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Trehlikaya icon (I)



tripartite icon (shown unassembled). The plot in the center - "Jesus in prison" - is visible when you stand before the icon. If you move away to the left, there is the image of the Virgin. When viewed from the right is seen the third story: John the Baptist. In the Orthodox iconostasis these three images are often stand side by side and are called "Deisis rank. 19 century, Russia, tempera, board, 48x42 cm Collection of icon-painting workshop "Canon»



Once in the museum of Old Russian art in Moscow brought the icon of "Jesus in prison." Her story reflects the events before the death of Christ, when his interrogated and tortured after his arrest in Gethsemane. On the icon depicts Jesus with shackles on his feet, and around it - guns Passion, that is torture. Near each terrible instrument indicated his name in Old Church Slavonic. The style of the inscriptions were able to determine that the house painter was the Old Believers.
Examination experts drew attention to the dark vertical stripes that cross the image, and suggested that it marks the lattice, which is attached to the icon giving the story more expressive. However, the clue to the thirteen stripes turned out to be much more enjoyable, and it belongs to the well-known art critic and artist Alexander Renzhinu.
As it turned out, the icon once contained not one but three images. And the band - no more than a trace of narrow planks, fastened to salary (frame) icons. On both sides of the slats are drawn (they say - are written) part of two more images. Standing in front of an icon, you can see the central image, moving away to the left - another right - the third.
straps from the icon, which brought to the Museum of Rublev, did not survive. But Renzhinu managed to find the exact same, but the whole icon. It consists of a board of 42 × 48 cm, and twelve (thirteenth lost) of thin plates of width 2.6 cm, spaced at 3.3 cm on each
slate on both sides of the written image of Our Lady and St John the Baptist - the prophet who predicted the coming of Christ and His Cross. Therefore, John is also called the Baptist. In the photo above you see the icon in the form in which it was found. In the studio Renzhina icon restored: manufactured oak frame, pasted in her image of Jesus in prison, and strengthened the vertical bar in front of him.



Alexander Renzhin that found and recovered icon "Deisis rank. On the left shows the same icon, front view. Photo 2005




text reproduced on the working papers Kalinin Anatoly T.

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mvkazakova @ 2010-11-30T19: 25:00

special happened today morning: the snow and I'm on the bike on it)

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dreaming of the 18th of December ..

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Holy Martyrs



scientific monograph devoted to the study of early Christian reliquaries
Oxford University Press, 2008
PDF format
can download it here - Noga-Banai. The Trophies of the Martyrs.pdf

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Hush! .. Piano! ..

"Hush - piano ... you hear? Piano ... "all night in Bruges Triple tender. Lip nocturnes weak harpsichord gradually withdrawn in the water. As nowhere eyes on the sepia-Channel Dijver green green seas. Overtone of love in acoustics pre-winter above all medieval bricks. Sleep pods noticeably deeper apathetic flying people. Quieter, piano .. you hear? Piano .. There amusement persimmon lemon most-most yellow lights. Echoed in the triangular dome attic otzerkalivaetsya clatter of horses. Lie down, we expand the map who is who and how bored stronger. On the floor of the construct Forte outstretched things. Forte ...- Piano .. Quiet .. - In the shadow of the castle ... stuck on the wall. Late ..- early, a lot of little ..-, all mixed up in my head ..

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mvkazakova @ 2010-11-24T22: 39:00

Sto mangiando un caco. Ha un sapore come il sole. Una notte gialla.

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Bruges four hands

emptiness in her fist - with no trace of soft glass with your palm. Bruges from the balcony the last floor in the silhouette of the roofs was drowning. The glass channel moon from the bottom up at the sky howls. Crawling on the head arm, star-lit sea. 72 hours slipped second arrow, like a glass of hot milk could be cool in the snow in the morning. White Night on November Advent reflections of Bruges, on bridges, bridges, to bridge the two hands like the other two ...

