My Mother and I

Part One. My Mother and I

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.

These dinners

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, принудительное выселение проституток из двух русских столиц, Москвы и Питера на сто первый километр! — 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.


The Interview with Mark Twain


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 allow 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!

―Who else?

―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.”


Почему мне бы хотелось пожить подольше на земле

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

Чай или кофе

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!


She Came…

Andrei Rublev. Virgin Mary. Detail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Она явилась спасти, а не карать

Богоматерь Владимирская

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Второй Залп Авроры

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

«Вы сотрудничали с органами НКВД?»

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

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

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

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

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

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

Голос Маяковского замолк. Наше интервью завершилось.

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

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

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

Уже закончив интервью, Маяковский добавил:

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

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

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

Парты вместо нар

October 2, 2013

Image result for Raissa Gorbacheva

Раиса Максимовна Горбачева говорит из астрального мира

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

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

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

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


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


“Moj laskovij dedushka” – my kind grandfather . The Continuation.

Sorry, if at the beginning, an overlapping occurs with the previous post. I need to start from here to arrive to the conclusion of this story…  Initially it was posted in one post. But probably it was too long and the end of the story disappeared  into the thin air without any explanation or apology!

Father Mikhail’s Childhood 

Once I said to Father Mikhail that I was curious to know why his children and his wife had never spilled a single word about his parents, about The Sirotins, the seniors, and how he got his last name “Sirotin” that stemmed from word “Sirota” – “Orphan.” Was Father Mikhail an orphan or abandoned infant, and the last name “Sirotin” was invented during registration for the Christianizing ceremony?

Grandfather confirmed that there was a thing that prompted this last name, but he was not found under the cabbage in the monastery vegetable garden, because the story of his birth was very simple. He observed with some hellish curiosity, if I would continue writing down what he had to say. I did! And he continued his story.

— I was conceived outside the law, in the church. A drunk young man desecrated a nun who gave birth to the unwanted child. I grew up in a monastery as the son of a drunken janitor. According to rumors, his wife had died in childbirth – birthing me, the gadenish, “the bag of misery,” or “unholy creature, birthed by snake-type inhabitants of hell.”

— Do you know who was your father?

— Who would tell me this? They told that this was a passing by traveler, a stranger. But why she, the nun, my mother, did not tell me the truth? What she was afraid of? Gossip said that my alleged “mother’s” death because of me had broken the janitor’s heart. Bullshit, he had no heart.

— Did someone pay for your upbringing?

— I had no idea. But my so called “father” was always drunk, maybe someone did pay him for keeping his mouth shut. I grew up in muddy environment being beaten constantly. In that situation, my only way out was to become an altar boy. And this was my only education I ever had. And observing priests, I learned the church language and how the priests conducted the sermons. The janitor got rid of me at the very first opportunity when an army recruit showed up in our city. Janitor introduced me to him, saying that my dream was to become a soldier to protect our tsar and otechestvo – the land of our fathers.

The same day, I was taken into an army can for rookies, and both men proceeded to the kabak to celebrate the opportunity to turn some government money into a vodka feast. What do you want from me? This was how I became a priest after my discharge from army, as all I learned in my life was how to conduct church sermons.

—In your astral world, did you meet your mother?

—Yes, I found her here, and I marked her with an eternal curse, and promised to tell the world about her shame…

— What was her name?

— Do not dig too deep into this shit.

— I am sorry to hear it. Why did you curse your mother? Cursing her, you cursed your children and grandchildren, and your entire family! My brother and me too, your grand-grandson and his lovely daughters… As Bible says about cursing…

Suddenly I felt my blood boiling, I was his granddaughter after all! Strange words started to flow out of my mouth!

— I think, you know your father’s name, and you curse aristocrats and nobility, because your real father, the stranger, the passing traveler, rejected his paternity, and later, when your mother, seeking better life for you, met that man and pointed out on too obvious resemblance between your father and you, what that coward did? This similarity did not soften your real father’s empty noble heart. He accused your mother in harassment. And you never forgave neither your father, nor your mother that they had abandoned you, and now you try to keep your kids so close to you as possible. Your pain made you keep them home against their will, my God! Now I can see why you were doing this? Times change, changing us as well. Let your kids fly out of the nest into their adult lives.

— It is easy for you, being so much younger than me, to teach me! You are impolite, to begin with!

— Impolite? You better ask – how did your curses had ruined my life? I tell you how! I cannot remember my mother, who grow up in the atmosphere of your curses and fights hugging or kissing me at least once in my childhood. But I remember her shouts, full of irritation. They suggested that I was not smart enough, not quick enough, did everything wrong, she instilled this in me. My brother Vsevo told me once, that the cascades of evil shouts at home made him think that this was the normal way how people communicate at home. Strange, he was the Sirotin’s favorite, but suffered more than I did. Once he asked, when I lived already in California, and he was visiting from Estonia, if he seems completely normal to me? He said that he cannot get rid from idea that everybody else was better than him.

“Stop it, it is silly to think so!” I interrupted him. My brother was and is now nearing 80, a good-looking man, he did not become alcoholic or user, he kept steady job up to his retirement. He was married twice, was liked by women, his hobbies included mountain skiing. Today, nearing age 80, he still comes every year to USA to ski in Colorado skiing resorts. How did he come to conclusion that he was worse than others? But time to time the dark shadow of his grandfather’s curses were crossing his face revealing hidden nameless fears nesting in his heart, and blocking his real potential.

