Luckily, I was not able to break this long thick bough when crushing the firewood and now, so as not to set the field and all ablaze, I systematically use it to kill the fugitive spillovers of lively flames. When the bonfire gets bounded by the black ring of burnt grass, the club-armed sentry becomes an idle onlooker considering the merry dance of fire atop the piled wood pieces while the club transforms into a staff to lean my locomotion apparatus onto
And what do you see in the rollicking tongues of flame or in the sedate embers scintillation?
(we were a seed, then a germ, then buds, then branches)
Now, turning the staff into a poker, I rake their smoldering reminiscences, push them aside to open a hole for a dozen potatoesdinner and breakfast, 2 in 1 The fire eats wood, I eat potatoes, mosquitoes eat me
(who do not eat, they do not live. Even considerate and prissy crystals devour space when growing.
But no one can ever eat up time because it does not exist at all. Time is nothing but a red-herring for distraction of innocent suckers. What they call time is just a series of different states of space. Some place sunlit from the left is morning, the same place sunlit from the right is evening. As simple as that. Day as a unit of time? Bullshit! Day is just the difference between two states of space. An apple adds to an apple to make a pair of them and not a unit of time, damn!.
Oh, sorry!. There, there! Dont be afraid, sweetheart, gray wolves gone to their forest, no loose ends, alls under a strict control
Well, yes, its no use denying that space and time, when brought up, make me a bit spacey, quite a very tiny little bit, not noticeable, almost, especially if you dont watch too closely. Yet, a brush in passing with that sweet couple andta-dah!a short circuit sizzle and Im emitting some folly accomplished. Kinda reincarnation of that crackpot God's fool, Vasily the Blessed, only cocked up by more earthly matters.
Still and all, I am not a violent case. Not in the least! I swear! And both Devil and God, (alphabetically) might absolutely safely attest that in the course of seizure no one gets harmed in any way because the hooey I pour forth is quite enough to tangle myself completely andvoilà!here am I, the same submissive genteel yahoo, ready to carry on whatever they see fit to load onto the beast of burden)
Still and all, I am not a violent case. Not in the least! I swear! And both Devil and God, (alphabetically) might absolutely safely attest that in the course of seizure no one gets harmed in any way because the hooey I pour forth is quite enough to tangle myself completely andvoilà!here am I, the same submissive genteel yahoo, ready to carry on whatever they see fit to load onto the beast of burden)
~~~~~
~ ~ ~ The Genesis
More likely than not, your ken of your own lineage on the paternal side feels kinda rickety, right? In the same breath, I feel comfortably confident in your Moms family tree being properly watered and presented to you in detailed feeds by your grandmother. About 2-3 generations, if not deeper.
The reasonable belief that my pedigree was a taboo subject when you were around took a firm root after a surprise letter from your mother breaking the sudden news of my death. Not too sharp though, the impact was softened by a kind roundabout introduction: you were told that your Dad was dead and I should prevent exposure of the childs fragile psyche to any chance running into the revenant ghost of her drifter parent
As a spook of quality, I politely kept to my grave ever since. Yet, when in a pub a fella next to me got in the mood for bending my ear with a plaintive tale of his being nobody these days while in his prime he walked the bridge of a nuke submarine as her Chief Mate, I felt a solid right and no scruples to cut his lamentation and drive it back that I used to be a famous pilot tragically killed at the shakedown flights of a jet fighter starting the newest, highly secret, brand For which unparalleled achievement I was honored, by the way, with the title of Hero of the Soviet Union and awarded the Gold Star medal. Posthumously, of course, and thats a sad pity the decoration didnt find the hero because those lazy sons of bitches never search in earnest
The bullshit, to be honest, was not an instance of my snappy creativity but a commonplace mass-product because in that romantic epoch, when a single-mothered kid exacted the reasons for the incomplete composition of their family, Mom dished out the traditional stopgap, Your father was a pilot and he crashed.
The brute facts of life were saved for her bosom lady-friends, He was a junior bookkeeper, guys, and spread me on his office desk, O, my! Never will I forget that fucking abacus trundling back and forth under my ass
Nonetheless, dont expect of me a fine-grained presentation of your roots because my knowledge of the matter is way too shallow and fuzzy because the interest in eugenics was truly frowned at then in no less degree than now
The name of your fathers mothers mother was Katerinna Poyonk and she was brought from Poland by your great-grandfather, Joseph Vakimov, a commissar in the 1-st Cavalry Army of Semyon Budyonny, as a trophy, or maybe a keepsake of that period in the Civil War when the Budyonnys cavalry all but turned Warsaw their spoils.