Mark Twain: I am in shambles, as I died in peace. Problems came later. —Did the Judgment Day provoke them? —There was incredible crowd of souls waiting for me to arrive, and I was late as usual. I walked in with my wife Olivia, who had died earlier. We had our differences, but these were nothing in comparison with differences that I had with society and my finances, as I never learned to take advantage of our freedom, democracy, or money-making opportunities. Here they suggest that I must learn cooperation with the world around me and study the managerial skills instead of becoming a next Shakespeare. But I want to be a writer again. The next time I will not be a fool to seek fame what creates monsters around you and turns you into one of them.
Like myself, be aware that you may face the same problem. Thank God, it will not happen tomorrow, that you start climbing straight up on our meager short sized Olympus.
—What have been told to you on your Judgment Day?
—Nothing. They said like you were a good boy, who worked yourself from ground zero onto American Olympus. I was promised that my name will stay there for a long time, and they added, “Now it is your turn to learn financial freedom without harming your life, also your loved ones, especially without turning your daughters’ life into living hell. Boys did not love girls with fathers’ who had shaking monetary problems.” Suzy never married because of my outstanding financial failures. Terrible! However, I know that it was not because of me, or her mother, but because of her destiny to become a spinster.
—Will you go learn money making skills?
—Yes, I will. And this time I do not have to start from ground zero level to force myself to rise on the top in furious fight with colleagues in envy and unfriendliness. I will be a nasty creature, real Gobseck, stingy type, women hater, and I am afraid — a gay.
—In what country? — Of course, France with Italian accent! Mama will be an Italian, beautiful as a … I cannot find a polite wording for description of Lutheran busy beauty with all passion for men. In short, they apologized for my terrible life down there, absence of real friends — always working. I know that here in some place lives a spirit of Pushkin, I want to meet that guy. Can you arrange this favor for me?
I have idea who he is, but to see him will be entirely different story.
—I will try?
—What is his main work? —A novel in verses Yevgeny Onegin, his poems, and novel The Captain’s Daughter about Pugachev’s revolt, quite a serious thing in the past. Dostoyevsky said that this novel worked as a plan for Tolstoy’s novel War and Peace.
Pushkin included contemporary spoken language into high poetry and marked the circle of main themes of the Russian literature.
—They expect me break the real ground for English speaking world in my next round as an American writer as well. I will go soon for rebirth in Boston.
—Sorry, may I ask if your rebirth will happen in France or Boston?
—Still not sure, both paths are open, I must make the final decision! Or someone will make it for me!
—How I met my monster? After my transition, I was merrily looking around when I saw myself in my clothes in my own garden… My double was ten times taller than me. Not, he was not like me, but he was recognizable. He said that he came to keep me alive, and protect me from evil forces that were surrounding me from every thinkable angel!
—He wanted to enter your body despite being significantly taller than you?
—Did you allowed this to happen?
—No, and it caused me terrible trouble. He chased me about a year. And, finally, I yelled into his face, that I hate him! However, my revelation did not cause him to leave me. He looked terrible…like Jim from Huckleberry Finn’s novella, always drunk and threatening. And my double looked like a mulatto. Probably, because I had my share of problems with African Americans during my entire life on earth. My problems with my accusers started early on, soon after the first edition of Huckleberry Finn was printed. I was marked as racist who hated poor negros in this country.
—Did you answer them?
—Never ever, as I was aware of politics. And dark-skinned Amerika, heated human beings, founded struggle for equality with whites. Politically I was on their side, as a writer I saw the deepest humanity in them, as they were capable to protect and encompass with love Huckleberry Finn, the crooked bad boy, an abandoned orphan in extreme misery, my favorite character, I had ever created! I was told on my Judgment Day that I have to continue writing to create something like Russians had in their Gogol’s “Dead Souls,” not two characters, but a gallery of various characters. Let me think if this is a chance for me?
Mark Twain fell in silence and continued after a while.
―Of course, for me the most American character would be Donald Trump with his half-Russian wife Melania and the absolute syntheses, their son who will grow up as a highbrow who would despise his father as a Hill Billy who paid the national debt by lucky chance alone. Oh, Tramp proved to be the best for the job, that m… f…er!
―Let look for some public figures! Louis Armstrong! Nancy Reagan, Malcolm McDowell as Alex in Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange.
― Very much like Gogol’s Nozdrev! A professional hater of humanity!
―And of course, Charles Chaplin, gentlemen from head to waistline, and down from a rope for a belt ― pants, clearly originated in some dump. In short, a gentleman with a distant past, but still full of life and love and hope!
― And one cannot build a gallery of American characters without a scandalous preacher and a salesperson on the road who put cockroaches in your head selling you God that they do not believe in, and stuff that you do not need, but you pretend buying into their lies out of pity toward their hardship as traveling salespersons despised by almost everyone whom they made listen to them. These characters would be left for me to create digging to the bottom of their misery! And the last, but not the least one will be the American travelling inventor raising funds for his invention, I gather!
Thank you, Tatyana, for giving me an idle idea how to come back to writing that I decided to forget or postpone for an immeasurable time, at least for now!
―May I point to a closer source of inspiration that can be effortlessly found on Guttenberg Project. The first page of Charles Dicken’s Pickwick Papers. Can something be funnier than following start of a book?
“May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual Vice-President—Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following resolutions unanimously agreed to:—
‘That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman—Member Pickwick Club], entitled “Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittle Bats;” and that this Association does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same…’ ”
“Theory of Tittle Bats in the bottom of the Hampstead Ponds for advancing science! I laughed my head off when I discovered it some time ago. It sounded like a fanfare for activating inspiration and choosing humorous style for entire book! Do you also have your secret ways, say, tricks for wakening inspiration into working condition and commanding readers to choose your side what you have done so successfully your entire life?
―Of course, I have. But I will not reveal my secret tricks as I want to continue writing my next story and I will use it again for experiencing pleasure birthing out of nowhere alive characters that would live their own life in subtle worlds, as does Pickwick, Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer and his aunty Sally and so many others who were coming from conscious of so many great writers that had helped to refine our minds and perception of the world around us! And here comes a little gift to you.
The note from the author of this interview with Mark Twain. Once I tossed in the air an abstract question, was there some truth to the rumor that Mark Twain started his career as a newspaper boy? Before I knew it, black and white visions of shamanic underworld started to appear in front of me replacing one vision with another one, a vision of a provincial town’s center-point with some Lutheran Church across of a busy tavern, a marry drinking establishment across the solemn entrance to the House of God. These visions were surfacing from the deep depts of shamanic underworld, until I clearly heard a male voice.
“… Do not bother me, girl, I am sleepy… as a boy, I was a paper hawker shouting out memorable titles that sold papers to the curious morning crowd. So, I learned that newspapermen are not made equal, some were more popular than the others, and in my chest was growing and growing the burning desire to become one of them, the famous one, better than they all together, because I knew I would do better. …I would morph into Sally with her limited mind, and large heart encompassing the abandoned boys named Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, also Mississippi river and all those funny folks in misery that were floating (in rusty fishermen boats) back and forth by the great river, seeking food and roof and piece of fleeting happiness… but all they found were dreams of heavenly paradise at the end of their lives on earth. If you have some guts, write what they found instead.”
“Who needs these newspapers? Selling headlines, I realized the price of a powerful word. To write is to string words one to another in a phrase — or you string diamonds, or pellets of mouse droppings. This is my gift to you as a keepsake, and do not wake me up anymore, I was about to fall asleep, and you woke me up again … Even then, selling newspapers, I began to write down interesting words, and when I sailed as a journalist in the Mississippi, I did not swim in the water, but in verbal abundance of folk speech, remember this. Your vocabulary is still poor, but your Mississippi will be in your destiny, just do not oversleep this sacred voyage, forget your lovers, husbands, children, fame, money, absorb the words, they are alive, they will tell your stories, not you – but they.”
Сегодня утром я проснулся в 7 утра… с Высоцким… в постели.
КТО ЕСТЬ ВЫСОЦКИЙ? И с какой стати я была удостоeна такой чести?
Владимир Высоцкий, или ВВ — гражданин России, нанятый Джозефом Кеннеди, куратором нашего дома для престрелых старушек и старичков с неизвестной целью, был поселен с Элвисом Пресли в СПАЛЬНЕ моей квартиры 304. Я в этой странной компании единственная, кто платит ренту 265 долларов и дополнительно около 100 долларов ежемесячно за свет из пособия 900 долларов, выплачиваемых мне щедрым американским правительством. Эта ситуация возникла в январе 2020 года, более года назад!
На днях, Высоцкий пытался вырезать полисмену Эрнандесу оба глаза. Быстрое вмешательство друзей полицейских спасло его глаза. Но его зрение ослаблено, и останется таковым на веки, как предполагают врачи.
Нет нужды в перечислении проблем, вызываемых Высоцким, страниц не хватит! Долгое время немытый Высоцкий болен тяжелой шизофренией. Но ему отдали почему-то спальню в моей квартире на S. 404 Cochran Avenue, apt 304, Los Angeles, California 90036. Отобрали мою спальню на две недели, но прошел год и два месяца, а воз и ныне там!
Но, оказалось, спальни мало нашему барду. И сегодня утром я нашла это сокровище в моей постели, скорее – на раскладушке, расположенной в так называемой «большой комнате с китченеткой.»
Я живу в условиях, в которых, как говорится, не до постели, здесь главное живой и при всех трех глазах остаться. Два глаза вроде бы на месте, но пережили ли вторжение гения отросточки, которые появились там, где у меня был сильный Третий Глаз с густым лиловым цветом, скрытым под кожей лица. К вечеру я выяснила, что ВВ пристраивался к моей раскладушке не без цели. Новые росточки на территории бывшего Третьего Глаза были выскреблены дочиста. Сейчас ВВ стоит за моей спиной со змеями в руках и читает то, что я пишу. Пользуюсь случаем, спрашиваю, не было ли КГБ как-то замешано в его решение вырезать мой Третий Глаз весной прошлого года?
Ответ ВВ: — Я никогда не стал бы делать такое, вырезать 3ий глаз без поддержки своих. И вдруг добавил. Решение было принято на высшем уровне руководства советского КГБ — травить всех уехавших, что бы знали, на будущее! . . Правдиво ли такое заявление? Думаю, ВВ мстит Джозефу Кеннеди за что-то только ему известное. Что может быть ужаснее намеков на сотрудничество Кеннеди с КГБ? Скорее всего, ВВ врет, чтобы запрятать шизофрению в задний карман своих немытых джинсов.
ВВ вырезал мой ТРЕТИЙ ГЛАЗ на моем лбу. ВВ вырезал его для своего удовольствия весной 2020 года, когда я спала, и ВВ вошел тихонечко и сделал свое черное дело в ловле острых ощущений, которые здоровому не нужны, а шизе – да, и очень! @.
Последствия отсутствия ТРЕТЬЕГО ГЛАЗА в моей энергетической системе: После перехода с земли в астрал я буду слепой из за ОТСУТСТВИЯ Третьего Глаза, срезанного Владимиром Высоцким. А в астрале нельзя быть слепым.
Моя душа будет помещена в первую доступную утробу, и я рожусь слепым ребенком, во второй раз ребенок будет все также слепым и так далее, пока тело не накопит необходимый уровень энергии для создания новых глаз для ребенка.
Если я останусь на земле подольше, ТРЕТИЙ ГЛАЗ получит шанс ВОССТАНОВЛЕНИЯ хотя бы частичного зрения, достаточного для пребывания в астральном мире.
Когда я обнаружила Высоцкого в своей постели, я закричала как сумасшедшая от унижения, от того, что меня унижали люди вокруг меня – души нескольких русских писателей, которые видели, как Высоцкий заползает в мою постель, но «не знали», как сказать мне об этом. Личные охранникиэ мистера Кеннеди, Альберт, которому платят за защиту всех нас и который знал о моей проблеме, и некому особому мистеру Икс, нанятому мистером Кеннеди, чтобы защитить местных жителей от новой привычки Высоцкого, вырезать людям глаза со лба – бездействовали! Они боялись Высоцкого. Защитники боялись разделить судьбу Эрнандеса, и я их не виню. Короче, я осталась одна, рискуя разделить судьбу Эрнандеса и Пушкина (1799-1837), величайшего поэта России, который был «успешно» ослеплен ножом Высоцкого в 2020 году. Третий Глаз Пушкина ВВ также не пожалел. Две женщины, очень сознательные, отказались принимать душу ПУШКИНА на перерождение. Их пугала перспектива поднимать слепого ребенка.
В 1989 году я сбежала из Эстонии, когда я стала получать угрозы физической расправы. Люди, как Высоцкий, агенты КГБ, продолжают унижать меня и в Америке. Главная задача агента КГБ за рубежом – сделать жизнь иммигранта из России адом. Кажется, Высоцкий усердно и с энтузиазмом работает на КГБ!