I said to my brother that I was thinking about myself the same thing, until America healed me from low self-esteem in most peculiar ways. Arriving to this country, I worked a year as a receptionist in a dry-cleaning enterprise. Tons of people brought their stuff for cleaning, paid in advance, and then arrived to pick it up. My work day lasted from 8 am to 10 pm. During the day, I had barely time to sit down to rest. I saw and talked to a lot of people. My English improved, and along the way, I noticed that having the same question in mind, I was examining the clients and waiting to meet an ideal person who did not have any psychological problems. But I never met one! All people had their problems, everyone had problems. An Armenian was convinced that a spot was left on his shirt because he was an Armenian national! I asked him, if he had put a stamp on his shirt “I am an Armenian national”, how the cleaners would otherwise know to leave a spot on his shirt? A lady without any specific national features, asked her money back for spots before examining her cleaned dresses. To cut long story short, I assured my brother Vsevo that there were no ideal people, some were hilariously limited, some stingy, some pretended to be stupid, some were conniving, some demanded a discount harassing me with comparison our prices with prices of the previous owner of this business, some were dying from self-importance, and a local priest was busy keeping holiness of his image submitting for cleaning his pants and underwear. Nevertheless, all together they were nice and funny crowd that healed me from my fear that I was worse than them! But if they get it out of me completely?

Today, I am over 80 and still afraid to ask money for my work… Once I was paid $150 for translation of couple of pages an easy text – from English to Russian, and I could not believe that I got so much money for so little work. Was I normal? And then I recalled that my mother used to mention with pride that she had never read a book in her life! Now I knew that this “pride” of despising reading came from her father, the priest! In my Estonia, I became a decent journalist and film critic pressing my entire life through hostile home environment that despised and hated books and reading…  And today, facing soon transition to the next world, I am still afraid to ask money for my books, as if that money is burning my fingers, as if I had stolen time from God himself for working on them. The “pride” of living by his own mind and refusing to read was, no doubt, the worst hellish shadow left by moi laskivij dedushka on our family.

Sex in Monasteries

We took a short break in our conversation, and then Father Mikhail continued.

—You asked about sexual assaults in the Russian Orthodox Church. It was there, but I will not talk about it.

— How many altar boys served during the church sermons?

— There were two of us, Petya and I. Petya did not say anything to me, but, in my opinion, he succumbed to the temptation in hope to improve his life, and probably he achieved his goal. He was fed better than me. By the evening time, he was summoned somewhere, and he returned home at the dawn. He used to grumble and he did not look me into the eyes. Sometimes he shared a pie with me. And if they gave him more food to bring home, it happened that I got a chicken leg as well, it went down like a heavenly treat.

“How the Petya came into picture, was he an orphan, or also a “gadenish”?

“Do not ask me about him, his end was terrible. He was beaten to death by drank priests for being a gay, or for not keeping his mouth shut.”

In the monastery, altar boys were not entitled for vodka, but when the servants of God became drunk, they were pouring vodka violently down of our throats. It was how I became an alcoholic.

“During this type of feasts did you leave the nuns alone, or if they leaved the altar boys alone?”

“I would not say so. When nuns were drunk, they called us to themselves. And it seemed to me that they did not pray as they should. But this was not my concern. I saw there everything, so I got full sex education in the church environment.”

“Who were the nuns by social affiliation, from what social stratum did they appear?”

“Oftentimes, they were penniless orphans and widows, who came for the monastery for roof and daily bread. I was still small, and did not know much about such things. But sometimes something slipped through their gossip talks.  Once, a drunken merchant was robbed and murdered by nuns. They buried the body, but not deep enough. I remember clearly, when at the spring time the snow started to melt, the corpse’s body parts surfaced becoming visible, after rain that white washed them. The involved monastics disappeared from the monastery. Our town was small but life was boiling in it. Merchants brought any kind of merchandise to sell, to trade, to resell and this attracted people to market places. I could not stand the merchants, I hated this rude, drunk and cynical crowd, but nevertheless, I did not realize that slowly I was becoming like them – cynical rude, a Russian drunkard!”

“Sometimes I think about Vysotsky, if he was beaten in his childhood, then there is nothing to be surprised that he had become who he is today in the afterlife. Beating children is a crime, I know, I passed it. My “papa”, the janitor, who hit me regularly was a retired Cossack.  He was redheaded with cockroach-brown whiskers, and instead of “daddy”, I called him “the f… cockroach” – of course in my mind, or behind his back. He was a cruel man, he beat because when he got drunk he felt sorry for himself, and he did not beat me, because I did something wrong, but because he needed to pour his anger on someone.

“Whether there were animals in that monastery, children love animals, and animals love children, did you have some animal friend in your years in that monastery?

“Of course, there were any kind of animals, I liked horses and learned to ride a horse. Later, in my army years it turned to be a very useful skill.”

“Did army paid you some salary, did it help you?”

“Yes, I should put some pennies aside, but I did not do it, of course! Some squandered their salary playing cards, I treated so called friends for drinks and drinking parties. And it was a fun, the only fun I had in life. Army years were my only joyous years of my life.”

“Father Michael, how was your personal relationship with God?”

“I served God, but I did not believe in God! Instead, I believed in the existence of hell, as I had seen it, being drunk.”

“Did you crave for a real friend?”

“Of course, everyone does! But I had no friends, it did not work out, I scared off people with my fury and hatred, because I could not contain my boiling anger in my heart. It was always buzzing in me … And the older I got, the louder the buzz became. I have never met aristocrats personally, but I understand your question.”

“And how did you manage with nuns?”

“Well, we celebrated holidays together, and when they got drunk, things happened. I said that I saw everything especially on Easter feasts. There I saw things that a child was not supposed to witness. They did not hide anything, they said, learn, you may need it in future. None of them believed in God whom they served. The church folks were always drunk and thievish. I thought it would be better in Estonia, but nothing came of Estonia either.”