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Byzantine mosaic icons


Monograph prof. Otto Demusa of mosaic icons - a special phenomenon in Christian art
On nemetsk.yaz. But not even knowing the language, you can admire the illustrations

Download с яндекс.народ:
Demus. Byzantinischen Mosaikikonen.pdf

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mvkazakova @ 2010-11-15T22: 32:00

asked and opened Tarkovsky's book of poetry, received the answer):
* * *

  summer is over, as if never happened. At prigreve heat. Just not enough. All that to come true could, for me, as five-fingered leaf, into the hands of lay. Just not enough. Wasted no evil, no good is not lost, all burning bright. Just not enough. Life took under his wing, protected and saved. I am really lucky. Just not enough. Leaves are not burned, the branches not broken off ... Day washed like glass. Just not enough. Haaaa) But two days ago, looked the same, "Stalker" and a poem that sounded in it an echo of the sea)) Sometimes the same is ... 
 
  

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Silhouettes (Part V)

Separation of the sun and moon - a constant. Hanging over the heart of the dominant era of the meetings. Wear domes waiting for the soul. Every evening gently Letters strangling hands. P-a-s-l-y-to-a. Bottled soft sounds in the word. So soon as the sun beamed into the sea. Separation pulls the thread of wool, sheep graze in the field of heart. Assume that they hurt, but a little easier to become a sleepless night. Firmly snap the handcuffs. In the absence of you I feel your hands, what was going mad. On horizon plane flashes, he flies away, flies away. Where I can not be. Can not be .. but I am. On a chair on the bed, in the end, on the ball. Yes, Picasso in the next impact creative inimitably portrayed balance. Derw bet such an alliance of body and soul in separation is impossible. In Paris, Proust hundred years ago, all in a tremble, trying to also destroy the separation. Effectively happened: seven books, which, instead of destroy, immortalized it in the paper-bound. Circulation of it (separation) around the world published annually, a hundred years later - in my opinion, cruel. Now I breeze through the windows imposes new motives, touching. I wish the train to sit down and cross it wheels. How timely ... I thought of Anna Karenina. She killed a distance. At one point, a jump and everything. And far: some Vronsky - limit dreams, unfulfilled expectations, carried out the end. The limit of separation is. The constant killing death. Or love, but rarely. Rarely finds the courage to be those who did not want to. Part of the ego. Merge with the sky, slamming the door, run through the snow. Forget contempt opposing views, to live as it would not be necessary. How difficult is to remain the sea, calm, patient, persistent. I remember as a teacher of translation inspired me to think that everything comes from God. That life - in humility. That I am a child. I do not understand her words. I do not agree so far. Life is a creation of God, and mine. A childhood is really all gone. I so miss the bun May and sour cream. Kindergarten: "Grandma, take me, please, after lunch ...." My sister would leave the morning of the fence, climb, go on a pack of children run to meet: "Why am I here, why all these children?". I found it hard to watch people pass by, I thought, easy for them, in freedom ... Now I walk along the school of thinking how happy they are crazy .. eat pudding, drink tea, then play and sleep. At lunch a delicious pie and mom was right there, up .. good day. Good day - down with the constant. Down hanging over the heart of the dominant era of the meetings. Clear all domes and burn all the letters. P-a-s-l-y-to-a. Bottled soft sounds in the word. So soon as the sun beamed into the sea.

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SILHOUETTES (Part IV)