В течение 2020 и 2021 годов Высоцкий, отрезав мой ТРЕТИЙ ГЛАЗ, далее отчищал не то 8, не то 10 раз, всегда ночью, во время моего крепкого сна, «соскребая» острым ножом РОСТКИ, которые прорастали на том месте, где когда-то был Третий Глаз, вырезанный весной 2020 года.
ЕСЛИ ВЛАДИМИР ВЫСОЦКИЙ ПРОДОЛЖИТ ПРЕБЫВАТЬ в МОЕЙ КВАРТИРЕ, ОСОБЕННО в моей постели, меня ждет судьба душ, брошенных в первую доступную утробу, чтобы родиться слепым ребенком, и продолжать рождаться слепыми, пока я не соберу достаточно энергии, чтобы создать новые глаза в утробе моей «следующей, следующей и следующей матери.»
Мистер Кеннеди, я попыталась объяснить ситуацию вам и вашей замечательной жене Розе Фиджеральд Кеннеди. Может, мой ужасный английский помешал вам понять меня? Может быть, мой беззубый рот был причиной того, что вы меня не поняли? Но может быть бы бсетаки услышите меня? Если не произойдет перемен и больной Владимир Высоцкий не будет переведен отсюда в какое-нибудь психиатрическое учреждение или другое место, или не будет возвращен домой, в Россию, у меня будет отнята моя последняя надежда на то, чтобы дать начало восстановлению некоторого зрения для входа в астральнй мир.
Если ВВ останется жить в моей квартире, он сможет очистить новообразование в любое время, когда захочет, во время моего глубокого сна. Я пыталась бодрствовать всю ночь, но мне это не удавалось.
Пожалуйста, дайте мне несколько лет побыть на земле спокойно, без пребывания ВВ в моей действительности, чтобы немного восстановить мое астральное зрение, а не быть брошенной в «банку» для безнадежных.
Если кому-то здесь «некуда идти», как любят повторять ВВ, ЭП, то это я, иностранец из Эстонии, а не Элвис Пресли, или Владимир Высоцкий.
Спасибо, что просмотрели статью, написанной спонтанно, и прошу, поддержите мысленно, невидимая поддержка бывает эффективное пышных выступлений… Татьяна Эльманович
It happened during the dullest noon hours of a smoldering summer day in California. I finished my shopping of groceries at Trader Joe store near my home. All I had to do was drive to the nearest cross road, make a left turn, then a right turn, and I would be at my porch. Nearing a left-turn pocket at the end of the street a man’s hand fell on my left shoulder, and a voice shouted, “Stop immediately!” I obeyed and stopped without questioning who issued this order in my empty car? Then it happened. From the crossing road a speedy car, pushing 200 or more miles per hour, turned into my pocket. One short moment, and a head-to-head crash would be unavoidable. She made a mistake, instead of turning in her lane, being blinded by some emotional explosion she turned had instead of her lane straight into the pocket ahead of me! If I would not been stopped by the mystical hand of a stranger, the accident would be impending. Who was the stranger, and how he got into my car?
The inevitable head-to-head collision was avoided. When the speeding lady saw me practically in front of her, her cart jumped like frog out of the “pocket” and landed onto her lane on her right. Thank God, there was free space waiting her and enough clear road for slowing down her enormous speed. Now I had time to look back who was the stranger who happened to be in my car to save life of the miserable immigrant or emigrant, which one fitted me more?
The iconic face was beautiful and clean beyond description, I tried to open my paralyzed mouth to pronounce a word of gratitude, but he disappeared, he became invisible to me. Was he an angel, or an entity from higher realm? I would never know who he was, but he saved the life of the girl who was speeding, my life and more lives and more cars because abnormal speed of the girl’s car would hit me and the remains of our cars would roll over into traffic and cause more damage than one could imagine.
However, what did happen years later, when I was tempted to publish this story in my blog, is also worth mentioning. My friends who red this story found it unbelievable, and I was asked in both languages, in English and Russian, why I invented this fiction, as it sounded unbelievable to them. As I already mentioned, I am a medium, and donor of universal antibodies, but, regrettably, I see spirits only randomly, only during events that mobilize our all emotions, when there is danger, or some other exciting emotions involved. So, being vulnerable, limited in seeing spirits, I had not enough arguments to defend my story. It is strange, we accept fictitious angelic stories, but deny reality of interference of divinity into our daily life.
In the company of friends who thought that I was inventing this story was a seer who offered his help. “Give me some time, I will try to look into that story, but be prepared, I will say what I will see…” He kept a little distance, yes. He did not rush to any conclusion… He was the one of doubters, and he took quite a time trying find this event in my past. But then he finally opened his mouth, and came up with a simple reaction, “Yes, it happened to her.”
Still, do we have to publish such extraordinary stories or not? Maybe it would sound like tail-tail, look at the wonderful me, angels are rushing to my aid!
On the other hand, these stories may help somebody to peel off too much ordinary from his mind, the numbness of feelings, maybe someone believe that extraordinary is a chance available to everyone, and it can cast light that may inspire us look for our hidden and usually unused abilities, hidden and repressed by the need to take care of potatoes, cabbage and everlasting worry about our daily bread and roof over our heads.
But it was not the end of the story! A friend, a lover of cocaine relief, stood up, placed himself into center of circle, grabbed my pages with this story, and becoming unusually pale, tore them into vertical pieces, throw them into my face, yelling, “Never feed me this Christian crap, it is not happening, it cannot happen, do not call this materialization at the mountain Sinai, shame on you all!” And he was gone, running into summer night, alone and never happy with his life…
A girl started to collect the pieces of manuscript from the floor, I said, “Do not worry, leave them there, I have another copy of this manuscript, so not all is lost!” One day I fell a sleep and saw a dream—in a Russian country home was so called “red corner” with icons and in front of one of them was old fashioned lampada. Its flickering light revealed a familiar iconic portrait. And I recognized the angel, who once saved two lives from inevitable death? Was he an angel or Jesus? I would never know.
I woke up and heard a voice … He said that He did not came to save me but pick up my soul, he came to take you to us if the accident occurs. But when I saw a racing girl who had a falling out with her lover, I took pity on her, I stopped you, and both of you were saved. This time, I came to save your nephew’s vision, and I am here, because you are my daughter… I cannot know if this is true biologically, who can find it out? But you are my daughter in a sense of openness of your heart. I cannot find a single drop of anger, and this makes the difference, you have no anger toward people who had trespassed against you, not toward those who were more talented and more successful than you. I know that you believe that you would go blind. Your nephew would be blind if his rare decease would be not stopped right now. I hasten to stop his eye disease, which will soon prevent him from drawing, but he is the architect in present incarnation, and would be the architect in following incarnation. You were given writing talent and healing talent, you will stay on earth for a while, and be busy up to the last day on earth. Good luck to you both!
Я живу в Лос Анджелесе. Мне 84 года, и нынче мой черед лечить ревматизм, боль в спине и коленях, и прочие возрастные недомогания. Вспоминаю бабушку в моем раннем детстве. Мне три года, и я у кого-то на руках, скорее всего отцовских. Мама стоит рядом в новом нарядном платье—на голубом фоне легкой ткани разбросаны оранжевые маки… Кто бы мог подумать, что в старости я увижу их в калифорнийских пустынях, когда те вдруг оживают, заливаясь цветом нежнейших оранжевых маков. Пчелы прилетают сюда, чтобы собрать мед и отдать его сотам, часто вместе с их скоротечной жизнью на благо продолжения пчелиного рода.
На дворе пасхальное утро, серая дымка на горизонте оживает. Еще немного, и предрассветный туман сдастся, солнечные лучи прорвутся, и птицы вспорхнут навстречу восходящему солнцу, листья деревьев, трава, и лепестки цветов засверкают алмазом утренней росы, будто для тех, кто возвращаются из церкви в благом состоянии духа: Христос Воскресе—Воистину Воскресе, Христос Воскресе—Воистину Воскресе, Воистину Воскресе, Воис…воскре… воистину…
Взрослые остановились в саду, вдыхая живительную свежесть утреннего воздуха… Бабушка Люба вынесла два больших шоколадных яйца, одно завернуто в красную конфетную бумагу, другое—в золотую обертку, и видимо, испытывая меня на природный вкус, велела выбрать одно, какое мне больше понравится. Мне запомнились мои очень маленькие руки, которые потянулись к … ярко-красному яйцу, но никак не могли до него дотянуться. Бабушка пыталась убедить меня, что золотое красивее, и я пустилась в рев, и требовала, чтобы мне отдали красное яйцо… Мама смотрела на бабушку умоляюще. Любовь Петровна поморщилась и отдала мне красное яйцо. Ни сказав ни слова, чем-то недовольная, она ушла к себе.
Воцарилась неловкое молчание, пасхальное настроение было нарушено. И я думаю, я помню этот эпизод лишь потому, что тогда, заодно с яркими образами сверкающих шоколадных яиц, в мое подсознание заползло тихой змейкой чувство вины. Я испортила праздник всем, всем, неблагодарная я… у меня выскочило из памяти, что сталось с тем шоколадным яйцом? Я только недавно заметила, что никогда не покупаю на Пасху шоколадных игрушек— яиц, зайчиков, собачек, кошечек, фигурок шаловливых детишек, обернутых блестяще-пестрыми конфетными бумажками, которые с такой щедростью продаются в Лос Анджелесе перед Пасхой, а после раздаются за очень дешево в супермаркетах по всей огромной страны.
Переигрываю в воображении память о восходе солнца в то пасхальное утро моего далекого детства… Мать ускользает в цветник нашего сада, и возвращается с букетом подснежников. Пасхальный стол накрыт дорогой розовой скатертью, которую расстилали только на Пасху, а в центре, в низкой хрустальной вазе белеeт облачко свежих подснежников. Я жду, когда мне достанется, наконец, кусочек пасхи, любимого пасхального лакомства. Взрослые также молча ждут чего-то, не то, как и я, пасхи, не то чуда воскресения, а может быть переживают снова полет души в высь, в заоблачную голубизну, где жизнь вечна, потому что в их сознании все еще звучат слова пасхальной молитвы «Смертью смерть поправ и сущим во гробах жизнь даровав»!
Вот я снова в Лос Анджелесе, и думаю о том, что и мне скоро в путь дорожку собираться. Сегодня спирит моего отца приходил поговорить, и я отважилась спросить его об его отношениях с его матерью, моей бабушкой Любовью Петровной. В ответ он произнес следующий монолог.
— Я не могу говорить о моей матери, сын не должен судить мать, мне трудно говорить о ней, потому что…. С той минуты как на свет Божий явился Вики, нас как бы не стало. Все ее мысли и чувства сосредотачивались сперва на новорожденном, а с течением времени на ребенке, подростке, молодом студенте, вступающим в жизнь молодом юристе, пока вдруг Викин жестокий жребий, перекинувшийся из колена в мозг туберкулез, не оборвал нить его земного существования не ранее и не позднее чем, когда Вики закончил cum laude юридический факультет Дорпатского, ныне Тартускогоуниверситета, оставив за собой безутешную, и в конец разорившуюся мать. Казалась жестокая судьба говорила ей, мол, полагайся на Божью Волю и не на себя только. Люби Бога более, чем своих сыновей… Да разве это возможно?
Денег не было, все уходило на образование и лечение Вики… Я работал на торфяном болоте, и мечтал о красивом, а главное, чистом мундире армейского офицера… А затем ворвались советские, как раз, когда умирал Вики… И сошедшая с катушек мать уселась у палящей печки сжигать бесценную свою библиотеку, которую мои родители собирали, как в любом порядочном дворянском доме, для детей и внуков… Красные орудовали на улицах и площадях, приставляли к стенке виновных, а главное, не виновных, и расстреливали без суда и следствия для введения новых порядков. Всем и вся уже все известно о том времени… Для нашей семьи все шло прахом. Вики уже не было с нами, когда Советы мобилизовали Юрика и меня в Красную Армию, а Андрея отпустили, посчитали старым… Он счастливчик, родился в рубашке…
—За что бабушка Люба, тебя не любила?
—Это не было нелюбовью, это было полное равнодушие, отсутствием какого-либо отношения ко мне… Ты присутствовал, но она тебя не видела, не слышала, и тобою не интересовалась, она терпела твое присутствие, вот и все… Ты мог быть, но ты мог и не быть. Она терпела меня кое как, но еле терпела мою жену, которая рассыпалась перед ней мелким бесом, а та как-то нехорошо улыбалась, и снова уходила в себя. Тамариных родственников, Сиротиных, моя мать и вовсе терпеть не могла. Она никогда не говорила о своих чувствах. Молчание избавляла ее от каких-либо выяснения отношений, она ничего никогда не выясняла, она держала свои чувства при себе, и только глаза ее невольно говорили тебе, где твое место в системе ее ценностей.