Jose Martinez

Jose Martinez, the spirit helper who showed up to be part of Father Michael’s healing team, couldn’t boast with parental support either. Disagreements with family’s way of life made him leave home and face his financial challenges alone. Somehow his story echoed Father Mikhail’s one. Both Russian army and American army discharged their heroes on the streets. But comparison of Mikhail’s and Jose’s stories forms the interesting juxtaposition of passive and active approach in search of solution what to do, if you are abandoned, penniless, without any prospects for future. The Russian man without faith in heart became angry cursing alcoholic and a priest in name only. He used up his observations as an altar boy, how priests conducted the church sermons, and imitating the priests, became the priest himself. The American man, Jose story will unfold below.

Once, in a hot summer day in year 2017, I was uploading to my computer some photos of Oxnard beach and beautiful residential area nearby, where I had spent a week seeking refuge from July heat. Suddenly I felt presence of a spirit who wanted a word with me. It was spirit of Jose Martines who said that he was attracted by these photos of houses where he was supposed to live, but instead he winded up in a cheap match-box apartment in LA Downtown. After honorable discharge from army, Jose found himself penniless and alone in LA.

“We, the Korean veterans, were neglected and thrown on the streets as kittens. I know that you did not like much the film “The Best Years of Our Lives,” but this film was about me from A to Z. And the film got Oscar, and it was a fair award. I know that you think differently, but it was my film, and my time.”

I tried to chirp in my meager sorry for being not too excited of the film “The Best Years of our lives” because of misuse of a real wartime invalid’s powerful image for inventing a politically correct, and in my mind, unethical ending of the film. But my sorry provoked only more irritation in him.

“No one can get that pain, Eetla, the Estonian psychic who introduced us on earth, helped me to overcome the thoughts about suicide. The worst was meeting Scientology people, they wanted Eetla to work for them as well, and there we met, and became friends. She refused their offer, and she was my only moral support, when I decided to commit suicide. She saved my life. Instead of killing myself, I started to heal and teach others and it helped me. One day, Eetla sent you to see me for getting some advice how to survive in the status of an immigrant. You were like dark forest, you knew nothing, but you turned to be a fast learner. But you were short-tempered, you could yell and shout and I grew tired from cleaning the same thing that you attracted with your nasty and senseless anger outbreaks. You felt it and disappeared. Nevertheless, you were invited to the celebration of my 60th birthday. But I died before the time from, of course, overdose. I already celebrated with that son of the bitch, mister X from Chicago, the white guy who was lazy and was not able to keep any job in Los Angeles. He was your friend as well, he was interested in your that time so hapless astrology, now it is so much better, but you already do way more interesting things. OK I have talked a lot. You saw, how I lived in my Downtown studio, washing 10 times a day my toilet after every client who went to shit there. You were an exception, you did not run in my clean WC, you respected what you respected, I liked you for this. Look, did you really can see something?”

“I have no idea, let me look.”

“Work, gal…”

I could not believe what I saw.

“My God, Jose, you had poison, a poison liquid in your kitchen shelf, and you could add it in any cup you wanted, in my cup, for instance, as well!”

“So, you get it! You found my euthanasia kit with poison. Eetla got it for me to commit suicide. But changing my mind, I did not toss it away. I kept it in case, if they come to arrest me for drug possession. But how do I live, what do you think? I got drugs from Mexico, I bought my share and sold it to my clientele, and one day I overdosed myself for all my sins.  …I had no idea that you get it so soon and so easy. Yes, you, get things.”

“You were bold enough to sell drugs under the nose of police, and probably, there were enough neighbors who reported that too many guests were milling around your apartment. When you overdosed, did they find money in your matrass?”

“It was stupid, I was rich, but pretended to be poor, and I should give you some money and connections, but I was not sure, if you were ready to clean some apartments. You did it later, and I regretted… I was not sure how to talk to you, and what to offer you.”

“You told once that you murdered 3 or 4 people leaving no traces behind, when you, out of desperation, accepted Scientology offer to work for them punishing people for leaving the Scientology establishment or refusing to pay what they owned to this “healing” organization?

“I killed more, about ten of them, and my work was traceless. I simply cut their silver cords, as I could walk out of my body freely, any minute, if this was needed. In all these cases, the heart attack was officially named as cause of sudden deaths. But then I started thinking what was I doing, and I started looking what else I could do for living… I was afraid to give away money, I should do that, but my stinginess was my problem, like it is the problem for many people from poor family, like yourself… Let’s work with stinginess for the starters…

“I do not know how to work with your stinginess, when I look at your future, all I see is that in your next incarnation in New York, you become a standup comedian. You will be good and you will be film actor.

“Stop it, stinginess is the enemy, work with my stinginess!

At that time, I was not able to help him. But still, time to time Jose showed up on my horizon, like in case of healing Father Mikhail, as if feeling some connection to the lonely soul of that sinner.

Yes, there might be a connection, both were left alone and helpless in society at young age. But the reactions to the same problems were so different, and so much depending on “the nation’s idea about itself!” It may determine how an individual will behave in their destiny’s pivotal situations. Later, this discovery made me write an article of degradation of Russian egregore, and its impact on the image of Russians.

St. Seraphim found me and asked again, if I would be interested in healing not so shiny souls, but ones who dwell in the lower levels of the astral world. “I have my list of souls who need help, and I know, you have your list of such souls. But are you ready to continue healing? «Придется копаться в жуткой грязи, уродством, порождением злобой, завистью, ревностью»! – “We will deal with terrible dirt birthed by anger, envy and jealousy. Can you handle this? Think before you answer.”