***
thought creeps in again subject distance. Obsession night without stars in the window. On the background of a dirty-gray tree silhouettes. My focus in the dark ... So hard at night, do not draw. Presented itself Monet, no matter what the picture is? Probably, water lilies and black ... the snow. Where the snow? Its cause there. There are just feeling it, lying in another country. Country, two-tone. Country winter. Getting out of the brush sketch. Name? Let it be "Breakfast at the moon." I drink tea, and further imagine. ... Your silhouette in a shiny gloss dark. Standard: makiatto and brioche spread with chocolate. Love - Look at you - narrator dies. Dumb euphoria, and the words, as the legs with cotton are in a dream, brings dispersed soul. You eat. And I'm black lily paint - nostalgia. I ask: "How do you like me now? Truly? "In an imaginary picture, you smile and all ... lips:" Siilno. Brush falls from the hands of an artist on the tablecloth. In the brioche crumbs from my face, your face. Quite simple - to live, when the saucer glares silhouette of the moon and sun. We recorded in the mirror substrates. Suddenly emerged as a grandfather over breakfast prevented Indian tea so loudly that the sound of china filled the entire house. Until all the sugar has melted, he interferes with and prevents ... In my opinion it is stored, the romance-pilot in the cockpit-kitchen aircraft. Now the sky haunting my pupil, from his grandfather, pilot watches over me now. View from above: Ligurian exhaust, country boots, balcony and two. Two and a silhouette portrait: hand in hand, back to back, everything else on the canvas - the dawn. "Sugary melodrama "- thought to now, the poet, in Venice navedyvatsya ezhezimno. On the waterfront incurable walking silhouette of a man. In season - without the tourist make-up. One. Without consequence and without cause - happy. Caught in the palazzo. At night stazione exhales stanzas. Push off from the quay of the city of gondolas. Back. By the shore of Varazze. White Clay Hotel, second floor window, which is strange, without wings, shutters. Balcony. Your hand in my hand, you feel my toes - a product of bias tennis. Intuitively, the polarity: on the gravel of the summer I forgetting, you absorb from the screen face "Grand Slam". Two dummy on the floor of immobility. Neighbors heard. The third consecutive day in the hotel, they watch TV. Two dummy third day, do not sleep on the porch balcony breathe breeze. Frozen sea in front, at low tide marble hung. Easel swayed, jumped on canvas, the artist completed the painting. Lay his hand without feeling - in a happy bliss dancer.
________________
The Silhouettes (part IV)

The thought again is creeping in the theme of distance. Obsessive starless night is in the window. The silhouettes of trees are on a dirty-gray background. All my attention has drowned deeply in the darkness ... It is so hard at night to sleep and not to write - the pictures. I have imagined that I am Monet, what would the picture look like? Probably, it would be black, yes, black water lilies  ... and the snow. Why snow? There is no snow. But there is inside a crunching feeling and memory of it that lies right now in distant country. Two-colored country. Winter Country. A sketch is getting out of the brush. How do I name the picture? Let it be - "Breakfast. Under the moon". I’m drinking tea, and further goes imagination. Your silhouette ... in the temptation of glossy darkness. As usual: brioche and macchiatto, I would spread chocolate on it or butter. I love to look at you - narrator dies. Dumb euphoria, all of the words somehow somewhere disappear, as often legs become like cotton in the nightdreams. You are eating. And I am painting black water lilies - nostalgia. I’m asking: "How do you love me? For real? " In the unreal context your lips are saying:" Strongly”. The brush falls down from the artist’s hands, onto the tablecloth. My face, your face is all in brioche crumbs. It’s quite simple to live right now… when in a saucer the silhouettes of moon and sun are flaring. We are reflected in the mirror spoons. Then.. suddenly my memory recalls the scene: my granddad is stirring his tea over the breakfast, so loudly that ding-dong sound of porcelain fulfills the ears and the house. He is continuing to stir it until the sugar melts in water ... His glance is stored in me, the glance of romance-pilot in the cockpit of the kitchen aircraft. My pupil now is haunting in the sky, from where granddad-pilot observes me since he died. A plan view drawing: the Sea Ligurian, a boot - shaped peninsula , a balcony and a couple. The two silhouettes are in a portrait: hand in hand, back to back, everything else that is on the canvas is the dawn. "Mawkish melodrama" – that’s what the poet now would think, the poet who used to visit Venice every winter.  A lonely silhouette of him is walking on the Fondamenta degli Incurabili. He comes before the Christmas, when there is no tourist make-up. Alone. Without consequence and without cause – he feels the happiness once in a year, surrounded by the palazzo everywhere. At night stazione he creates his stanzas. I am moving off the quay with beautiful gondolas. I am back, I am in Varazze. The white hotel, the window in the second floor, which is untypical and strange, without shutters-wings. The balcony. Your hand is in my hand, you feel my calluses - a product of my tennis passion. A visible polarity: I fly on gravel courts, you usually absorb the "Grand Slam" on TV screen. Two dummies are on the floor without motions. The neighbors are heard around. Unbelievably they spend the third day in the room, with TV on. As for the dummies, three days they are not sleeping, they have been sitting on the balcony and breathing. The sea in front is frozen as marble. The easel swayed, the canvas shivered, the painting has been completed. The artist’s hand is laying feelingless – like ballerina in a happy bliss.      
 