Она никогда бы не созналась, что не любит тебя потому, что ты сделал что-то для нее неприемлемое, не любила она тебя беспричинно. Она жила замкнутой, своей жизнью, в которой тебя просто не было… Страдал ли я от этого? Я просто привык к тому, что я никто, и могу стать только военным. Там ты никто только в том случае, если ты будешь прятаться за спины товарищей, чтобы выжить. Но если ты в армии готов защищать не только себя, но и других, ты хорош для получения наград и орденов. Я всегда нуждался в людях, и я принял Высоцкого за друга… Далее тебе все известно. Когда-либо позже я расскажу о подробностях, которых ты, возможно, и не знаешь.
Путешествие в прошлые воплощения Любовь Петровны
Голос отца куда-то пропал… Со мной оказались Парамаханса Йогананда и какой-то его приятель весьма экзотической наружности. Он пробормотал свое имя, которое я не расслышала, неловко засмеялся, и предложил мне «путешествие» в мир бабушкиных воплощений, необходимое, как ему казалось для завершения работы над этой книгой. Взамен он попросил немного витальной энергии для предстоящего лечения. Парамаханса Йогананда взялся устроить детали передачи энергии.
Начинать надо было с медитации. Отпускаю напряжение в мышцах. Дышу скучно и ровно, за закрытыми глазами темно. Наконец, будто из молочного тумана перед восходом солнца начинают проступать неопределенные очертания какого-то странного поля, усеянного черепами. Черепов больше, чем на знаменитом полотне Верещагина «Апофеоз войны». В глубине этого поля находятся «золотые врата» в мир Божий, надо полагать.
На четвертом пальце моей левой руки появляется «царское кольцо» с овальным сапфировым камнем, украшенного резьбой некого мистического символа. Вскоре, кольцо «заговорило», притягивая проклятия незахороненных душ тех, кого согласно обычаям древних времен, либо убивали по обоюдному согласию, либо бросали умирать в муках на полях битв. Решала ли душа Любовь Петровны в прошлом судьбы раненых на полях этих же битв, либо наоборот, она сама была раненым воином, брошенным умирать либо своими, либо побежденными? Я не раз замечала, что в ролевых парах, роли легко переходят из одной крайности в другую: в одном воплощении ты вор, а в следующем полицейский, в одном воплощении она проститутка, а в следующем монахиня… Кем была моя бабушка, жертвой жестоких законов, или создательницей этих же законов, за которые, она возможно нынче расплачивается? Зачем и почему незнакомец предложил мне это странное путешествие моего сознания в бабушкино прошлое?
Вместо ответа на мои вопросы, на плоском вытоптанном поле с черепами, со всех концов потянулись ряды душ в белых одеяниях, казалось, их вели на общее крещение. На самом деле их вели к сверкающим золотым «царским вратам», за которыми их ждали лечебный сон и отдых. На том же поле трудились ангелы и священники, подбадривая тех, кто боялись чего-то, шарахаясь от блеска золота…
С ними говорили долго и терпеливо, пока убеждение, что за золотыми воротами их ждут розги, не преодолевалось… Им говорили, что бить их не будут, вместо этого они будут спать мирным сном до их следующего воплощения, и что это особенный сон, потому что несет не только отдых, но и необходимое им лечение.
Кстати, в книге Синди Дейл …………………….., исследователя и практикующего альтернативного хилера, есть прямое подтверждение описанной ситуации. Она пишет о повышающихся уровнях «отдыха» души между инкарнациями. На первом уровне астрального «покоя» души спят в перерыве между воплощениями. А на более высоких уровнях «покоя» открываются возможности получать образование, развиваться и трудиться. Кто будет спать, а кто трудиться, зависит от состояния ментального тела человека. Здесь все наоборот – менее развитые будут спать, а более развитые будут трудиться добровольно, чтобы подняться на более высокие уровни астрального бытия. В книге Синди Дейл упоминается также присутствие представителей самых разных религий и конфессий, которые объясняли и молились с душами, пораженными сомнениями и страхом перехода из никуда в астральную усыпальницу.
Мне поручили также сосредотачивать золотой свет на духовном сердце бабушки для плавки темного зловещего мрамора вокруг ее замученного сердца. Наконец, мы подошли к старту в путешествие в прошлое в поисках более эффективного очищения ее сердца. Когда я стала звать свет, то есть космический «воздух» с более высокой частотой вибрации, явилась помощь. Незнакомец Парамахансы Йогананды оказался рядом со мной, а я становилась то мужчиной, то возвращалась в мое женское тело. Со мною происходило то, что называется shape shifting! Мои руки тянулись к свету, но это были уже не мои, а жилистые мужские руки с бицепсами, браслетами, и татуировкой, принадлежащие некому странному полуголому желтокожему существу… с повязкой на голове, с темными глазами, и характерной горбинкой на носу. Может быть вернее было бы сказать, что незнакомец с его помощниками и я звали золотой свет через мою седьмую чакру. Я просила помощи и благословения Иисуса и Святой Богородицы, и защиты нашему необычному путешествию. Я обращалась за помощью и к Марии Магдалене, потому что ощущала ее присутствие.
Две танцующие фигуры в центре этого древнего изображения напоминают того пришельца, кто предложил мне полет сквозь бабушкины прошлые воплощения.
Мой безымянный помощник нес мое сознание, или то, чем мы являемся в состоянии OBE, когда выходим из тела, сквозь бабушкины инкарнации чуть ли не со времен поклонения богине Иштар, сквозь войны с монголами, службы египетским фараонам, усмирения бунтов рабов и черни. Когда я пишу об этом, получается плоский перечень увиденного… Интенсивность этого полета неописуема словами, потому что слои истории и культур, египетских царств и династий, походов Александра Македонского и римлян и персов быстро менялись, сопровождаемые грохотом разрушений, вызванных войнами и мятежами.
Без какого-либо объяснения, наш полет резко развернулся к войнам ацтеков и инков на американском континенте. Мы остановились у изгороди из свай, украшенных отрубленными головами со снятыми скальпами. Этого, видимо, не ожидал даже мой проводник… Вдруг он каким-то несловесным образом передал мне следующее: «Здесь ее душа остановилась! Между жизнями, в астрале, она стала христианкой, и попросила посчитать работу ее души как воина завершенной!»
Мрамор, окружавший сердце, стал таять как черная восковая свеча, стекающая прямо в землю, а нижний край сердца ожил нежно-розовым, младенческим свечением. Я ожидала увидеть изумрудный свет, а пошло розовое свечение. Оказалось, в этой суровой и выдержанной, всегда сдержанной женщине было запрятано столько девственно нетронутой детскости. Действительно, однажды она вступила же со мной, трехлетней, в спор, какая краска лучше, красная или золотая… Она раздражалась, когда учила меня, тупую, математике, радовалась, когда я залпом прочла «Руслана и Людмилу», чего «нормальный» взрослый не заметил бы, или посчитал смешным и лишним.
Ко мне подошел помолодевший дедушка Григорий и сказал всего несколько слов: «Седина ушла, волосы Любы стали темными. Ты вернула мне жену, спасибо!» Я приняла его благодарность, не подозревая о зыбкой основе моего лечения. Прошло лишь несколько месяцев, и я заметила, что волосы бабушки стали снова седеть. И мне вспомнился фильм Пенни Маршал с Робертом Де Ниро и Робертом Вильямсом в главных ролях Awakening, Пробуждение.
Комментарий: Фильмописывает попытки лечить так называемую сонную болезнь лекарствами.
Википедия. Awakening is based on the true story of Dr. Oliver Sacks, whose 1973 book depicts his drug experiments with L-Dopa, which stimulates the body’s production of dopamine, which he undertook in the late ’60s with survivors of a 1920s sleeping sickness epidemic. But their recoveries were short-lived. In the film and in real life, Leonard L. the patient, embodied by Robert De Niro, developed severe tics and regressed to his earlier passive state. He died in 1981.
Любовь Петровна закончила свой земной путь от жесточайшего Паркинсона, который в те времена ничем толком не лечился. Все, что мне показывали во время нашего полета в прошлое, а увидела совершенно в ином свете.
В фильме Пенни Маршал «Пробуждение» казалось, лекарства сотворили чудо, на эффект длился не долго, болезнь вернулась и на этот раз, ее уже не удалось повернуть вспять.
Причины болезней таких как Паркинсон, Альцгеймер, Болезнь Лу Герриг и ряда вариаций подобных, но реже встречающихся заболеваний кроются глубже, куда действие лекарств не доходит, либо противодействующие силы сильнее медицинских препаратов.
Комментарий:What Is Lou Gehrig’s Disease? Lou Gehrig’s disease, or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis or ALS. Amyotrophicmeans that the muscles have lost their nourishment. When this happens, they become smaller and weaker. Lateralmeans that the disease affects the sides of the spinal cord, where the nerves that nourish the muscles are located; and sclerosis means that the diseased part of the spinal cord develops hardened or scarred tissue in place of healthy nerves. It’s called Lou Gehrig’s disease after Lou Gehrig, a hall-of-fame baseball player for the New York Yankees who was diagnosed with ALS in the 1930s.
Не кроется ли корень подобных заболеваний в деяниях пациента в их прошлых воплощениях, в необходимости простить себе и миру, энергетически вычистить «неприятные воспоминания», тупо хранимые нашим подсознанием, а следовательно, постоянно притягивающие отрицательные события в наш личный мир, в нашу действительность.
Встреча с бабушкой Любой
—Когда я путешествовала в твоем времени, бабушка, была ли ты с нами, ты участвовала или нет, ты видела, что я видела или нет, как ты относишься к тому, что мне показывали?
—Дай мне минутку собраться с мыслями. Бессвязные отрывки из далеких воплощений вспоминаются мне иногда в смутных видениях, которые я на земле считала бредом человека, сходящего с ума от горя—от не того брака и эстонской мерзости, которая исключила нас полностью, на все 100 процентов, из себя, из так называемого местного общества. Оно касалось нас только по необходимости, когда кому-то из них, преуспевших при верховодстве немецких помещиков, которые господствовали в Прибалтике около восьмисот лет, нужен был вдруг французский язык. Среди них была и твоя знакомая Айме Бекман, нынче известная эстонская писательница. Но она больна моею болезнью, которая не лечится ничем иным, как покаянием и прощением себе грехов, которые не забываются и мучают человека.
…Ты свое покаяние прошла, когда ты встретилась с твоей родней и прочими людьми, на них похожими. Ты потеряла себя, ты не помнишь, кто ты, и зачем ты здесь, ты себя всю отдала твоему племяннику, который также не знает, кто он, и зачем он здесь, потому что отравлен, как и ты, теми же людьми, которые испортили твою судьбу до пределов, которых даже я не смогла предвидеть.
Комментарий: Вадим Зеланд, известный автор теории трансерфинг напоминает нам, что наша среда является зеркалом нашей сущности, отражающая наше поведение, привычки, форму общения с окружающим миром, мол, как кликнешь, так и откликнется… Но так ли все просто, и не тянем ли мы из прошлых воплощений проблемы, о которых даже не догадываемся.
Твои прогулки в мое прошлое с Там-Тамом, который назвал себя таким смешным именем, вывели меня на чистую воду в твоих глазах. Мол, мое тяжелое молчание, депрессия являются расплатой за величие высоких постов в далеких прошлых воплощениях. Да, я была военно-начальником, и не в одном воплощении!
Но, как Там-Там представился тебе? Он не воспринял ни тебя, ни твоего хвастливого индуса, ни всю вашу компанию достойной знакомства с ним. Он скрыл свое имя, и окрестил себя смешным псевдонимом, достойным сознания двухлетнего ребенка. Тем не менее он присосался к тебе, а ты ничего не знала об этом. Там-Тама, вовсе и не человек в нашем понятии, только недавно его отъединили от тебя. Индус не имел никакого права промышлять твоей витальной энергией.
—Бабушка, ты что-то не договариваешь, ты хочешь сказать, что я не умела постоять за себя. Говори на чистоту, что ты имеешь в виду.
—Ты воспитывалась не так как положено воспитывать человека с твоими данными. Они заставляли тебя жить для них, под ними… Твоя мать, раздавленная войной, металась между двумя кланами и делала невозможные усилия прокормить голодных, амбициозных, но не способных встать на свои ноги людей. Она погубила себя, тебя, а главное твоего брата, свалив все на меня. Но что я могла? Их была целая стая, а я была одна. Гонимая какой-то никому не понятной виной, твоя мать производила еду с избытком, слишком много, она убивалась. Не любя уже никого, себя включительно, она перекармливала тебя, и вовсе невинную. Выплачивая какой-то ложный долг, твоя мама платила его не той монетой, и не тем, кому ей надо было что-то отдать.