“Let me try out one more healing of Father Mikhail, and I learn, if I can digest what a healer must digest in such cases, maybe I am already too old and sick for this kind of free work!”

One more healing of Father Mikhail

It took place on January 10th, 2018, soon after I had written down Father Mikhail’s childhood stories. I declared that the theme of the healing would be search of thought forms reflecting the beating him as a child by his tormentor, the monastery janitor whom he called behind his back “the cockroach.”

As always, I started with prayer, asking help and protection from the Mikhail’s guardians. However, what was shown to me exceeded all my expectations proving one more time that our guides chose healing goal for a healer, not healer’s mental speculations. Instead of beating scenes, my third eye stood passive and in pitch darkness behind my closed eyes I heard the quiet cry of a baby.

Was someone crying behind the window? But people never stopped on our clean streets for a talk or rest, there were no benches for sitting there and letting babies cry. Nevertheless, the sound of a baby’s cry became louder. Suddenly, my “third eye” vision lit up, and I saw a country bed. The stretched hands of a nun were holding a crying baby: a newly born was taken away from the woman in the bed. The cry became heart breaking. I, who stopped crying decades ago, broke into tears watching how the baby was taken away from the nun who had given birth for her son, conceived in sin according to the Church believes at a time.

The visions about Father Mikhail’s early ages continued to flow. Now the baby’s cry came from the monastery’s large and so old-fashioned kitchen. The naked child was stretched out on a meat cutting table on a rag next to a milk jar. A joyful nun, pacifying baby with quiet lullaby, poured some milk into saucer. In one deft movement, she tore a piece of cloth from the rag on the table, wrapped crumbs of bread in it, dabbed the bread roll into milk and popped it into the mouth of a screaming baby. The child fell silent for a moment, and when it began to cry again, a new piece of torn cloth appeared in the hands of the merry nun, and the process of feeding the child in the monastery kitchen continued.

A pair of blackish eyes stopped joyful nun’s lullaby. Baby was packed fast into the remains of the rag beneath him and the bundle moved from kitchen table onto greedy hands of a man in janitor’s typical uniform. Then he saw a pack of money on the table… The janitor put the bundle with the baby back on the kitchen table, and sunk into money counting pleasure. Often wetting with saliva his right hand’s big and pointing fingers, he decided to recount the unusually thick pack of rubles. Then he put this pack into his pocket and started to move away from the table.

“You forgot something,” said the ironic voice of an older nun who appeared from nowhere. Janitor returned and pick up the baby who lifted its eyes and meeting janitor’s face started to cry hysterically.

Was it shown me exactly as I described it here, or it was my imagination that finished the description of this exiting transaction in the monastic kitchen? I was emotionally involved in my “3rd eye video” to this extent that there was no way to separate one from the other… Maybe I must to determine for myself, in what genre this story would unfold? In Bangsian style, or by rules of supernatural fiction, like some ghost story?

Suddenly, the colorful wave filled the healing space – my “third eye” space, or the 4D space, where we were allowed to train our imagination, so crucial to have it in afterlife. A strange voice told, “You would see as much rolls in your healing space, as you saw empty alcohol bottles during your previous healing.” The same voice added. “The time for this cleansing is over. Please, close the session and take some rest.”

I asked “But what about the “cockroach” whom I was supposed to whip today?”

“He was not a reason, but rather a consequence of circumstances!”

OK, I have imagination, I know it. But now I ask, what would happen, if I allow my imagination move forward into future of this soul, and seek an answer to the question, if the day would come, and he would reconcile with his mother, how it may look?

My imagination obliged, the scenes of reconciliation of Father Mikhail and his mother started to prop up in my mind involuntarily.

Yes, the day arrived, when Father Mikhail, now in spirit, took the ride toward monastery N, now the astral copy of once an earthy monastery where he was born. At the entrance gate, he asked about the nun named Vera and received a suspiciously swift answer that none of their monastics were ever been called Vera, in English – Faith!

“Is she still alive?” – was Father Mikhail’s next question, as the fierce denial of the existence of the nun named Vera means for him exactly the opposite. He assumed that they had expelled her from their ranks and decided not to talk about her. The icy look of the nun at the gate told him that if he would not be aided by share luck, he will return home empty handedly.

From afar, a cart loaded with empty metal cans was rushing against us. The metal surfaces beat against each other producing sound of timpani in a modern orchestra where ardent drummers beat them with a reason or without it, as if keeping the melody from sounding too simple and old fashioned for ears of contemporary folks. The nun at the entrance gate stopped the driver, and said to Father Mikhail that this carriage can give him a free ride to the city, to the church near the University.

“They want to get rid of me and my questions as soon as possible, something is fishy here,” thought Father Mikhail and soon enough found himself examining the crowd of the beggars who had positioning themselves on concrete porch around the church, as it was a custom to do down there during centuries.

… He recognized Vera immediately despite her being cloaked as a very poor commoner. As other beggars, she was begging for living, sitting on the cold concrete porch next to the legless cripple on the cusps. They seemed to be well acquainted, because time to time they exchanged a quiet word or two.

Father Mikhail found a bench near flowerbed across the church and being sure that busy Vera will not recognize him, sat to look what would happen next.

The church bells started to buzz inviting the parishioners to attend the evening sermon. And as the believers were moving toward church entrance, the coins and sometimes paper bills were falling into beggars’ outstretched hands or into cups set on the ground next to them.

When the flow of parishioners started to thin, out of the church appeared a young and joyous nun in professional outfit that looks familiar to Father Mikhail. She was heading straight toward Vera, and it looked that Vera was waiting for her. She produced from her professional uniform a sparkling bottle of vodka, and stretched it toward smiling Vera. It was a professional exchange. Vera surrendered to her two bowls, hers and the crippled one’s that disappeared into rich folds of her gown. It turned out that they were begging for collecting means for repairing the monastery. Now as the had given money away, they had free time, and they could enjoy a drink or two of sparkling vodka. The legless cripple was rubbing his hands joyfully.