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SILHOUETTES (Part III)

***

So little time has passed ... Three months seems a lifetime. One glance at this moment was for me more than a thousand More nepomerkshih views of my past drowned Atlantis. One Touch of His sunny palm tenderly all Chopin nocturnes. One word 'love' warmer duvet. His silhouette quieter silence. Many years it was looking for me in Sweden, New Zealand, Denmark, Holland - wherever there was even a hint of my traces. But somehow I was very near, a few miles away, sixteen years ago in a small town at Milan, Gavirate.
turns out that fate leads me Path of the villages, it is Italy or America, France or Spain - everywhere I find myself in a provincial dimension to its cozy, but usually exaggerated, due to lack of space and events, an attitude, as if on purpose, so I felt the essence of a country. Gavirate then, in my 12 years, painted my childish mind a green-yellow-red-blue hues shop Benetton, inspired by the white rabbit in the courtyards and soaring overhead kiwi and remained in memory Chipollino city, being home to the Italian writer Gianni Radar. This will always remain for me the whole of Italy, infantile kind, fabulously watercolor, life-affirming. 16 years later I find myself there again, but already in the sea at sunset hour, under the gaze just open Sun.

It sat on the beach and smiling my splash. And me? I caught her lips salty waves, clouds and feeling that way forever. Do you know him? This happens when someone sees a person or read the book and think I already know it, has already seen, had already read .. The same thing happened with the sea: I knew him for a thousand years ago, and this view from the shore was smiling me millions, millions of times. Involuntarily raise my head to the sky and ask the question: how can this be?

I was lying on his back, five-pointed star in the hands of the Sea and, as a child, waiting for an answer to your question. Runs a minute or an hour, and suddenly I see the answer in this yellow eyes from the shore - 'we are, we have always previously - in other poems that shimmer and inevitably confronts us every time a new quality and dimension '...
I believe in communication. Wrong to say 'between people' ... I always been convinced that the eyes express something sverhzhiznennoe that inside of the pupils is something more than our body, more of our thoughts are absolutely identical what we feel. And this sensuous substance will always be a little intelligence and words to express yourself and let us know where it came and appeared in us, and where he goes. I feel for this look, followed me from the shore, someone or something that is slowly and steadily spreads in me that had already spread and mixed with my staff, and knows how to do it until the last drop ... The only way you can try to call this connection - the connection of the Sun and the Moon, the timeless, otherworldly, zavzglyadnaya ..

I cherish the hope that it's not midnight delirium moon man. Feel a sensation as if I play the piano, paltsfvb on the keyboard ... Hmm ... Piano with the screen ..

What I found in this view of the sun? Why It's spilling over me? As I felt that it was mine? What we've touched each other?
have to be primitive, but it is better to describe and explain to me seems impossible. I lay in bed in a thousand kilometers away, and I see his eyes bottle of Evian on the table. I can see through his eyes the window. Anything outside. The whole of Belgium, Italy and the globe. Drifting away and see the sun, moon, stars .. skvozhu his views on air and a vacuum .. A bottle of Evian into a sea. Window - in the sky. All that is outside the window - in Stockholm. Belgium - a country of detectives, Italy - a place of my birth, the earth's ball - a perennial search for me. The sun becomes my self, and the moon goes into dreams. Stars turn into silhouettes miles between us ... His view is моим..