Не замешан ли Там-Там в этой истории? За что он тебя обворовывал все последнее десятилетие? Я не могу вспомнить его настоящего имени, но ты вспомнила его яркую внешность, потому что в детстве ты видела образы его иных воплощений—черные косые глаза, лоб, закрытый платком. Ты видела также на нем военные мундиры, прототипы будущих парадных одеяний монгольских номадов, всегда на конях, которые буквально жили вскачь, то есть не имели возможности носить обожаемые мужским полом побрякушки вроде орденов и медалей. Все эти игрушки видывали свет Божий только на ритуалах коронаций Вавилонских монархов. Осознают ли потомки, что в них живут тени Вавилонских воителей? Кем был тот, кто оставил свой след основателя рода Мясоедовых, и откуда взялось столь тяжелое имя Мясоедовых, имя аристократа из номадов, будто в те времена не все номады ели мясо, а что же еще? Не овощи и цветочки же они выращивали на скаку по степям!
—Бабушка, я ничего такого не видела. Никаких духов в военных мундирах, или скачущих на конях воинов я не видела. Боже, это ты видела то, что Там Там мне показывал! Но почему он решил, что расплатился таким образом за энергию, которую он брал у меня в тихоря? Возможно, он давал совет как лечить более продвинутым образом, уничтожая то, что мешает тебе жить сегодня? Но глухие к переменам образы статичны, притягивая все те же неприятности… Сегодня старые долги выплатить трудно, потому что жизнь ускакала вперед, и тысячелетние образы материализуются в каких-то искаженных формах. Так мне кажется. Бабушка, что случилось с моим отцом, Владимиром Григорьевичем? Я слышу его голос, он говорит, «Она ни причем, не мучь ее, оставь ее в покое!»
Бабушка молчала, и я молчала. Вдруг она сказала, «Я не вижу его, но я знаю, мои видения снова здесь. Посмотри, может ты увидишь одного из них, или зови Там-Тама. Он будет знать, что делать с ним. Когда-то на земле, я думала, что мой неправильный брак с Григорием, евреем, убивает моих младенцев, а после смерти я поняла, что это не так. Моя вавилонская тень убивает нас всех, она до срока увела Григория от меня, и она отбирала одного за другим всех остальных. Даже, тех моих детей, которые выдержали жизнь на земле, даже без денег и образования, он находит и доканывает их в посмертии, еще хуже, чем на земле, он их спаивает, заставляет принимать кокаин, доводит до полного разрушение их личности. Я не в силах вмешаться, я не знаю, в чем я была не права, я прошу помощи, остановите его, а то он и до моей Тани, и до тебя и твоего Володи, архитектора доберется, он до всех нас доберется, смотри на эту тень, это он, это он, это он, я знаю, он следующую жертву наметил, и это ты!
Он был когда-то монголом, но он давно уже не монгол, он пустой кувшин для голодного зла! Оно съело сперва моих младенцев, потом Григория, потом Андреа, затем Юрика, затем твоего отца, затем моего Вики, у него были планы, он хотел работать, но голодное зло добралось и до него. Теперь оно возьмется за тебя… Может он давно взялся за тебя… и ждет, как вынуть из тебя последнее. Если ты увидишь его, значит он уже выпустил щупальцы, и иди зови Там-Тама на помощь.
—Бабушка, ты любила Вики, и Вики продержался дольше всех, значит в тебе любви не хватило на большее… Я однажды попала на мгновенье в нездешний мир, я шла, и сознание мое поднялось в высь в море белого, нежного тумана, в мир абсолютной любви! Ничего прекраснее я не испытала ни до этого, ни после этого! А тогда, спеша к врачу, умирая, потому что кровь моя лилась, иссякая после выкидыша, но я все-таки успела к доктору, потому что любовь к жизни вела меня автоматически к той точке во вселенной, в которой находилась доктор, которой суждено было спасти меня. Она перешла на ты, взялась за свое дело, просила произносить какие-либо слова, любые, чтобы она знала, что я жива.
Она спасла меня, чтобы через 60 лет я пришла к тебе и сказала, что там, наверху, нет предела любви, ее не взвешивают, не выдают за достижения, талант, доброту, преданность, за наши хорошие либо плохие дела. На нее нет суда, нет ордеров заказа, и денег за нее не требуют! Она раздается вселенной всем и ни за что, любому столько, сколько он сможет взять, получить, вместить в себя, и более, потому что любовь единственное, что не кончается. Когда вдруг кончится вселенная и Отче Наш состарится и ничего не будет, любовь останется, и где-то зародится новая вселенная…
Люби их всех, Григория и твоих детей по прежнему, люби их без счета и взвешивания , и они вернутся к тебе, любовь и меня сохранит, и мне помощь Там Тама не нужна.
Бабушка, я вижу рядом с тобой странный расплывшийся образ, нечто вроде не то тени, не то расплюснутого существа … . На нем коричневая рубашка до колен, на голове спадающий на брови коричневый колпак с пестрой каемочкой, белесые глаза, наполненные невыразимой тоской, толстая шея, толстое брюхо, толстые покрытые синими венами босые ноги, шлепающие так, будто он только-что сошел с коня, он движется странно, будто он паутина на стене старинного дома. Тень шепчет, мне некуда деться, я не оставлю тебя, я никогда более не покину тебя… молись богине Иштар, она с нами!
Бабушка, будем молиться.
Я прочту тебе молитву, которую дал мне отец, твой сын с того света, я записала ее с его слов.
Беспредельно тебя любя, Матерь Божья,
Прошу милости Твоей
Не вычеркивай меня из жизни, я еще послужу Тебе, Богу нашему сущному
Всем святым и херувимам, Не дай мне спуститься в ад и ниже, где нет света и куда Солнце никогда не заглядывает!
Дай мне надежду, и на тебя одну мое упование.
Дай подняться, чтобы коснуться следа твоих ног, где твоя ступня ступала.
Облачись в сияние Божьего Света, чтобы мы узнали тебя.
На тебя и твое сияние мы полагаемся.
Очисти нас грешников Сохрани и защити
Во веки веков, Аминь.
Тень не шелохнулась. Там-Там сказал читать Отче Наш тихо. «Чем тише ты ее читаешь, тем громче она будет звучать в нем, он сдастся, посмотрим, что получится.
Я нашла четки, и стала читать нашу сокровенную молитву… Время шло, тень не шелохнулась. Я прошла первый круг, это означало, что я повторила молитву 50 раз, без отдыха и перерыва, я продолжала читать… Тень на стене сделалась более прозрачной, и постепенно стала как бы стекать со стены. На сто восемьдесят пятом чтении молитвы Отче Наш, тень на стене стекла вся на пол, обернувшись серым плевком на полу.
У Там-Тама оказалась в руках нечто вроде зажженной зажигалки. Он поднес ее синее пламя к «плевку», который стал испаряться, но не исчезал, вдруг остаток вспыхнул высоким пламенем… Там-Там обнял бабушку Любу, препятствуя ей вскочить, помчаться, вызывать пожарных… Я старалась замереть на месте, не выказывая знаков страха и паники. Пламя присмирело, затем стало тихо угасать, пока даже пятна не осталось на том месте, где был плевок, означавший концентрат вместо образа одного из бабушкиных воплощений.
Там-Там попросил чаю. Нам всем нужно было заземлиться. Я разговорилась.
—Ты и дедушка Григорий стали издавна искать противоядие разрушительным силам, которые часто, слишком часто оседают в аристократических родословных. И вы стали создавать сад. Сад в противовес разрушению. В садах всегда царит жизнь, что-то растет, расцветает, умирает только для того, чтобы зачать следующие жизни. Умирая, цветок отдает ветру семена, а тот разносит их по саду… Но ваш сад не пересилил зло, оно втянуло его в вихрь политических катастроф и вторую мировую войну, а затем ваш сад попал под нож советского раздела всеобщих благ, и его нарезали на кусочки под малые дома даже и не для таких уж и бедных, но тех, кто пожелали строить на крохотных наделах крохотные, но частные домики. И сад, казалось, пропал. Через несколько дней, бабушка попросила связаться с нею. Она сказала, что в рукописи есть ошибка, которую надо исправить. «Ты пишешь, что решение Григория начать нашу жизнь в Эстонии с создания русского сада было его ошибкой, так как по-твоему начинать надо было с реставрации дома, который можно было продать, и вернуться в Таллинн. Ну так вот, это была я, кто потребовала начать с сада. Григорий взял мою вину на себя, конечно, ты права, любой человек с практическим и здравым умом начал бы жизнь в Пайде с реставрации дома…
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.
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…
Here comes a story from my past, when I lived in Tallinn, Estonia, and worked as a journalist in a Estonia government 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 freed from charges invented by Stalin’s regime. Adzhubey, Khruschev daughter Rada’s husband, was chief editor of Moscow popular newspaper Izvestiya and future seemed to bring justice to all! So, it seemed to us, the young journalists at the time.
I saw only one difficult and teasing cloud on my horizon, the upcoming deadline for submitting a new article to my newspaper. Tomorrow I had my deadline at 8 am. I was ordered to write 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… 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.”
The Kiviõli story was crawling slowly to its conclusion. 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 for 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 for them kind a too pale and weary.
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, offered a position in the “People’s Voice” after a random article written for hem about what? I did not remember. 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-abortions are 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?”
In my old age, an esotericist 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.
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 own “Hollywood” as Mosfilm, but we also had something that Hollywood did not have, and cannot have – multinational cinema –Gruzia films, Latvian and Estonian documentaries, Kirgiz films… but folks leading perestroika did not recognize it as an achievement, rather a nedorazumenye—a misunderstanding! Perestroika served mostly Communist Party elite. And that power upper eshelon kept at bay smallish republics, like Estonia or Latvia, or say Moldavia elite. Moscow Goskino priced our blessed documentaries as if they were Hollywood award winning feature films. It was how they killed us in Berlin, making Berlin film festival organizers suffer financially. It was how they killed us in Berlin, our upper eshelon competitors…
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’s 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, an 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 — 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
Erast’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!”
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.
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.
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.
My mother and I disliked each other for different reasons. When she flew into the house from the garden, where she was always busy planting or weeding something, I knew that today, like yesterday and the day before yesterday, I had done something wrong, and she would scold me again, “You are already a big girl, and you should know… ” and I asked myself what I should know, what I have forgotten, and what I do not know. And she did not like it either when dad came home from work, and I ran to meet him shouting, “Daddy has come!” Mom went into herself, and fell silent, and turned her back to us, and then, pretending that she was picking up something from the floor, awkwardly and stealthily glanced at us. I felt that she also wanted to run up to us and hug us and jump with us across our room in granny’s large and empty house “poskakushki” — “jump-jump-jump!” and laugh merrily, but something hold her back and forbade her to be happy. She continued to stand at the bedside table, her face darkened, and her eyes were examining what was written on that pharmacy bag, which she finally found on the floor near their bed, as if these pills had ever cured someone, and as if she had to memorize that boring Latin, as if subduing herself receiving the highest scores at some examination when our dad finally got home from the swamp, where he dug up peat and cut out “tablets” for heating and cooking in entire Paide, a small town in Estonia, where God stack us to live. Now dad was washing, changing clothes, and we sat down to dinner …
… I am wearing a yellowish straw hat with wide edges, a red velvety jacket with a white starched collar, and a short beige-checked skirt. Mom managed to dress both herself and me decently, her little hands were skillful, fast, and busy, always busy, busy, maybe too fast, and too busy …Mister Kübler brought a shiny tray of candy made of multicolored, sugar-sprinkled marmalade. “Mom, buy me that little basket from which a bird with a beak is sticking out,” I whined, turning my eyes from the pastry chef and his tray with masterpieces of confectionery art to Mom. A pastry chef in a white coat looks at mom inquiringly, stretching out his hand to a pack of box stocks, now he will take one such box, skillfully fold the edges, and I will point at masterpieces which ones to move from the tray to the box … But mom smiles guiltily, and we move hurriedly out of this bursting from tasty aromas confectionary paradise. “Today there is no money, tomorrow, tomorrow we will be back, and I’ll buy you sweets,” Mom says quickly. We both know that tomorrow there will be no marmalade, but the gooseberry jelly that is boring to all of us. I will move the plate aside, say: “No, don’t!”, And the day will come when my mother look at my father pleadingly, and he, combed and dressed on Sunday morning, will declare sternly, “Eat jelly, otherwise I will have to take a strap!” – “Daddy and the strap! They are going somewhere, and I am holding them back … Will Dad hit me with a strap?” I feel like crying, but I do not cry. A betrayal took place, the wordless agreement of unbreakable friendship between me and my father was violated. Something dark and terrible rose its head in me. We, father, and I looked at each other as two enemies. I am scared, I see that it is possible that he will take the strap … Will it hurt if he hits me? But newly discovered “Mr. Terrible” in me says: “No, dad will not hit me!” I moved a plate of jelly closer to me, as if stirring jelly. “Go, go, my mother and father.” — I mumbled under my breath. — “I will continue to drive the spoon over the jelly until the second coming, what does this mean “the second coming”? They finally went to borrow money to supply their daughter with candy, as my mother promised me, but I knew the money would float away for something else.