But suddenly Vera, in astral world young, as if years had no impact on her, who was looking straight forward at a man on the garden bench across, froze, and then whispered, probably intending her words to the crippled man.

“Go away, my son has come to see me!”

“I will better stay,” he answered. “A presence of a witness never hurt.”

Father Michael looked absent minded, lost. Maybe he regretted coming so far. But the presence of the crippled man was holding him glued to the bench. Vera recognized him, and his hope to slip away unnoticed would not do anymore.

“Follow me,” — Vera waved her hand to Father Mikhail, pointing in direction of uncut bushes on the back side of the church.

Vera with sparkling bottle of vodka in her hand, was leading the group, and crippled man on his cusps were closing the rank, as if guarding the priest in case, if he would suddenly change his mind and attempt to escape!

The wild bushes formed a gazebo-like area with a small table and two simple garden benches. Vera picked from the ground some used paper cups, washed them under garden watering hose and proudly placed them on the table. The cripple had already opened the vodka bottle, and Vera poured equal amount of transparent liquid in cups. She said, “Na zdorovye!” – “For your health,” or “Bottoms up!” and swallowed her portion of vodka without hesitation, as a person used to down a galp of strong alcohol without the snack. The other followed the suite.

Nobody could produce a single word. There was silence. Crippled looked aside. Vera poured the second help of transparent liquid into cups. And they downed it again wordlessly. Father Mikhail looked at the crippled with vexation. The latter looked again aside but did not leave the scenery.  No one had a word to say. Vera poured the third cup of vodka into cups.

Father Mikhail get it down, put cup back on the garden table, an old one, washed by so many rains for so long years that it has swelled, crumbled, and had decorative green moss spots here and there.

“Forgive me!” pressed Father Mikhail through his frozen lips.

нищенка и девочка в розовом

The crippled threw up his huge brown eyes, suddenly burning, with a glow of unearthly light of forgiveness, and then he lowered them again, looking aside.

Father Mikhail asked suddenly, “Zhivesh to kak?” – “How are you doing?”

Vera smiled.

“I am fine. You saw, I am now a somebody, I raise money for reconstruction monastery church. I help Vanya, you see, he gets more money than I do, but he cannot get anything from store being legless. So, I take care of him. Now I have someone to exchange a word, to talk. He never rebuked me, did not shame me, he’s a good man. And you came along. I am now OK!  You will be OK as well.”

Father Mikhail

Moj laskovij dedushka – my kind grandfather

As it has been already told, Anna, my grandmother met her husband Mikhail, the army officer in the rank of lieutenant-colonel in her family estate. He started as a soldier, and was promoted for his courage and initiative in battle situations. However, Anna’s problems with her husband became unbearable when he changed his military uniform toward priest’s cassock?

Father Mikhail’s children, my mother, her brothers and sisters, have spoken about two very different reasons why did it happen. The first reason stems from Mikhail’s army heydays, and the second one was inspired by the practical considerations.

How a Militant’s Uniform was Changed for a Priest’s Cassock

FamilyGrandpaMichailMama with kin

Father Mikhail in year 1920. From left to right Yevgenia, Alexander, Yerast, Tamara, my mother, Victor, Valentina in Estonia. Father Mikhail’s wife Anna was left in Russia in hope to return for her when “things come down in Russia”. 

Once upon a time, when Mikhail served in Caucasus mountains, he met Muslim dervishes in a remote tavern near Turkey boarder. He was returning from a fair where he procured several thoroughbred horses for his army superiors. At the tavern, he stopped to take care of horses and taste delicious food like soup kharcho and shish kebab from the freshest mutton. Muslims who feasted around the camp fire on a meadow, the tavern’s backyard, invited him to share their friendly company. At home, the alcohol was tabooed for Muslims, and time-to-time they crossed the border of some neighboring Christian land, like Armenia, to enjoy the “forbidden fruit” and they downed their manly meals with local crystal-clear grape liquor chacha. They told Mikhail that he was one of them, a dervish with super powers, but he was not aware of this. The compliments did what they always do – took a person off the guard, and Mikhail fell asleep. He woke up when bonfire was already turning into a handful of gray ashes, the sky was dark blue, and night was enveloping the splendid mountain views that attracted tourists to this region. But at night time, moi laskovij dedushka discovered that dervishes cheated on him, they stole his thoroughbred horses and disappeared, letting him sleep and feel a fool, when he would open his eyes. Who would help a man in despair? Only stars were flickering on the nightly skies. Terrible loneliness and despair had crawled into Mikhail’s heart and he started his bargaining with God: if Almighty will return him horses, he will switch his army uniform toward priest’s cassock. As Muslim dervishes were magicians, he prayed hard asking for an extended amount of Divine support!

The covenant with God was confirmed by tavern’s owner who offered an old mare to Mikhail to chase the thieves. Mikhail commented later that he was partying with the Devil himself, but with burning love toward God he straightened things out. The cloudless night gave him victory over treacherous, but also drunk thieves and at the dawn he returned the old mare to the tavern’s owner, paid for meals and chacha that dervishes forgot to do, and proceeded to his fortress together with his horses and dervishes’ horses as well. When Mikhail was asked how the dervishes would get home without horses, my laskovij dedushka muttered under his breath, looking aside, as if cutting off more questions, that they would not need horses anymore. His courage was recognized by his army superiors and he was promoted to the rank of army officers.