____________________ 

The Silhouettes (part III)

So little time has elapsed, only three months, but it feels as though I have already lived the whole life. This glance has instantly become for me more than a thousand glances from my Atlantida-life, that haven’t completely drowned yet. One touch of His sunny palm is tenderer than all Chopin’s nocturnes. One word from His lips - 'love' - is warmer than my duvet. The presence of His silhouette is more serene than the silence. For more than thirty years the Sun has been looking for me everywhere: in Sweden, New Zealand, Denmark, Holland - where there was not even a hint of my traces. However, once I was quite near, a few miles away, sixteen years ago, in a small town 60 km north-west of Milan called Gavirate. Somehow it always happens that the fate leads me in a village path, either it is Italy or America, either it’s France or Spain - everywhere I find myself in a provincial dimension with its cozy, but usually exaggerated, because of shortage of space and events, world-attitude; as if on purpose, for me to feel the essence of the country. Gavirate at that time, when I was in my 12 years, colored my childish consciousness with greenish-yellowish-reddish-bluish hues of Benetton store, inspired me by the white rabbits in the courtyards and growing kiwi just overhead on the trees and remained in my memory as a Cipollino town being a motherland to the Italian writer Gianni Rodari. This image will always remain me of the whole Italy, infantilly kind, fabulously watercolored, a life-affirming country. Sixteen years later I will find myself there again, but already nearby the sea in the sunset hour under the glance of just discovered Sun.

He was sitting on the beach smiling to my water splashes. I was catching the salty clouds of the sea waves with my lips and the feeling that what was happening at that moment has always existed. I believe everybody knows this feeling. It usually happens when someone sees a person or reads a book and catches himself on a thought that he/she has already known the person, has seen him, has read it .. The same I felt on the sea: I had already known it for thousands of years, the SUNny glance from the shore had already smiled to me millions, millions of times. Unwittingly you raise your head to the sky and ask the question: how can this all be?

I am lying on my back like a five-pointed star in the arms of the sea and like a child waiting for an answer to the question. A minute or an hour passes by, and I suddenly see the answer in the yellow glance from the shore – ‘we exist and have always existed’, but earlier maybe in other poems, other elements, which inevitably overflow and coincide us with each other but every time in a new quality and dimension ... I believe in bond. Wrong to say ' bond between people'...I've always been convinced that the eyes express something that is Sur-Life, that there is something behind the pupils which is bigger than our body, bigger than our thoughts, absolutely equal to the size of our feelings. And this sensuous substance will always be lacking the intellect and the words to express itself in order to let us know where it came from, how did it appear inside of us and where does it go after life . I feel someone or something behind this glance that follows me from the shore, and this someone is slowly and confidently spreading inside of me and at the same time I know that it had already spread in me before and knows how to do it to the last drop ... The only rough way to try to name this bond is ‘the bond of the Sun and the Moon’, timeless, otherworldly, behind-the-glance ..

I cherish the hope that it's not a midnight delirium of a lunar person. Experiencing the feeling that I play the piano, my fingers are on the keyboard, the notebook turns into the piano with a screen…

  What have I found in this Sun glance? Why did this very Sun glance has spread inside me? How did I sense that it is mine? That we have touched each other before we met?

I am forced to be primitive, but I think it is not possible for me to describe and explain my perception of the Sun in another better way. I’m lying in bed a thousand kilometers away from Him, and I see with his eyes, with his glance a bottle of Evian on the table, I see with His eyes a window, I see with His eyes all that is outside the window, I see the whole Belgium, Italy, the globe with his glance, I’m zooming and I can already see the sun, the moon, the stars .... I am the eyes of my Sun which are in the air and the airless vacuum at the same time… A bottle of Evian turns into the sea, a window turns into the sky, everything outside turns into Stockholm, Belgium - into the country of detectives, Italy - into the place of my birth, the globe - into the decades of searching for me, the sun becomes myself, and the moon departs into my dreams, the stars transform into the silhouettes of kilometers which are between us ... The Sun's glance becomes my glance ..