Time was passing fast. Childhood is over, father and me, we do not dance together our “poskakushki”, when he is coming home from his work. I do not shout, “Daddy came home,” and I no longer run to meet him … I am already a big girl. If I would know what was awaiting us, and what it would turn into, and how I would love my father again when he would no longer be with us!
… I am six years old, and the fatal numbers 1-9-4-0 were approaching all Baltic nations!
80 years later, living already in California, I met my father in spirit, and we talked. I asked him if he remembered how he threatened to hit me with a strap for refusing to eat gooseberry jelly.
“Of course, I remember,” my father replied. – You stared at me with pupils dilated with horror, and I felt ashamed, so ashamed!
– Do you remember, papa, how we saw you off to the war? The town’s only square was empty, an old truck drove up with an unfamiliar Estonian already sitting in its body. He was not looking at anyone. And you were ordered to climb into same body of the same truck. And on the square, there was no one else but my mother and me, and you, pale, lost, were silent, and we were silent, and I thought how the heck we managed to annoy God so heavily that he took Dad away from us. The truck’s old engine began to rumble and spit, and it started to pick up speed. Finally, the truck disappeared together with my father, as I saw him in my childhood.
I remember, before the Reds came, the presentiment of the onset of something formidable and inevitable made our pets, cats and dogs behave strangely. Our white spitz Aska bit me painfully in the heel and instead of running away to avoid punishment, poked guiltily her wet nose into my leg. Mom’s favorite, “Frenchwoman” Mimi, or the red-haired coquette Mimishka, angrily wrapped herself around my mother’s hand, and looking guiltily up into mother’s eye’s dug her claws into her hand deeper and deeper, then, losing patience, abruptly let go of her hand, instilling that she was giving up on us, because we were hopeless because we did not listen to her that we should not sit around the veranda table and drink tea, but hid under the bushes until the ground under our bottom would stop groaning, sobbing and shuddering, and then you would crawl out of bushes and would think later what to do already sitting at a broken trough.
Mimishka’s prophetic dream
A fire was blazing in the fireplace, and Mimishka, sitting by the fire, admired the merry dance of the flame. When she got tired of flames’ Polovetsian dance she turned her gaze to the glazed door leading to the garden, to the flower bed, right behind the glazed door and dreamed of how she would sit down in the morning under some newly blossoming flower and greet the rising sun and rejoice the coming day. But here her dreams were interrupted by a mouse that appeared out of nowhere, which jumped out, it seemed, right out of the fireplace flame, and rushed to circle around Mimishka, as if stunned. Mimishka, delighted with such luck, stretched out her front paw and stretched lazily, but confidently for the mouse. But in an eyeblink, a second mouse jumped out of the fireplace and began to circle in the opposite direction around Mimishka.
And my mother’s beloved one, the red-haired Mimishka fell into prostration. What kind of mouse should she catch, the one that spins to the right, or the one that spins to the left, from South to North, or from North to South? And the longer she thought, the faster the mice circled, and the more impossible it was to decide which one to chase, or both, but – how? Can a cat chase two mice at the same time, and what can be done when luck is under its very nose, but you do not know how to grab it, and instead of chasing the mouse, Mimishka fell into deeper prostration, into complete unconsciousness!
Finally, the day has come, which our favorites dogs and cats, canaries and turtles, hamsters and forest deer were so afraid of. It was not in vain that the ground sobbed under the stomp of tarpaulin boots on the feet of the Red Army soldiers, whose march went through the capitals of the three Baltic republics of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. After the meeting of the leaders of nations, Molotov, and Ribbentrop, the “father of nations” Stalin got the Baltic, and Hitler got Poland, and Stalin seized his share confidently, in some miserable three days. And the vocabulary of the Russian language was enriched with the expression … “put to the wall”, that is, shot accused and non-accused citizens of the Baltic countries. An eerie rumor spread throughout Estonia that there, on the northern coast, a structure had arisen, where special trains brought well-dressed women with children from Czechoslovakia, and at night black smoke billowed from the chimneys of this building, and it was not so difficult to guess what for the chimneys were smoking, and the people thought when the Jews would end, whether the builders of these stoves would not take on the Estonians, who knows, and when the Red Russians come, they will definitely shove some of them into Siberian refrigerators – the locals thought. And the pipes, meanwhile, continued to smoke.
Listening to these terrible rumors, I remembered our Mimishka, who fell into prostration looking at the mice that circled around her in opposite directions. And I dreamed of European peoples, who fell into a daze from the impending war, in which one leader, either Adolf or Adik, having gathered hordes, moved from the West to the East, and another dry-handed bastard either Dzhugashvili, or Stalin from the word “steel”, was going to move in the opposite direction, from East to West, both fighting for dominance over the world… And all sorts of peoples on their way, like Estonians, brave Finns, and others, for example, the Belgians, Romanians, Hungarians, Bulgarians, Czechs and Slovaks, the French and Italians with Mussolini, a personal friend of Adik at the helm, as well as Poles, Latvians and Lithuanians, accompanied by unsettled Gypsies, and courageous Scandinavians along the way, fell into a daze, and inability to decide which side to prefer if Adik’s side put mothers and children in stoves to breath in vapors of potassium cyanide, or the withered side that scattered them like rotten pears along the Siberian refrigerators, in which direction the people should run? But nothing lasts forever under the sky, and the strength of Adik and the withered one finally dried up, and humanity, saddened by the losses, discovered that throwing forward hands for Adik, and the ascension of the withered one to heaven, like shouting “To Stalin we will win this war! We won’t be stingy by paying our winning bills!” cost humanity 50 million ruined souls, and how many died in the Soviet freezers, stays still uncounted! Humanity was shortened, but people were glad when sucking them into that big war was, finally, stopped!
The children of my generation, born shortly before the war, were called in Russia “podranki”, the cut, or wounded for our hungry childhood and fatherlessness, and mothers gathered that while the greats were fighting, people should think not about victory and glory, orders and medals, but about food for themselves, for children and hungry fellow travelers, so that they do not look sadly into some other’s well-fed mouths. And my little mother knew that all what her life would come to, would be hard work many years to come.
I remember these dinners, the war was over, my mother was a widow, my brother who was nearing age six, hated these dinners, because when Mom and Aunt Zhenya cooked them, the stench of excitement floated in the air, the smell of burnt meat, stale food, unwashed dishes, a heavy mood … extreme irritation, in which people forget themselves and insult each other, and end up not talking to each other spending eons to overcome senseless ward war, which neither the screamers nor the subjects of wild attacks did not recall. The reasons for quarrels, offenses, nicknames have long been forgotten, only the consequences remain in the memory, because anger becomes the eternal companion of these people. According to the great law of the universe, about which people know little and do not want to know, because it is not easy to live according to this law – the law of attraction of one’s own kind – poverty attracts poverty, wealth attracts wealth, mediocrity attracts mediocrity, talent attracts talent – for example, the mysterious coming together of the well-known “mighty bunch of Russian composers” which included Mussorgsky, or the Abramtsevo of Savva Mamontov, a dormitory of painters, Korovin, Serov, Vrubel and the long list of wonderful artists, laughter attracts laughter, kindness attracts kindness, and then other laws of the universe come into force.
I remember that during Sundays of that period in our life, Lidusenka and Makusenka, as they were called mockingly were the first to appear from around the corner of Green Street, Lydia Mitrofanovna, small and dry and dark from smoking cigarettes, and Margaret, a fat, whitish Russianized German woman … When they, leaning on sticks, smoothly swaying from old age, moved slowly, but, surely, in our direction, I, the girl, inappropriately and disrespectfully recalled the song about Stenka Razin “From behind the island to the rod, to the vast river waves, painted, sharp-breasted canoes swam out …” performed by Shalyapin, which were often broadcast by radio.
Perhaps such an association was evoked in me by the everlasting fashion of Lydia Mitrofanovna, or Lidusenka. She wore only black in the centuries-old mourning for her husband, who had died untimely in tsarist times, the postmaster. Her little black dress was completed with an unusual headdress, reminding the wear of Catholic nuns. A small hat in the shape of a black saucepan was adorned with a black veil with a tightly attached boa and a peace of black silk which was falling down to her waist fluttering frivolously in the windy air, like two black flags on a pirate ship! No, the whole figure of Lidusenka did not resemble a Persian princess, but rather a sharp-chested shuttle carrying her friend, big and helpless Margarita – Makusenka to a tolerable end!
No, Stenka Razin would not lift Makusenka by the neck with one hand and by the legs with the other and thrown her into the Volga as a tribute to the river for the gold and diamonds presented to him … Little, dry Makusenka would destroy the brave Razin, and save her Margarita, the size of an Indian elephant. Ah, grandmother, grandmother Lyuba, I think that this couple, Makusenka with a smoking cigarette in his teeth, and with the silent Makusenka, constituted in your imagination the core of the future Russian sociality in Paide. The Teutonic knights, the founders of the Weisenstein fortress, around which the town of Paide has grown, turned over in their coffins … In addition, in the ranks of the Russians who came to mother’s dinners, there was a certain unknown Rasinevich, a faceless gentleman in a gray suit worn out to obsceneness. He sat at the end of dinner table what enabled him to disappear at the end of food consumption without thank-you ceremony or exchanging any single word with no one. Probably, life managed to teach him silence as the surest mean of survival. I remember the conductor of the Russian church choir, Madame Irina Schmidt with a tuning fork in her hands, with a silver fox on her shoulder, and a strong-willed chin. She came to us from Narva, a border town between Russia and Estonia. There were more of them, but the faces of visiting priests and chorus girls changed and disappeared from my memory.
Finally, I am ordered to set the table. I place deep plates for soup and plates for a the main dinner meal on a clean tablecloth, then place a soup spoon, knife and fork for each appliance, and finish my work by adding a small plate for bread and a glass of water. They did not trust me to take out food, I would stumble, fall, spill, overturn, and I did not insist with help in this crucial part of the dinner ceremony – to carry and dispense food to the guests!
I try to count from memory how many cutleries there were … maybe seven, eight on one side of the table, and one or two sets less on the opposite side, which was closer to the kitchen, from where the expected dishes began to appear, as at Sunday lunches in old houses of Russian landowners … First, they poured golden broth into deep plates and brought already cut into portions fresh, straight from the oven fragrant pie with cabbage or mushrooms, or with rice and minced meat, and the guests, with trepidation, began to absorb the gold of the transparent broth and the freshest cabbage pie, then chicken meat baked in a stove on red coals, or pork tenderloin, adored equally by those who ate pork easily, especially in the north, and those who were advised by religion to abstain from pork in South countries during eras before the appearance of refrigerators in our lives, which changed a lot in our relationship with food. … Then came mother’s made compote that mixed pears and plums. Today, in America, I buy peach compote in metal jars, it is good, but it is in no way comparable with what was made in that Paide kitchen when my mother reigned there in honor of Lyubov Petrovna’s acquaintances, picking pears and plums from miraculously survived trees in the garden behind the grandmother’s house, already abandoned, when the red councils placed the city kindergarten in granny’s house. Mom chose only ripe fruits for compotes, and semi-ripe and not at all ripe fruits went into cans of supermarkets, the acid of which was covered with excess sugar, which finally spoiled the taste and aroma of the favorite dessert, loved in both hemispheres of the world.
But dinner will not last forever, the guests worked quickly accompanied by the chime of forks and spoons. Then they indistinctly uttered a quick thank you to our mother, the cook, and then flew up to Lyubov Petrovna, lingered with wishes for her good health, exchanged outstanding news of city life, of which there were not many, and disappeared to materialize next Sunday.
Already today, while communicating with my father’s spirit, I once asked him where those dinners came from, and why my mother agreed to carry this burden, because of which she had to maintain a whole barnyard – alone!
Father’s answer was vague.
– You know, as the saying goes, a man does not live by bread alone … My mother forced Tamara, your mother, to cook these dinners by force … By that time Vika was gone, Yurik was gone, and my father, Gregory was not there, he left first, and I was not there, I, the fool, who jumped out of the trench, because it smelled of urine there, and the field behind the trench was clean and smooth and empty, and reminded me of the last field that I sowed on the estate that the German banker managed to get me to buy with money on credit. They knew that I would pass this money to the owners of the estate who were leaving Estonia for their Fatherland, Germany, because Hitler was calling them to return home! In other words, I turned out to be that donkey who siphoned money, and not small ones, from a bank pocket to a private pocket. Their conscience did not torment them, they knew that the leaders of the nations had reached an agreement, and Stalin would receive the promised — the Baltic states, and they would get Poland that would annul the credits, as change of political regimes would make all agreements fly out of the window! However, the donkey, as I was, had no idea about anything, because the donkey was not interested in politics, and they were sure of my class, that is, superficial decency, and they were not mistaken! I gave the credit money to the enthusiastic travelers, and never heard of them again … But I lived the life of a landowner for a whole year, there was something to remember in the Urals, at the Velikiye Luki battlefield, on the Estonian island of Saaremaa, where I finished my earthly journey, so close to my home!