Mikhail kept his promise to God, and became a priest! Another time, at a twilight hour, my mother, Mikhail’s daughter Tamara, being in not so romantic mood, spilled a strange sentence, “Oh, these stories!” and added that her father came from very poor background and became priest hoping for a lucrative and not too exhausting occupation. When I asked who were his parents, my mother pretended that she did not hear my question…  It was swept under the rug that my grandfather was a typical armejski gulyaka — a military carouser, and that his life story contained exciting facts that normal commoners would prefer to keep in darkness. The resulting fear of letting his children out of the nest to face the real world made Mikhail tried to keep his children home if possible, guarding them from meeting the world. During the transition called death this strangeness did not leave him, on the contrary, in afterlife, it reached the stage of maniacal passion of keeping his children so close to home as possible.

Zhenya, his daughter and my aunt whom we met in the chapter “A Spinster’s Big Dream”  told me that when she announced at home that she got a position of assistant of the teacher of singing and dance in the school for orphans, and she was also offered a small place to stay in the same school to help administration, if needed, instead of joy, as work was hard to find, Father Mikhail’s reaction was wild and out of control. He yelled loudly, “No, I did not allow you to leave home and abandon your aging parents!” Zhenya continued, “My mother, grandmother Anna, had opposing opinion, she suggested that I have to accept the offer and return to school right away, before the vacant position would be taken by someone else. But gone mad Father Mikhail continued condemn loudly the thankless youth and shouted threats to kill himself! Despite absurdity of this threat – as killing himself in astral world was hardly possible, Zhenya stood at home and her heart was bleeding!”

I asked Zhenya to drop by my studio what she did! We talked, and from my studio, Zhenya went straight to school.

During following six months since Zhenya left the family for the school, Father Mikhail did not “kill” himself. Zhenya stood in school helping both teachers and administration, in other words, doing everything what was needed to be done. Of course, she needed to learn English faster, but already she surprised me with some English sentences that she used for greeting students in her singing class.

The word what really happened to Zhenya before she left home, came from the third party, a friendly spirit Jose Martines, who had died on the eve of his 60th birthday from OD in Los Angeles. He divulged that Father Mikhail was caught red handed beating Zhenya for her decision accept the job and stay in the pupil’s dormitory. Jose, as an advanced seer on earth, was in the know of this interesting information because he was invited to join the group of other souls to examine the situation and assess the problem. Mikhail was arrested, and Jose added that the old bunk was locked up to a mental institution. The Russian Hierarchy sent their Great (St. Seraphim from Sarov) to examine the situation personally.

Then Jose recalled that St. Seraphim asked him to contact me, and ask, if I will heal Father Mikhail. Jose added that if I do, he would like to be part of that healing and volunteer as a helper.

“Consider, you have the invitation already,” was my answer.

Serafim Sarovski 222  St. Seraphim from Sarov (1754—1833)

Soon a circle of the invisible spirits gathered in my studio. The soul of the St. Seraphim from Sarov was presented. The best way to introduce him would be to read his two quotes about the purpose of our lives on earth. “Acquire a peaceful spirit, and around you the thousands will be saved.”

“It is necessary that Holy Spirit enters our hearts. Everything we do for Christ, has been given to us by Holy Spirit, and prayer is the most decisive tool, as it is always available to us.”

Wikipedia: “Saint Seraphim of Sarov (1754 -1833), born Prokhor Moshnin is one of the most renowned Russian saints in the Eastern Orthodox Church. He is considered the greatest of the 19th century startsi (elders). Seraphim extended the monastic teaching of contemplation and self-denial to the layperson. He taught that the purpose of the Christian life was to acquire Holy Spirit. Seraphim was canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church in year 1903. Pope John Paul II referred to him as a saint.”

If we translate his advice in the modern language, it would say, “He taught that the purpose of the Christian life was to acquire from cosmos energy of so high vibrational frequency as possible and as much as possible considering the prayer to be the most effective tool for creating direct connection from human being to the realms of Divine Light and truth vibrations.”

On February 18, 2017 Father Mikhail was the first to arrive, he chose a seat and smiled ironically. Not very inspiring beginning of the healing. Nevertheless, I started with my quiet prayer and, as usual, appealed to Father Mikhail’s guides and angels offering them a chance to work through my body and grounding channels. I tried to call in “Golden Light” as much as possible.

Seraphim of Sarov took the seat next to Father Mikhail. I thanked him for honoring our modest gathering with his presence. I started calling in the Divine Light to increase the presence of high vibrational energy in the healing area. My Third Eye showed me how Jose Martines was pushing his cart for collecting negative thought forms, if such would be released during the upcoming healing.

I was suggested to work with coming up images of Mikhail’s throat and heart chakras. We set up a similar screen as we did cleansing Anna, and soon the stream of already familiar curses was flying across the room toward the gluey screen, the Hildegard’s invention.

The energy moves intensified when I reached to Father Mikhail’s heart area. It was bright red and flaming. His heart should be a very angry one. It was surrounded by the color of the burnout desert tones. There were no traces of emerald green, the basic colors of the heart chakra. I left it as it was for now, and moved to the Solar Plexus area… filled with empty bottles of alcoholic beverages.

Jose Martines was already collecting these dirty bottles into his cart for moving them out from healing area toward … my dump? Would I find them in my solar plexus area? The more bottles Jose picked up, the more bottles seemed to appear from all thinkable corners in my studio.