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SILHOUETTES (Part II)

***
from the sea tide has started a new story, the sun and moon, the silhouettes of two mixed morning to night, and have turned what is happening in the spaceless timeless 'a deux' ... That day afternoon silhouette of the sun at the airport of Milan had hidden Rays lashes right in the arrival hall, so when I went in his lunar eclipse skvozyasche sleepy, I did not found his presence very close to yellow, after the column .. Meeting place of the sun and moon - the airport .. Naturally and astro-logically true. And if we expand further and the 'Aero-PORT', then, in my opinion, is obtained Synergy blue air (air) and sea (port - vacuum vessels). So, in the blue elements Milan match two yellow silhouette, sun and moon, the warm mixed with cold; morning faced with the night, time started, and fell into the sea, once ducked flying past the person, luggage, taxi drivers, trees and birds. There were some words with each another, the meaning is not caught, all absorbed by the notes voting, new and familiar to the heart, from dreams, or letters that I receive daily, and from which emerged meeting.

picture of a car window, hurrying to the smell of the sea,
- dashes blue thick downpour,
him pastel beautiful terracotta roofs,
of Nowhere body signs,
the third, farthest plan - an abstraction of plasticine
- purple shapes of the mountains. Evanescence
plate inside the machine,
accompanies his fingers on the steering wheel.
Two silhouette flying in the rain to the dream.
three days to touch
skin and know that only a guess is possible through the letters ..
Particular note is the letter,
are more difficult to feel in the square -
we speak and write the language - the mediator,
in a second, not to breathe.
English universe -
double distortion of love: first thoughts, letters, and then translate them.
What happens in the end?
acquires the ability to hear the exclusive value.
funny way thorny, alphanumeric remote I come to the banal thoughts,
hear that - it is important in this life.
only 170 kilometers from the rain,
and we sit and hear the noise of low tide.
hotel balcony and view of the evening in the sea.
silently when so close.
In the distance we spend pounds
words in letters every night.
I think the time has come to sound silhouette,
now silent movie of this meeting will be inside of me.
voice silhouette ...
sitting side by side on the floor in a blouse gray and blue jeans,
focused on something too much,
in total timid look in the eye,
vaguely considering cloud.
voice the man who turned out
letter silhouette in a live, flesh-colored,
of the color of the letters - the color of sunlight.
utterly serious - it's not enough,
so that describe the severity of the aspirations of the sun.
Favorite City - Stockholm, fundamental. All checks
time,
hours, without exception, always on the left.
pajamas in the trunk carries,
Player DVD, adapter,
guides, at least two instances of two different authors
for objective events,
a purse pockets are not used for money,
antiquarian bookstore in the first place in terms of visits,
yes, the plans - one more detail, vital
- immaculately detailed,
up addresses and points, marked in pencil on the map.
But the most serious of the external manifestations,
course, the look and beauty of body movement ...

_____________

Об этом завтра.

The Silhouettes (part II)

A new story of the Sun and the Moon, of the two silhouettes which mixed the Morning and the Night and have turned what is happening between them into the spaceless eternity ‘a deux’, began from the sea outlow ... On that day, the afternoon silhouette of the Sun was hiding the rays of its eyelashes at Milan airport, somewhere on the right side of the arrival exit, so that when I went out being as usual at this time of the day in my lunar half-awaken eclipse condition, I did not notice at once its yellow presence. The Sun was standing very closely to me, behind the columns .. A meeting point of the Sun and the Moon - the airport. .. Doesn’t it sound organic and astro-logically true? And if to expand this wordplay further, ‘AIRPORT’ turns into the blue synergy of the Air (air) and the Sea (port - vacuum of ships). That is how the two yellow silhouettes, the Sun and the Moon, coincided in the blue-marine Milan’s Element. The warm blended with the cold; the morning faced the night; the time winced and sank into the sea; the passing by faces, luggage, taxi drivers, trees and birds were swept off at once. There were some words when we met, but the meaning wasn’t caught at that moment, they were absorbed by the nocturne of the voice, a new voice to me and at the same time to the heart familiar, the voice from my dreams or from the letters that I had been receiving daily. Those letters had become the turning point, the reason for this vis-à-vis rendezvous to happen.