But I did not escape my fate, I was not given to plow and sow and harvest. The Reds burst in, and at that very moment they took my estate away from me, and they mobilized me, and from a landowner, I suddenly became a soldier of the Soviet Army. And only in the Urals, from conversations with the Russians, the donkey, me, realized that his luck had not left him, as it could be way worser. For the fact that I allowed to transfer money that would depreciate into the pockets of the Germans leaving for Germany, if someone had reported this to Russians, the Chekists would have shot me for cooperation with the Germans on the spot, or sent to the Gulag, but apparently they were short of those who were mobilized into ranks of the Soviet Army, and the Russian roulette carried me into the ranks of the Estonian Guards Corps, at that time, already part of the Soviet Army, where we were re-educated, in short, saturated with hatred of the enemy.
…Stop me when I speak to much and too long. I noticed that I bore normal people who pay debts and think where to eat deliciously, where to find a woman who … I am glad that you are not rushing with the herd to the cliff …
“By the way, Dad, if you never met the people to whom you gave away the money that bank lent to you for buying the estate, then our mother met the aging mistress of that estate after the war, in Brezhnev’s time when perestroika seeds were practically sewn into Russian soil. Brezhnev seemed to be tightening the screws…. But as soon as it became clear that foreigners were sending expensive cars of incredible, unseen beauty to the Secretary of the Communist Party and no one had ever seen him in a military jacket, and in public he was shown in impeccable branded men’s suits, communist totalitarianism began to give its first serious cracks. Timid foreigners began to come to us, and we were no longer put in Gulags for exchanging words with foreigners, and among these foreigners there was a German woman who had come to visit her native Estonia. And she knocked on our door!
The women hugged, and my mother baked a pie, and the ladies sat down to remember the old days. When the first joyful exclamations and greetings subsided, and the women began to “speak” looking old and new photos, as the German woman took out a pack of German photographs from her purse, and our mother took out the bulky family album of that Paide, which was no longer there, laughter and joy of meeting changed to sobbing and tears. On the table were laid out photographs of irrecoverable losses both on the German and Russian sides … The German woman came without an interpreter, nevertheless, the women sat over the photographs of their husbands who had not returned from the war, and the German woman recalled her killed and missing sons until late in the evening, until a lady from the tourist firm took our guest back to hotel.
When the guest was gone, Mom was putting slowly the tea service back on the top shelf of the sideboard, still deep in memories of more joyous times, when they both were young and hoped for the brighter future that never came to them.
I was still talking my father’s spirit in Los Angeles.
—Recalling mother deep in her thoughts when cleaning the table after our German tea party, I realized that Grandmother Luba apologized in her way when she talked to me for the first time for this still unfinished book. I wrote down her words but did not grasp the meaning. Of course, she apologized for these dinners, but it was so hidden that I did not immediately get involved in the context of the message. With our dinners, she tried, so to speak, to resurrect a kind of society, and to make up for the fact that Estonian society, as it seemed to my grandmother, did not accept either her or our family into its ranks. It never occurred to my grandmother that there was no Estonian society in her understanding among Estonians. Their society was reduced to a nationwide Song Festival, but it was a formal celebration, a concert that had nothing to do with secular society. The Germans ruled harshly, and they did not intend to drink or eat, or share their dinner time with their slaves! And even in my time in Estonia, Estonians did not accept me “into their society” that is, into a society of fuss, drunkenness and, finally, a lot of random copulations with all bestial consequences… We mutually shunned each other. And thus, I guarded my dignity in my profession, and my name among professionals appeared by itself, without patronage or support of a mythical “strong hand” on the side.
Papa, tell me, why it was so that no one ever offered Mom help to clear the table and wash the dishes, no one ever congratulated Mom on Easter, Christmas, or New Year, no one ever offered Mom, at least one-time cash assistance, no one ever sent us a greeting card for the holidays, no one gifted children, at least my little brother a symbolic toy. We were the children of a slave, a refugee from Red Russia … I remember that I did not expect anything from those who came to dinner, but the knowledge that we were not quite the same, what we were supposed to be in their eyes, did not fit into my head.
When I look at my mother’s life back today, I see one thing that never occurred to me earlier. Ironically, when her age went over nineties, she found herself “in her society” that never came to my grandmother. At a time she already lived in Tallinn, and in Russian church he met some of her acquaintances from her past, now also old ladies. And they started their “old ladies club” by meeting once a month alternatingly in each other’s home for a party, dressed and make-upped. I never took part of it, but I noticed that when she organized these tea parties at her home or returned from that party at her newly found friend’s home, she looked joyous and happy, like ten years younger… It did not occur to me to ask her who proposed to start “the club”, was it her, or was it someone else? It lasted some years, until one of the “girls,” as they called themselves, died suddenly. Then another died… but club lasted its activity, when the day arrived, when our mother found herself alone, her “club” vanished, stopped to exist! But she knew that in her old days she was accepted and loved by her friends. Her afterlife catastrophe started when she returned to live with her parents… She sought a way out of her childhood past that came to haunt her, and she sought an escape route and was lost in jungle of her personal problems… We will arrive to description of this catastrophe in the second part of this story.
Haymaking, Dry Hay in Mom’s Solar Plexus Chakra
With help of meditation, I remember my mother’s hay business during war time and first years after war when our cow was helping us out with scarce food supply.
… I see my mother’s hands lifting cubes of dry hay on a pitchfork of unbearable weight, dry hay scratched her legs and face. The heaps of dry grass were lifted on a pitchfork onto a cart, and our old horse Yulka, a family favorite, who replaced both a truck and a car, dragged the overloaded cart through the entire hayfield, with wheels buried in soft soil to a rickety barn where it would stay for feeding our cow in winter months. In spring time the cows would be sent to pasture on green grass on a site allocated by the city authorities for all urban cows. At that time, we were not the only ones who raised a cow to survive. The public herd was guarded mainly by children on a strict schedule. When it was my turn to watch, take out and take home our cow, I took a book with me and read all day on the pasture, which did not prevent the cows from picking the grass right there next to my book. For example, I read Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy on that pasture. The episode of Anna’s forbidden meeting with her little son, who was rushing into his mother’s arms made me cry. The tears flowed, which the cows tactfully did not notice, continuing to chew the grass. I do not remember a more fertile environment for reading classics, like those happy days when I grazed the cows in the pasture. Complete indifference to my person in the cows reached an inner agreement with my presence on the field with them. I did not interfere with them, and they did not interfere with me. Never once has a cow emitted its excrement on an open book or anywhere near me. We simply do not understand anything in the minds of those around us, both domestic and wild animals. Through the cow’s indifference there was an unconscious warmth, if not to me personally, then to a peaceful existence, the inception of creativity – for cows this was milk production, for me, creating a world in which Tolstoy’s novel lives, and in which I live while I empathize with the novel’s action. A disturbing memory of gathering of the dark rain clouds in the sky appears on my third eye screen. And Mother is nervous that she will not have time to take the dry hay under the roof, and if moistened by rain, it will die. I remember praying to all saints asking them to disperse the clouds, and my little Mom, standing high on a heap of hay like a divisional commander, orders to flickering below assistants, “Faster, faster, there is room for two, three more rows to fit in, do not sleep there on the pitchfork, pick up the hay, faster, faster, one drop has already fallen on me from the sky, soon it will pour, pick up the hay, faster, faster!”
I continue to meditate, a white-winged angel comes down from the sky and dresses up my mother in a golden dress, puts a diamond necklace around her neck so that she will forget this hay, and recall being not a divisional commander, but a small and beautiful woman!
When our Yulka barely reached the cart under the roof of our twisted barn, waves of thunder rolled through the universe, lightning flashed, a tree caught fire pierced by fiery arrow of an angry deity, and the atmosphere was discharged by pouring rain! Having finished transferring the hay from Yulka’s cart to the corner of the shed, where the roof did not leak, Mom, wet with sweat, and covered in hay, slipped down the slope of the laid dry grass on the floor and sat down on a plank. Someone handed her a can of cold water, and my mother began to drink greedily, then, carefully pouring the rest of the water onto her hand, she wiped her face, neck, and hands from the dust from dry hay that had set in her skin. I felt my mother’s moistened skin seething with pain from irritation from the myriad injections of dry grass, but then accepted flowing water, and skin on her hands calmed down. I looked out the barn gate raising my gaze to the clouds in the sky. I already knew that angry rains like this one do not last long! They spoil the hay, but the earth will soar in white steam for a long time, returning the waters of the world’s oceans back to the clouds!
I was convinced that after her transition from here to the next world, her hardship here would grant her a generous reward, a worry-free life in eternity. I did not know yet that I was cruelly mistaken, and her life after death would not be beautiful or amazing. But if it would be so, then where was the truth, and why, why, and why it would be difficult for her in her afterlife as well?
The Last Conversation
On that April day in 2005, I was thinking obsessively about my mother. 16 years ago, I fled from Estonia to the United States of America, leaving my mother in the care of my brother, her belove son, Vsevolod, or in short —Sevo! Over the years, we got used to the prevailing circumstances, and at first, we called once a week, and then less often, since I did not always have enough funds for frequent telephone calls from California to Tallinn, Estonia. So, it was this time. I called her a couple of days ago, and all our simple current affairs were discussed, and the problems were sorted out and decided what to do about them. Mom said that she had a bit of a cold because at evening she was too lazy to get up and close the window, but that in all other respects she was fine, and that Sevo and Madli come in often, and I do not need to worry about her in my America.
Nevertheless, the aching in me did not subside, and I caught myself looking for an excuse to call Mom in Estonia. Despite the late hour, I still dialed an Estonian phone number. Sevo visited her at that late hour to be sure that she would take her prescribed medicine. He picked up the phone and handing over the phone to his mother, he said, “Take it, it is Tatiana calling from America!” Mom did not answer to my greetings. She continued to be silent. I heard her even breathing, probably she had a cold, but it was light, there were no wheezing, no moans, no emotions of irritation or haste, no desire to speak either with me or with anybody else. “Mom, talk,” Sevo urged her. “This is Tatiana calling from America!” He repeated, accentuating the word “America”.
Mom was silent, and I suddenly realized that she was just listening to me. We did not speak, and at the same time, we did say something important to each other. For the first time together, my mother spoke to her daughter, asking who she was and how to say something most important what was not said before. But with what words?
Maybe because she spoke not with words, but with feelings for which there are nether needed words, we continued to listen to the talk of our souls, and this was the best and perhaps the only worthwhile “conversation.” Mom gave up the attempt find missing words, for her the impossible words about love and heaven, God and angels, and about a chiffon dress with orange poppies scattered across a sky-blue field, what I imagined her wearing instead of her working attire when she did her hay… she listened quietly to our telephone breathing.
Suddenly, her inner voice dried up, and I realized that she was tired. I wished her good night, and she handed the phone back to Sevo, and I said goodbye to him too. Four hours later, Sevo called me back from Estonia to California. Soon after our conversation, my mother fell asleep, and quietly and imperceptibly left, left her body, that is, died in a dream. She had three weeks until her 99th birthday.
Part Two. My Mother’s Afterlife
After my mother’s transition to a better world, I received two spiritual messages from her. She asked me to light a candle when I was thinking about her, because in that case, a “mirror candle” would appear in her home, enlivening the feeling of connection with the family on earth. In the last message, she said that our dad, Vladimir Senior, war casualty, found her and now, in their common afterlife, they are trying to catch up with their lost youth.
However, their hope that their restored union would be “long and happy” turned out to be illusory, not real. The war changed his father, he began to drink and use cocaine, and the mother’s joyless earthly life made her more decisive and stubborn, in short, life changed them both! And the difficulties of their relationship made me rethink a lot of what I managed to learn about the life of souls in the astral plane. When the book Prisoners of Fame was being written, Myrna Loy, “the queen of the Hollywood screen of the thirties,” Marlene Dietrich and Cary Grant emphasized that everything in the subtle world moves and changes faster and more thoroughly than in the reflection of these changes on earth. Indian guru Yukteswar Giri, author of the book “Sacred Science”, briefly summarized the difference between life on earth and in heaven: “I never argue when someone tells me incredible stories that happened to him in the astral world, because in the subtle worlds everything is possible!”
Seven years after my mother’s death, I was approached by a male spirit James, who held the position of manager of the territory set aside for the former Golden Hollywood actors, now in spirit. He helped arrange my meetings with some of these actors for the book Prisoners of Fame. This time he hit me with the shocking news that my mother was … pregnant!