Maybe you have seen horror movies when targeted by dark forces characters started seeing snakes in their living space, they attacked humans everywhere, appeared in bathtubs and washing sinks. In my studio, instead of snakes, empty bottles multiplied everywhere. I started to pray in terror calling for help from the higher powers. A burning furnace appeared from nowhere, and I started to burn whatever appeared to look like released thought forms of Father Mikhail’s occupational attributes. I did it, or someone else did it using my mind and hands? Father Mikhail stopped smiling ironically. His spirit face was stoning into a contortion of fear. I was on the brink to give up cleansing attempt, because I had lost control of what was going on in the studio during that healing.

I saw that the amount of negative thoughtforms connected to Mikhail’s persona was bigger than his physical flesh form could accommodate. Where the soul of Father Mikhail was accumulating them? If I was not able to understand it, how could I hope to heal him?

Nevertheless, I stopped asking questions, and decided to continue throwing into flame whatever was on my way as long as the flaming furnace was there, and my stamina could take it! I was throwing into burning stove his clerical garb, asking forgiveness from the Heavenly Powers for allowing to drag myself into this world without clear understanding what I was stepping into. I continued working through my imagination so long as I could.

Finally, I called for the closing of this healing session thanking cordially all participants, Father Mikhail included. But he left the scenery without looking back, and soon the darkness behind the window swallowed him, as he had never existed. Thank came from Seraphim of Sarov for attempt to help a troubled soul. We spoke in Russian.

“Tatyana, I cannot talk to you right now, as you are really falling apart. Overall impression? I did not understand a thing what you did, but he was clearing before my eyes, how did you do it?”

“I called the cleansing light, prayed and asked for help! I saw what was inside of his energy “frame” as much, as it was shown to me.”

“Your work will be reckoned, but I did not understand, how you did it. Tanya, go to bed, you’ll pass out in a faint …”

Same healing
from the point of view of Jose Martines

The next day, Jose Martines, on earth Korean war veteran and clairvoyant in his own right, showed up to discuss the healing session of Father Mikhail. We both were impressed by the release of empty bottles of alcohol in described amount. I asked Jose, what did we saw – real bottles or only images of these bottles? Jose answered that they, the bottles, seemed to be real things. But they came and disappeared so strangely, as if being something else, not real. Maybe on the given astral level, thing and its image are one and the same?

And then the idea struck me that if it is one and the same in astral world, then it is the same here, and the ancient India sages’ conviction that everything around, including our bodies, is Maya, a dream, is the harsh truth after all! Marlene Dietrich spilled once – in astral world, everything is a pipe dream only!” But if this is so, the cosmic law of oneness would whisper in your ears that as it is up there, so it is below, and whatever we see, comes from a “pipeline,” someone’s imagination, from a dream, from a … God’s dream only, or my dreams matter also? My head was spinning, I came so close to overturning my materialist worldview. It was nesting strongly in my childish “common sense” consciousness despite being challenged by my “second sight” experiences since childhood.

Jose seemed also to be lost in his thoughts. His assessment of the effectiveness of our healing attempt was brief. “We were aided, it was heavenly to be aided!” After sharing his opinion, he fell back into silence!

Then he said that my decision to destroy the images of his clerical garb, to burn it in our field furnace was an excellent idea! He was jumping out of his socks when I shouted to the old man to remove his black cloak, or whatever it was, and a flood of dark gluey liquid gushed out of him in such amount that Jose was afraid that we would be swamped in it. But it did not happen, the liquid disappeared into ground. When I asked Jose how he saw the chakras of grandfather’s throat and heart areas, did his spirit body revealed it at all? The Jose’s answer was shocking.

“They looked terrible! Both former energy centers were occupied with parasites, as Mr. Gogol’s stomach appeared to be, when we cleansed it. I washed them with a garden hose.

My childish common sense made me ask everybody whom I considered to be smarter than me, did astral world carries biological matter as we have it on earth? Paramahansa Yogananda assured us that astral world did not have it. Yukteswar answered that in astral world everything is possible and therefore he cannot say “yes” or “no”, as only experience can bring some clarity in this question. I asked the same from St. Seraphim from Sarov. His answer was most intriguing. He said, “How interesting question? I had never thought about it.”

Jose tried to find out what the Russian Hierarchy guy thought about our healing. St. Seraphim from Sarov confirmed that he could not understand a thing how it was done, but he liked results. This time he asked some questions regarding the healing technique. We talked about 40 minutes and he encouraged me to keep detailed diary and write the book about my healing experiences – giving people hope to be able to heal themselves without spending tons of money on alternative healers. I asked about obvious discrepancy between the quantity of empty bottles and the small measures of the soul. How can little soul carry so much bottles?

St. Seraphim from Sarov answered the following.

“Human spirit is built from many levels of different energies. And every level shows the soul differently depending on the particular levels’ frequencies…”

Paramahansa Yogananda had spoken about it in “Prisoners of Fame” in lengthy matter.

St. Seraphim of Sarov added:

“The soul of one and the same human being can look on different energy levels surprisingly different. On some level it may look like the soul of an angel, and on the other level, it can look like soul of an angry monster.”

Was he pointing to Father Mikhail? I decided to dig a bit deeper into childhood of moi laskovij dedushka.

Father Mikhail’s Childhood

Once I said to Father Mikhail that I was curious to know why his children and his wife had never spilled a single word about his parents, about The Sirotins, the seniors, and how he got his last name “Sirotin” that stemmed from word “Sirota” – “Orphan.” Was Father Mikhail an orphan or abandoned infant, and the last name “Sirotin” was invented during registration for the Christianizing ceremony?

Grandfather confirmed that there was a thing that prompted this last name, but he was not found under the cabbage in the monastery vegetable garden, because the story of his birth was very simple. He observed with some hellish curiosity, if I would continue writing down what he had to say. I did! And he continued his story.

