войн и разорения, после предстоящей гигантской разрухи, когда власть имущие разорят эту планету, нашу Землю до конца, и не примутся за другую планету в какой-нибудь другой Галактике.
Я рада, что наш с тобой медиум что-то знает, но не настолько, чтобы понять до конца, о чем я говорю. Но ты поймешь. Ты сделал именно то, что ты должен был сделать. Ты открыл им ворота для спасения, и кое-кто спасся. И будет далее спасаться. Но теперь уже не тем, что сбегать, потому что они поняли, что бежать им уже некуда. И они, передовые, или те, кто себя считают таковыми, перестанут торчать в ресторанах и проматывать народные деньги, а разбегутся по университетам и сядут за парты. Парты школьные вместо нар, разве это не то, о чем ты мечтал! Парты вместо нар, разве ты не об этом мечтал?»
…………………………….

Если будете вести себя как сейчас, то проживете еще столько, что успеете написать довольно много. Продолжайте писать, Татьяна, вы правильно услышали! Он наши допотопные шкафы и шкафчики держит. Не надо! Надо выкинь все для воздуха и пространства, как я всю жизнь выкидывала. Продолжай, чтобы тебе легче дышалось. Ты боишься выкинуть, потому что меня нет пойти в магазин и заказать тебе то, что тебе нужно. Знаешь что! Самуил зайдет и займется уменьшением содержимого шкафов, и освежением того, что надо носить. Выброси те вишневый и голубоватый спортивные костюмы. Ты их любишь, то их доносил до дыр. Надо обрести новый, послушайся меня, сделай себе удовольствие, пойдите с Сэмом в магазин, Сэм знает, куда вам положено ходить. Надень черные очки, никто тебя не узнает, американцам не до тебя, сам понимаешь, сейчас, и вы все спокойно купите. Посмотри журналы, Сэм тебе все покажет, и купит спорт одежду для прогулки. Здесь это не донашивают до дыр и пота, который краску съедает со временем. Пусть выкинут все исподнее и завезут 12 новых комплектов, 4 на зиму, 8 на лето, лето здесь дольше зимы, и летнее от жары скорее снашивается. Сэм тебе скажет все про обувь. Оставь костюмы на официальные выходы, но неофициальные выходные все смени, все, я сказала. На них мода быстро меняется, Сэм поможет, спроси, его чтобы он купил, он все тебе подскажет. А мы придем к вам — я и еще кое-кто, не буду называть имен, и мы Сэму нашепчем, что покупать, если он сам не догадается, что покупать. Не бойся лишнюю копейку потратить, ты заработал.
Я хочу тебе сказать, что Рейганы нам приготовили хорошее место здесь, мы будем их соседями. Татчер – но это отдельная история. Только не поддавайся сомнениям, сожалению, не слушай бесконечного нытья, которое исходит из России. Они также ныли при Александрах, при обоих Николаях. И при Ленине, и при Прощалыге, и при… Не спрашивай, где он, и что с ним. Говорят, на нем висит около 137 миллионов человеческих душ, за которые расплата даже еще и не началась.
Молись за себя и за нас. Бог милостив. Ты закончил ту страшную эру без единой кровинки. Кто голову тогда сложил, сделал это по совершенно другой линии, они все равно сложили бы свои головы, потому что это у них на роду было написано.
Если ты будешь говорить со мной, не имеет значение как, либо в мыслях, либо вслух, я тебя услышу.
Я бы и столовую посуду сменила; но это не важно. Чем проще, тем лучше.
Я тебя обнимаю. Я не прощаюсь с тобой, время пролетит быстро. Если смогу, я буду еще с тобой говорить.”

Сегодня уже не 2013 год, а 2 января 2020 года, столько воды утекло, столько времени прошло.  Как вы себя чувствуете? Что вы думаете о планах освоения России методами, которыми Северная Америка так успешно управляет Южной Америкой? Для начала, существуют ли такие планы, или это просто сплетни, бабьи домыслы?  Каких только домыслов не в годину, когда президенты борются в этой стране за второй срок?

Тата, это имя останется за вами. Хотите, я скажу, что я думаю, о таких планах?

Конечно!

Этого никогда не будет, все произойдет не так как планируется.  У них нет никакого понятия, кто такие русские, лентяи, алкоголики,  наркоманы, маниловщина, убийцы, набор измельченных иван-грозных. Они попробуют, и их отшвырнет такой волной сопротивления, что они отступятся, и станут думать, стоит ли игра свеч. Каков окончательный счета в той игре футбольной, кто кого отфутболит, я не знаю, но русскому народу унижения не миновать. Ими будут помыкать, как черными рабами, пока рабы не проснутся… Что будет далее, не знаю… От русского врожденного чванства они вряд ли откажутся, но думать придется, и это будет а true wake up call that is badly needed in Russia. Нет еще ясности, остановится ли тенденция усыхания генетического запаса народа…  Мне не хочется гадать, поживем увидим. Мне не хочется Мишу звать или торопить с уходом с земного плана, ему надо дотерпеть все до конца…  Как вы?  Вам тоже надо на вашем пути дойти до точки, вы еще не там…  Давайте, не забывать друг друга.  Нам будет о чем поговорить.     

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