Life in the astral world gave my mother what she never had on earth — time to think about everything. And her union with my father broke up, therefore, her relationship with my grandmother Luba, that is, with the Elmanovich family and the Masoedovs’ lineage also disintegrated, in short, she renounced relations with her past on earth and decided to follow her path without any support, alone.
In fact, her departure from the family began earlier, at the time of my relationship with one of the participants of the critical period of Russian literature, when the foundation of modern literature was being laid. Let the consciousness, which played one of the key roles at that time, be called Mr. N. Can a relationship arise between a person in the flesh and a person in the astral body? I think there is no simple answer to this question, there are many examples of negative experience in this area, but there are also enough examples of the opposite. It turns out that the matter is not so much in the shape of our bodies as in the conformity of our minds.
My third eye, then in power, long before it became a toy in the hands of the evil spirit of Vladimir Vysotsky, which I will tell you about later, opened a vision of a long corridor. I saw Mr. N approaching me. He asked if he could come home and have a shower, since he had spent some time with the gypsy beauties. I replied that he can have it in a public bath, in short, I did not show sufficient delight from his late return after having fun with the young and beautiful gypsies.
At the same time, on the right, my father and mother came up to me. At the same time Mr. N began to move away from me. My Mom suddenly left my father where he was, ran up to me and spoke quickly, “What are you doing, he will leave you now, he will find a place to shower, you kicked him out! Give it to me! Give him to me!”
I raised my hand, and said, “God is my witness, I give it to you, if you can handle him!” And my “third eye, a huge purple circle between my eyebrows, took the time out, stopped serving me. The vision of the strange hall disappeared!
You will never hear about the complexities of relationships in the subtle world at the evenings of spiritual communication conducted by famous mediums. According to the established English tradition, mediums alternate attention on one of the spirits, ask his name, and communicate this name to the audience. If someone responds to the call, then the long-awaited meeting of the spirit and his relative or acquaintance in an earthly audience may take place. The medium tries to see or feel the facts he needs from the life of the spirit to communicate them to audience, often with amazing accuracy knowing that a relative or acquaintance of the spirit in the audience will confirm or deny these facts. This is how famous mediums James Van Praagh, Hollister Rand, English medium Robert Brown, and many others work. Often, brilliantly presented evidence of a spirit’s identity makes the audience to burst into an applause, and mediums rush to the next spirit to reunite him with someone in the audience.
These dialogues between representatives of two different worlds take place as follows. Let us say that the chosen spirit for communication is a father of a certain young man from the audience. The medium united them, and now he tries to feel, see, hear several vivid facts from the life of father’s spirit on earth. The task of his son, the man in flesh, must confirm or deny these facts. But an earthly man, a son, is interested in something else, he asks, where his father lives in the next world and what is he doing over there. And the father’s spirit replies, “I am fine, not to worry! I try to look after you, I know you have some problems at work right now.” However, the medium does not have time to discuss the affairs of father and son, he needs to extract three facts from the father’s spirit that confirm the identity of the father, for example, where and how he died — at home or in the hospital, in bed or on the operating table, in a battle or in a car accident, or in the bed of a mistress. The medium literally walks on a tightrope, he cannot allow himself to be mistaken, he must enter the communication channel with the father’s spirit in a second, see with the third eye, or hear the answer, and then this answer will be correct and convincing for the audience. This work is difficult, and not many succeed. But this way of communication limits the talk about the seriousness of the problems that the most ordinary person may face in the next world.
I wanted to shift the emphasis from identifying a spirit to his afterlife description. And letting them speak and recording them, I discovered that these stories always contain, at least for me, most interesting confirmations of their identity.
James, the manager, asked if I knew how my mother got pregnant? And then he decided to console me, adding, “She will give birth to some special creature, and she will be all right again.” Up to that moment, it seemed to me that biological matter was not found in the astral plane, but I was mistaken. If my mother was pregnant in the astral plane, then there is biological life, but in what form does it exist there? And I realized that we are far from any reliable knowledge about the subtle worlds. Or maybe this manager is an ordinary liar, or was he rehearsing for a role in a sci-fi movie?
However, my guest was not finished yet. He recalled that after my mother’s transition to the astral world, she was well received by everyone who told their afterlife stories for the Prisoners of Fame. However, she misinterpreted this kindness and overstepped the bounds. In other words, I was asked to speak to her and explain to her who is who in the astral field reserved for the artists of the Golden Hollywood era. James added that from time to time they had similar problems with family members of some actors, especially actresses. My mother began to visit the Golden Hollywood actor’s garden on her own … Cold shiver ran down my spine. I had to save my relationship with people who were kind to talk to me for the book “Prisoners of Fame.” I decided to break all contacts for some time to clean the air. However, time ran fast, and before I knew it, the six years were sunk into summer. Yes, contacts were restored, but they no longer needed me or I them, as we had already forgotten each other.
I started my investigation how my mother got pregnant. My relatives remained silent and pretended not to hear my questions. Finally, an outsider took pity on me, revealing that Tamara, my mother, had an affair with a suspicious stranger whom she met on the street in her astral village. In short, I learned that the stranger who seduced my mother was a paid recruiter of guinea pigs for a suspicious scientific project to create a “man for future times.” He saw in my needy mother a promising candidate on the role of the victim of a scientific conspiracy against humanity. This is how I regarded these experiments. Perhaps the reader will have a different opinion. But for now, my mother was delighted that she would make her modest contribution to the advancement of science, and for one thing, she would earn herself, without outside help and patronage, her first house on the pasture of houses for not very wealthy “guinea pigs”. If the recruiter saw in my mother a potential “guinea pig”, then my mother saw in the recruiter a deliverer who would pull her out of the beggarly environment. It seemed to her that she was receiving a little house for a trifling service. She had already given birth to two, me and my brother Sevo, and it did not kill her! Why did she believe him? Because of monstrous provincialism, and not knowing life, oddly enough? Perhaps the point was that the recruiter came to her as a kind of seducer with a look that was approved by provincial ladies? My mother’s relationship with Mr. N turned out to be fleeting, and she saw the recruiter as a real handsome man, so it seemed to her that, in addition to the house, she would have her revenge over Mr. N.
I was told that he was a brunette with a sexy mustache, a friendly smile, and very white teeth, which undoubtedly helped him win women’s hearts. He deftly and quickly infiltrated the trust of his victim, quickly established what she most needed, or what the “guinea pig” most wanted, and based on this, built a “mousetrap” to enslave an innocent soul. No one promised my mother a house near, say, Yasnaya Polyana, Lev Tolstoy’s estate, or in the replica of St. Petersburg, and she did not demand it. Feeling in her the consent to any house, they got off by offering her a house in the sparsely populated ash-beige desert on the outskirts of the village.
In return, she pledged to give birth to what they would fertilize her uterus with, carry the object before the due date, and give birth to a “baby” in their 12-bed laboratory hospital. The woman in labor will be delivered, along with a newborn and a traditional bouquet, costing about $ 20, and decked with a second bouquet of balloons in shades ranging from whitish to sparkling pink-reds and shimmering blues, to her new home, prepared for her grand celebration.
Mother signed everything that was slipped to her, looking forward to entering her own house. She literally ran from the laboratory to the park to share with her lover the good news that she was hired and signed all the necessary papers. He promised to wait for her on “their bench” in the far corner of a small park near the laboratory building. But alas — he was not there! She called him, but he did not respond, and she never met him again during her long walks through the streets of her village, when something grew and swelled in her stomach, and she finally wondered what was growing and swelling in it!
It will take about a year for my mother to share with her sister Evgenia, Aunt Zhenya, how things really were. After signing the agreement, she was immediately taken to the laboratory, where she was injected. The entire fertilization procedure took no more than 15 minutes. She was thanked with a polite smile, and a door was opened in front of her, leading directly to the street, on which the recruiter found her, a man of that vulgar beauty what is so dear to provincial women.
When she realized that the smiles were over and she was left alone, unprotected, a gray anxiety stirred in her mind. A lottery question what was maturing in her instigates sooner or later any pregnant woman bearing a baby — a kind soul, or the soul of Enfant the Terrible, a genius or an idiot, a handsome man or a freak, whose soul is burdened with crime throughout several incarnations in a row? She was too proud to ask anyone for help. She gave up shelter in her father’s small house. Because she knew that her father would repeat hundred times: “I told you that there is only one fear on the street! Children should stay with their parents!” Or was there something else, unknown to me, that turned her away from her parental home?
During her pregnancy Tamara, my mother, walked the streets, stubbornly looking for the person who had dragged her into Frankenstein’s dark business. Her confidence that she could handle it alone was shaken, and she annoyed strangers with a certain offer, which she learned from prostitutes on the street. In short, she began to imitate them to earn food and lodging in a shelter, but she never returned home to her father and mother. She did not ask me for help; she did not ask help from her favorite, my brother Sevo, either. In short, she turned her back on her past, on the marriage with my father, the world of my grandmother, a high-profile noblewoman, to her own family of Sirotins, who tried to climb, by hook or by crook, into the possession of Grandmother Luba, and who stubbornly refused them, unable to come to terms with that vulgarity, which the Sirotin’s were so proud, imagining themselves to be carriers of ancestral wisdom
Finally, my mother, having walked her way through the streets of the lower astral, and got acquainted with various types of shelters, poor houses, housing projects, gave birth to a creature that looked like a mixture of a man and a monkey, covered with gray monkey hair, with sharply blue eyes and half-bald, with bare, large ears. He tried to walk on two legs, but preferred to sit on the ground, like monkeys sit, having too long arms that almost touched the ground when he walked on two slightly bent legs.
Three times he appeared in my apartment as well. Since his energy was sharply different from ours, I easily recognized his presence, although nature still does not open my eyes to the vision of spirits and their world. I hear spirits, but I do not always see them. The guest sat on the floor without any greeting or desire to speak, to explain why he had come. He silently looked at me as if examining me, whether I am fit for the role of a prostitute, and whether he should become my pimp. And all three times my candidacy for transformation from the image of an old woman to the role of a prostitute with experience and knowledge was resolutely rejected. I never once tried to talk to him, I was afraid of him, and he did not arouse trust in me in any way. We must pay tribute to him, he did not seek our friendship, did not impose himself, but simply quietly retired, as if erasing me from his life forever.
My mother boldly looked at the essence of her position, abandoned, abandoned, not understood … and resigned herself to her fate! But not in the way her society expected. When her family and acquaintances urged her to “behave decently,” adhere to the standards of social behavior, she abruptly cut off moralizing. She reminded them that they had no idea what her life on earth had turned out to be, that she could remember nothing but hard work. She, the daughter of a Russian priest, will not burden God, in whom her father did not believe, with her problems. Instead, she will try to cope with her problems without asking for handouts and alms from anyone, not from friends, or enemies.
Nevertheless, on the way of her humility, Tamara, my little mother, having won an incredible victory in her rejection of the past, she reproached her teachers of exemplary decent behavior with hypothetical questions where they were when she alone, a widow, dragged her little children, bedridden mother-in-law Lubov Petrovna and her two helpless sisters Zhenya and Valya through the war, hungry and dangerous post-war decades in Sovietized Estonia? Where were they when she was experiencing the horror of the mass deportation of Estonians to Siberia, where local Russians also ended up. Where were they when the KGB offered, that is, ordered, frightening, and extorting, and practically, wringing her hands, to agree to become their informant, and she looked in the dusty attic for a hook to hang herself if she could not get rid of them. None of those teaching her now, not even family members — no one lent her a helping hand when she had to feed a horde of hungry. And she realized her right to throw in their faces: “Leave me alone and mind your own business!”
When I invited her to live in my aura, she threw the same words in my face, do not teach me! I saw in her something new, which was not in her on earth and that I, perhaps, will have to find in myself before I come to the irrevocable line of transition to another world. Can I cope with what she coped with, rejecting the world of superficial decency and vulgar half-truths, and petty lies when she chose the hard path of an independent individual?
When I offered her again the shelter in my aura, she answered that now we were even.
—I fed you, the difficult child, because I was a wedded mother, I took that obligation given me by God. But you, leaving us in Estonia, and running away to America, did not sell your apartment, you rewrite the ownership in my name. And Zhenya and me lived there to the end in warm and comfort that we had not received before. For this you will be rewarded, but for the fact that you left us … you will pay off! We are even! I never loved you, and you never responded to me with love, you considered me a creation of the lower class, this is how you treated the mother who was not afraid of any work to feed you, you willful fool! Why carry this “I love you” American lie! Let’ us leave that to sentimental Americans who echo “I love you!” —thinking, “Fuck you!”
Years passed again, until we met, when she knocked on my door and asked me to spend the night, because somewhere, something… I did not get it what she was talking about! I still did not understand where, what and when something dangerous had happened to her.
I lost heart, I was ashamed of my mother and refused to let her into my apartment. “You’re on cocaine, you’re not allowed here, they’ll kick me out of this elderly facility, and I’ll be on the street as well!”