The picture from the outside of the car that is hurrying forward to the smell of the sea:
light blue strokes of thick downpour;
beautiful pastel terracotta roofs behind the rainfall;
the bodies of road signs out of nowhere;
the third layer of the scene, which is in the most distant background,
is the abstraction made of plasticine – the lilac mountain figures.
The CD of Evanescence is playing inside the car
accompanying synchronically the fingers on the steering wheel.
The t wo silhouettes are flying through the rain-wall to the dream.
Three days to touch and to learn with skin something that is not possible to feel via letters…
It’s important to emphasize our letter language that, in our case, makes it twice difficult to feel what we are trying to describe via mails –
The Sun and the Moon speak and write on the language that is the mediator,
which is not native for both of us,
which of course we do not think with.
The Universal Bond – English.
Double distortion of love:
first is thoughts expressed in letters,
then is the translation.
What do we get as a result?
The ability to hear acquires an exceptional value.
It's funny that only by this thorny, letter-distant way
I come to the banal idea that to hear is  a core of life.
170 miles of  rain and we are sitting listening to the whisper of the outflow.
The hotel, the balcony and an evening eye at the sea.
We are silent when we are so close now.
Being at a distance we spend pounds of words in our every-evening letters. 
 think the time has come to mouth the silhouette…
From now and onwards the silent movie of our meeting will remain inside of me.
To mouth the SUNny silhouette…

the silhouette that is sitting beside me on the floor of the balcony in a gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, strongly focused on something, totally timide to look into my eyes, vaguely following the clouds. To mouth and to describe the person who has evolved out of a letter silhouette into an alive, flesh-colored; out of the color of the letters into the color of the sunlight.

An utterly serious personality – the words are weak to neatly picture the whole seriousness of the Sun:
The beloved city is fundamental Stockholm.
Tests everything with watch that wears always on the right hand without an exception.
Carries pajamas in a suitcase
together with a DVD-player, adapters, travel guides (at least two of different authors for the true objectivity), possesses a purse, pockets are not used for money, bookshops are the first  in the Sun’s trip schedule, yes, schedules is the other vital detail: precise addresses and highlighted locations with pencil marks on the map...
But the most serious of the external expressions of the Sun is the look and beauty of its gestures...
______________

.. to be continued tomorrow ...

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coffee time makes me happy)

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novembersome nature

jogging through november .. awesome feeling of the dying nature ..

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SILHOUETTES

me the first time in a long time there where it snows, where a window with paint peeling off flakes of paints from life nude black and white tree, my favorite, against the backdrop of live sets from the blue Pochainskoy domes of the church .. all ends and begins with the speed of light. How many consecutive autumns my lips exhaled summer on a chilblain blind glass to see and have not appeared, but every moment expected silhouette. But my memory of the sea spread out before me a white-and-white, all in frozen lamb poslemetelny in an hour, often in the morning, painting the ocean of snow, on which my eyes run in marathons, without start and finish, penetrating to the heart dazzling whiteness, losing any meaningful glance, immobility of pupils was identical to the dead sea drifts. The only sea that I could absolutely have whole months, without breaks and pauses.

That silhouette mirage had my black and white night: it spreads out with a flash of flying lights and snow, then it finds a clear outline, and I recognize in someone else's favorite movements to pain gait. He left only with music of bells in the morning, with the hand with the moon, just a short time. Risen from its own absence, as soon as I closed my eyes, slowly and without a doubt getting into my dream. This silhouette by happy coincidence would have according to my relentless pleas to meet someday, and the person to whom he (Silhouette), however, did not belong, because he belonged exclusively to me, my imagination, but the imprint of which he was. Yes, I must say that the person really existed, was present in my life, though, by accident and negligence own self-esteem, and after he lived and did not know that his silhouette, walking on my night windows, trampled sheets of my dreams have become almost a reality.