“I was conceived outside the law, in the church. A drunk young man desecrated a nun who gave birth to the unwanted child. I grew up in a monastery as the son of a drunken janitor. According to rumors, his wife had died in childbirth – birthing me, the gadenish, “the bag of misery,” or “unholy creature, birthed by snake-type inhabitants of hell.”

“Do you know who was your father?”

“Who would tell me this? They told that this was a passing by traveler, a stranger. But why she, the nun, my mother, did not tell me the truth? What she was afraid of? Gossip said that my alleged “mother’s” death because of me had broken the janitor’s heart. Bullshit, he had no heart.”

“Did someone pay for your upbringing?”

“I had no idea. But my so called “father” was always drunk, maybe someone did pay him for keeping his mouth shut. I grew up in muddy environment being beaten constantly. In that situation, my only way out was to become an altar boy. And this was my only education I ever had. And observing priests, I learned the church language and how the priests conducted the sermons. The janitor got rid of me at the very first opportunity when an army recruit showed up in our city. Janitor introduced me to him, saying that my dream was to become a soldier to protect our tsar and otechestvo – the land of our fathers.

“The same day, I was taken into an army can for rookies, and both men proceeded to the kabak to celebrate the opportunity to turn some government money into a vodka feast. What do you want from me? This was how I became a priest after my discharge from army, as all I learned in my life was how to conduct church sermons.”

“In your astral world, did you meet your mother?”

“Yes, I found her here, and I marked her with an eternal curse, and promised to tell the world about her shame…”

“What was her name?”

“Do not dig too deep into this shit.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Why did you curse your mother? Cursing her, you cursed your children and grandchildren, and your entire family! My brother and me too, your grand-grandson and his lovely daughters… As Bible says about cursing…”

Suddenly I felt my blood boiling, I was his granddaughter after all! Strange words started to flow out of my mouth!

“I think, you know your father’s name, and you curse aristocrats and nobility, because your real father, the stranger, the passing traveler, rejected his paternity, and later, when your mother, seeking better life for you, met that man and pointed out on too obvious resemblance between your father and you, what that coward did? This similarity did not soften your real father’s empty noble heart. He accused your mother in harassment. And you never forgave neither your father, nor your mother that they had abandoned you, and now you try to keep your kids so close to you as possible. Your pain made you keep them home against their will, my God! Now I can see why you were doing this? Times change, changing us as well. Let your kids fly out of the nest into their adult lives.”

“It is easy for you, being so much younger than me, to teach me! You are impolite, to begin with!”

“Impolite? You better ask – how did your curses had ruined my life? I tell you how! I cannot remember my mother, who grow up in the atmosphere of your curses and fights hugging or kissing me at least once in my childhood. But I remember her shouts, full of irritation. They suggested that I was not smart enough, not quick enough, did everything wrong, she instilled this in me. My brother Vsevo told me once, that the cascades of evil shouts at home made him think that this was the normal way how people communicate at home. Strange, he was the Sirotin’s favorite, but suffered more than I did. Once he asked, when I lived already in California, and he was visiting from Estonia, if he seems completely normal to me? He said that he cannot get rid from idea that everybody else was better than him.”

“Stop it, it is silly to think so!” I interrupted him. My brother was and is now nearing 80, a good-looking man, he did not become alcoholic or user, he kept steady job up to his retirement. He was married twice, was liked by women, his hobbies included mountain skiing. Today, nearing age 80, he still comes every year to USA to ski in Colorado skiing resorts. How did he come to conclusion that he was worse than others? But time to time the dark shadow of his grandfather’s curses were crossing his face revealing hidden nameless fears nesting in his heart, and blocking his real potential.

I said to my brother that I was thinking about myself the same thing, until America healed me from low self-esteem in most peculiar ways. Arriving to this country, I worked a year as a receptionist in a dry-cleaning enterprise. Tons of people brought their stuff for cleaning, paid in advance, and then arrived to pick it up. My work day lasted from 8 am to 10 pm. During the day, I had barely time to sit down to rest. I saw and talked to a lot of people. My English improved, and along the way, I noticed that having the same question in mind, I was examining the clients and waiting to meet an ideal person who did not have any psychological problems. But I never met one! All people had their problems, everyone had problems. An Armenian was convinced that a spot was left on his shirt because he was an Armenian national! I asked him, if he had put a stamp on his shirt “I am an Armenian national”, how the cleaners would otherwise know to leave a spot on his shirt? A lady without any specific national features, asked her money back for spots before examining her cleaned dresses. To cut long story short, I assured my brother Vsevo that there were no ideal people, some were hilariously limited, some stingy, some pretended to be stupid, some were conniving, some demanded a discount harassing me with comparison our prices with prices of the previous owner of this business, some were dying from self-importance, and a local priest was busy keeping holiness of his image submitting for cleaning his pants and underwear. Nevertheless, all together they were nice and funny crowd that healed me from my fear that I was worse than them! But if they get it out of me completely?

Once I was paid $150 for translation of couple of pages an easy text – from English to Russian, and I could not believe that I got so much money for so little work. Was I normal? And then I recalled that my mother used to mention with pride that she had never read a book in her life! Now I knew that this “pride” of despising reading came from her father, the priest! In my Estonia, I became a decent journalist and film critic pressing my entire life through hostile home environment that despised people who read books. Today, facing transition to the next world, I am still afraid to ask money for my books, as if it would burn my fingers. The “pride” of living by his own mind and refusing to read was, no doubt, the worst hellish shadow left by moi laskivij dedushka to hover above our family. It had power of an invisible stone wall that I had to break through alone. Today I am 84 and I am still not done with the issue. The members of the camp of my maternal ancestry explain me tirelessly who is who in family, some do it from behind their graves… Probably, this was how my karma was humbling me.