My apologetic bubbling did not impress my mother. Moving past me, she, with Zhenya clinging on to her, slipped to the “fourth floor,” into the free spiritual apartments, made for small people in the astral body. There they found an empty bunk, on which they slept until sunrise, and fled without saying goodbye.
She has grown incredibly old over the past years of independent existence. On her face there appeared an unpleasant expression of haste and desire to grab a piece sweeter, which I could not stand, and which, I knew, had never led to anything but new losses, failures, and typical annoyances of a loser.
She hid her hair under a faded shawl, her face turned bluish pale. She was in her burnt-out raincoat that she wore on earth during field work, torn here and there by tree branches, and loading and unloading hay. She wore children rubber boots on her small, like a Chinese woman’s feet. How naive are those who dress and decorate a woman to become a prostitute. She understood that this was not required, but on the contrary, you would earn faster and more, if you dress simpler. She rushed off and disappeared … And she did not spread about what happened next. One day I asked her a question.
– What happened to your hairy children, where did they go?
– After the story with the throat, they were taken away from me and settled on a common pasture. It became empty, I feel sorry for them, after all, they were my children … Because of them, I learned this business, how to earn to feed them.
My mother became a professional prostitute. I found the strength not to reproach her for this. She no longer aspired to live in my aura. Almost funny things happened if they were not sad. She appeared when she had no money. And I gave her what I could. Having obtained a hundred-dollar piece of paper, she quickly ran away. When I asked what she needed the money for, she replied angrily, “On cocaine! Do not ask about food, I don’t need any food, someone will always give me something, I need cocaine, I don’t need anything else!” I did not know how to help her. After all, she had her own home, and I did not.
To advance science, she gave birth to three more gray “babies”, until one of them almost gnawed her throat, after which she became dumb, and her children were taken away from her to some menagerie. Zhenya, without any warning, brought my mother to my alternative treatment. No sooner had I read the cherished prayer for all times and occasions “Our Father” three times, when my mother jumped out of her chair and rushed into her four-dimensional space to tell a story, which was cut off by a “child” clutching her throat.
Once, running across some field, she was pressed by the need for evacuation, cleansing the stomach, and drunk, not understanding, she wiped herself with the hundred-dollars’ worth piece of paper she received from me. There were two versions of this story, according to first version, she threw the piece of paper and ran on, and according to the other, she washed the piece of paper and bought food with it! I think the first version is more believable! The soul of the Russian person in America is truly spacious and wide!
It will take some more time, and my mother will appear again with the same request to supply her with a hundred-dollar bill. Our fourth spirit floor was occupied by a delegation of dashing spirits, young people with a developed interest in women.
They do not understand the connection between me and my mother. They engaged my mother to dance for them the Krakowiak in the middle of my living room. And she danced a krakowiak, tying to tie a “palochka”, a piece of stick to a broken leg, which I knew nothing about, a stick, which she carried with her to dance, if the clients demanded such fun.
Then what is used to happen at such gatherings happened! Having figured out that she was my mother, they kicked her out without paying. Paide prostitutes were not allowed into building for elderly where I lived, but “friends” who offered free service were tolerated.
She was kicked out, and she was not paid, therefore there were no prostitutes, everything was sewn and covered and corresponded to the regulations.
I contacted my father. With the last money he had, he ordered his mother a new leg, this is possible in the astral plane, but soon she was found drunk on the street, and a group of Russians busy cleansing Russian nation from freeloaders, alcoholics, prostitutes and cocaine junkies marked her for destruction… Hard to believe but this is happening to Russians in their afterlife, as if echoing the communist regime meager attempt to cleanse the nation, принудительноевыселениепроститутокиздвухрусскихстолиц, МосквыиПитеранастопервыйкилометр! — forced eviction of prostitutes from two Russian capitals, Moscow and St. Petersburg, to the one hundred and first kilometer!
Thank God, I had already written and published her portrait in English. The judges read about her haymaking during hungry war years and during following restoration period, and her conviction to be destroyed was changed to healing sleep on the first Light Plane of Rest.
When his father said, not without bitterness, that he had spent the last money on a new leg, and instead of walking, now she was put at sleep with that new leg of hers. But the all-knowing guardian of the resting facility reassured him. He explained to my father that it is exceedingly difficult for those who wake up with broken arms and legs. And it will be easy for her! You have no idea how invaluable your help is to her! However, my father was told by a resting facility authority that he had done a nobliest thing, because when her time will come to wake up, she will be fine, but folks with broken legs or hands will suffer significantly, as there would be no one to help them. Father calmed down and stopped blame my mother neither when talking about her, nor thinking about her.
Before departing to the resting plane, Mother thanked me also for initiating the leg change affair.
—Tanya, I thought that being a prostitute is very cool, that it is good to lead a free life, but I was mistaken, I will try to recover and start all over again, I was thrown out of life as superfluous, but I will never be more superfluous … Thank you for teaching me nothing, for not forcing on me changes of my ways. Now I am aware that there must be another way to happiness. You know that I am not afraid of work, now I will go to study. When I wake up, and they will again let me walk through my streets, where I sought freedom, and found only shame, I will already be different. … God is merciful, he forgave me, they will put me to special sleep with restoration and thus they treat bad addiction, without torment and suffering, because I had done something right, and God had forgiven me!
Surprise, at least for me! Traces of the secrets of the astral world began to appear in journalistic publications in our three-dimensional world. Traces of experiments like the one in which my mother participated in the astral body in her afterlife began to multiply in our sinful world!
Scientists are making human-monkey hybrids in China and Japan
I republish some impressive photos of these artificial creatures, and after some time, I deleted these photos, because they started to follow me everywhere asking to stop these experiments and release these new kind of apes back into their wilderness, their normal environment of existence. Sorry for deleting the most impressive pictures of animals in captivity.
От автора, Татьяны Эльманович. Чем старше становишься, тем чаще вспоминается былое. Делюсь одним мимолетным воспоминанием, как я летела из Шереметьево в Америку, покидая родные места навсегда.
Год 1989. В аэропорту, покидая страну, где я родилась, Эстонию, я установила на часах стандартное время восточного побережья Северной Америки EST, потому что мой витиеватый маршрут предоставил мне возможность трехдневной остановки в Нью-Йорке, неофициальной столице США. Мне мерещились посещение Метрополитена и Центрального Парка, легендарного Бродвея, я надеялась побывать в студиях бывших русских художников, которые стали нынче американцами, а может и не совсем, и в них все еще теплилось нечто русское или оно уже стерлось и пропало? После Нью Йорка, я знала, мне предстоит забыть свою жизнь эстонского кинокритика, которого одни любили, а другие, мягко-говоря, не очень, и столкнутся в мировой кино-столице Лос-Анджелесе, Калифорнии с моим туманным будущим.
Взлетев в московском международном аэропорту Шереметьево на пути в Нью Йорк, я уже седьмой час сидела в летательной машине Аэрофлота, и меня мучил вопрос, сколько еще часов придется сидеть до приземления в аэропорту имени Джона Фиджеральда Кеннеди. Я знала, что на другом континенте, еще пока никто по мне не соскучился, и никто не поспешит встретить меня по прибытии в Америку. Я не могла сообразить, встреча с моим будущем состоится утром или вечером, смогу ли я сразу позвонить своим знакомым в Нью-Йорке, или может быть будет неудобно звонить во время восхода солнца? Где мой билет на самолет? Наверное, он находится в моей набитой донельзя сумке. Я потянулась было за ней, но раздраженная бортпроводница выхватила сумку из моей нерешительной руки и бросила обратно в контейнер над моей головой. Я попытался встать и дотянуться до кнопки, открыть выпуклую дверь контейнера, и все же найти сумку, но мне посоветовали сесть и вести себя хорошо. Behave! Спорить я не стала, но решила переменить направление моих размышлений. … Кто были люди, которые забили этот огромный самолет? Неужели все россияне помчались из Москвы в США? Может быть, это иностранцы сбегали из душной Москвы охладится на каком-либо морском курорте? Внезапно по моему сердцу пробежала волна сожаления, зачем я здесь? Почему я пекусь в этом самолете, а не охлаждаюсь на берегу моего эстонского моря в ожидании, когда большая волна понесет меня в мое Балтийское море? Наверное, я была слишком старой, слишком неловкой, слишком полной… Кто знает, какой мне предстоит стать в годы, когда жизнь уходит из тела, а смерть представляется единственно возможным, вовсе не страшным, а скорее желанным выходом из положения.
Кстати, почему советский главный аэропорт называется Шереметьево, не в память ли о соратнике Петра Великого, генерала армии, совершавшего жуткие преступления в Эстонии во время Северной войны Петра Великого. Во время похода армия Шереметьева грабила как крестьян, так и владельцев имений, окуная местных жителей в кипящую смолу, и развешивая их страшные трупы, объявляя о победах царя Петра Великого. Однако, в светском мире, Шереметев слыл безупречным джентльменом… c’est la vie.
Мою задумчивость прервал лукавый голосок: «Tea or coffee?» Из-за неуклюжей кареты со всем тем, что полагается на завтрак, выглядывала крохотная, худенькая женщина. Ее хрупкая фигура и личико напомнили мне морду лисички, которая жила в лесу неподалеку от нашей арендованной летней хижины на эстонском острове. Рыжая зверюшка обитала в лесу возле нашей халупы. Меня поражали глаза этого хитрого создания. Мы сталкивались, когда лиса подбирала остатки курицы, выложенные для нее на нашем крыльце. Она осторожно «выкрадывала» их, сверкая своими всевидящими глазками, наполненными превосходством над надменными людьми, возомнившими себя господами вселенной. Убегая, наша лисичка, уносила в своей пасти кусок побольше курицы, и исчезала где-то поглубже в лесочке так и не выдавая никому, где ее домик, норка, лазейка, лежбище, насиженное местечко! Лисичка умела хранить свои тайны!
Бортпроводница терпеливо ждала моего ответа на вопрос «чай или кофе»? Мне предлагали освежиться во время утомительного перелета, чтобы ускорить медленное течение времени до посадки на новом континенте.
«Чай или кофе?» —повторила бортпроводница, сообразив, что я ее не понимаю. До меня доносился только некий урчащий звук. И мои онемевшие губы выжали с трудом слово “Yes!” То есть «Да!» по-английски.
Тем временем, моя «лисичка» производила некий тайный знак в воздухе, видимо сообщая своим товаркам, остальным бортпроводницам об очередном пассажире, который ни бэ-ни-мэ по-английски, и обещая им очередное зрелище допроса, чего ей подать к завтраку, чай или кофе? И борт-персонал стал теснится собираясь вокруг нас…
Я поняла, что настоящее произношение, которое я никогда ранее не слышала, просто не доходило до меня. И чтобы не сдаваться, я улыбнулась, и как можно вежливее указала пальцем на банку кока-колы, красовавшейся на их загруженной тележке, полной лучших напитков, таких как кофе, горячий чай, и на худой конец, вино.
Я получила свою банку кока-колы, не обратившись ни к кому за переводом или помощью. И это была моя крохотная победа в день приезда в Нью-Йорк. Я вернула бортпроводнице ее сияющую улыбку и произнесла уже схваченное здесь, в самолете, «thank you!» Я понятия не имела, какой ангел-хранитель прошептал мне эти простые слова. Лисица не оценила моего усилия ускользнуть, так и не дав повода для смеха. Незначительный инцидент с «чаем и кофе» был исчерпан. Мое сердце пронзило предчувствие, что мне придется не легко в чужой стране.
Наконец, наш самолет приземлился в аэропорту имени Джона Кеннеди, и нас звали к выходу из самолета, чтобы встретить нашу судьбу, какой бы она ни была.
Я стояла посреди сектора прибытия в ожидании автобуса, следующего до нашего терминала, и мое внимание привлекло небо надо мною. Оно сияло яркими красками заката, обещая приближение бури и сильных ветров. Облака были темно-фиолетовыми, соперничая с горящими красными полосками пронизанными истерическими оранжевыми стрелами. В бой стремились невиданные мною доселе зеленые облака, сдерживаемые натиском фиолетовых глыб с тяжелыми красными прослойками. Но чем я любовалась, закатом или восходом солнца? В игре этих красок чувствовалась мощь нового континента. Подавляя предчувствие, что здесь я столкнусь с неведомыми мне доселе силами, неведомым напряжением жизни, я все же понимала, что именно здесь, в этой наковальне страстей, меня ждет и награда – рост, изменение, расширение сознания, иная степень духовной свободы. Как это произойдет? Только время раскроет ответ на этот вопрос. И мне придется смириться с его загадочным ответом. Каковой моя судьба не окажется, мне придется принять ее, даже при самом ужасном исходе моих всех радужных ожиданий… или наоборот, я увижу свет в конце тоннеля, как здесь говорят, решение моих проблем если не ранее, то в конце моего жизненного пути на этом континенте!