Sometimes, people live like this: in the morning drinking coffee, listening to news about other people riding on the important issues in poor spirits, engaged in architecture meetings diary, half of which, if held, it will sink into the dustbin along with the ending diary, and go to sleep, after disabling the phone. To, God forbid, someone leaning against the glass for a thousand years unpainted windows, no holes in the next every well-constructed life applique fragments beskopromissno intrusive silhouette ...

This came foreword, afterword rather, about a man and silhouettes that are left in those winter fall forever .. Where I was the first time in a long time there. Where it is snowing, and the window with paint peeling off flakes of paints from nature, naked black and white tree, my favorite, against the background of live sets from the blue domes Pochainskoy church ... this time not for me but for someone else .. and draws most likely more ...

Now I have another fall. Another window. Another silhouette. Familiar, but with its own prototype, with a man go to sleep without turning off the phone and feel what happens in my dreams, with the frequency of sea tide ...

The Silhouettes

For the first time in the long history I am not present there ... where it is snowing now, where the window with a peeling old paint draws from nature a naked black-and-white tree, my favorite one, with alive scenery of blue domes of Pochainsky church. Everything ends and begins with a velocity of light.

How many autumns my lips exhaled summer on that freezed blind glass of the window to see the silhouette which would never appear and which was expected by me every second of the night. But happily my memory of the sea was spreading before my eyes the white-white cloth of the snow ocean, all in stiffened ripples just after the snowstorm, more often early in the morning, on which my eyes ran up in marathons, without start and finish, getting into the essence of a dazzling whiteness, losing any intelligence of a sight, motionlessness of pupils was identical to dead snowdrifts of the sea. The only sea which I could possess at that time, but possess absolutely, during several months, without breaks and pauses.

That silhouette tested my black-and-white nights with its mirages: sometimes it was spread in reflections of flying by car headlights and snow, sometimes it found accurate contours, and at that very moment it seemed to me that I recognize my favorite gait but it turned out that it was someone unfamiliar passing by my house. The silhouette have been leaving me only early in the morning when the music of the church bells started, usually holding hands with the moon, but absolutely for a short while. It was rising from its own absence as soon as I closed my eyes, slowly and without any doubts it was getting into my dream. This silhouette had to meet (according to my relentless prayers) someday the person to whom it, however, didn't belong because it belonged exclusively to me, to my imagination but the print of whom it was. Yes, it is necessary to tell that the person really existed, and was present somehow in my life, but truly speaking, happened in my life path accidentally and due to negligence of her own self-appraisal… and after all continued to live and didn't know that her silhouette walked diligently back and forth in my night window, trampled down the bed-sheets of my nightdreams which had become almost a reality.

It happens that people live in this way: they drink coffee in the morning, listen to news about other people, attend brilliant business meetings not in a brilliant mood, they are engaged in their schedule architecture that they create in the planner, but they do not realize that half of the appointments that fortunately for them take place will finally sink into a garbage box together with the planner and will leave no memory, no emotions, nothing. They fall asleep having preliminary turned off the mobile phone to be secure and not to let someone who leaned against the glass of a thousand year-old window to make again a hole in a well stuck application of life by splinters of an uncompromisingly persuasive silhouette …

This is a preface, better to say the epilogue, to the story about the silhouette that remained in those winter autumns forever. Where for the first time in the long history I am not present any more. Where it is snowing now. Where the window with a peeling old paint draws from nature a naked black-and-white tree, my favorite one, with alive scenery of blue domes of Pochainsky church…But this year the picture is drawn not for me..for someone else and most likely has some different image.

I am also in a different autumn. Near by a different window. With a different silhouette that has already got acquainted, however, with its own prototype, with the person who falls asleep without switching off her phone and feels that happens in my dreams with frequency of the sea outflow …