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Tu sei qui: Portale PIAZZA 3 CASA DELL'AMBASCIATORE The Door of the Wind

The Door of the Wind

George Noskov

The one who panics in some situation is a coward ,

the one who believes in humanity is a fool .

Camus

 

If you have a door you need a key to open and to close it , don’t you ? It depends what is your door .  It may be a door of your house , your shop , your pub , garage , office or warehouse , it depends . In this particular writing I am opening the door of the wind , that’s why it may look a bit unusual , and that’s why the key is a bit strange : after all the door is special . Gerald is an upper class Eton/Oxford educated guy . Do you have already his portrait in front of you ? Now we are ready to talk details . Slightly unusual is Gerald’s strong interest in occult, poetry and anti-Semitism.Generally Eton cultivates top bank managers , Freemason politicians who are very far away from poetry and whose “occult” is completely formal in order to hold their social positions and to manage well their reputations inside certain circles . Eton anti-Semitism is also superficial , from my point of view , because they believe in money and power just like Jews whom they hate . He believes I am the same . That’s why he is interested in me . He decided that I’m the same . I’m almost tired to explain to everybody that I’m not an anti-Semite : I love kikes , it is them who don’t love me for unknown reasons .  I find kikes extremely funny - to the point I am all in tears of laugh , and as I love only funny things how one may suppose that I hate kikes ? I find them deeply eccentric ; even their infamous love for money and power - it’s very touching and almost sentimental . I also find their thought deeply original , especially in fields of economics , psychology and arts : give me a book by Jewish author every day , or at least a book by somebody thinking in Jewish way . I regard myself a Jewish patriot .  I like the very process of examining every little mental detail of such a writings - and always find my modest pleasures . I like the very process of following Jewish logic , from purely aesthetic point of view . “ What an entertainment ! - I always exclaim , - How it was possible to take such a sudden and original point of view ? How it was possible to look at things from such a strange angle ? “ Idiot Nazis ! Instead of burning Jewish books I would like to burn all other books that are not as original . I find Jewish books amazing from the very beginning . Take the beginning of The Testament : some Avraam gave the birth to another Isaya . And it lasts for about two pages . What kind of idiot one must be to be interested in some remote in time and space Avraam and Isaya ? Why I need to give a fuck ? Are they my neighbours ? In Swiss Cottage case they are . Currently I live in this area of big and beautiful London . Avraam is a bank manager - and a successful one , if one take into consideration his brand new “ Aston Martin” , and Isaya is a journalist writing for Guardian and Independent . Taking into the same consideration Isaya’s lovely three bedroom flat where he lives with a French student girl Isaya must be a very productive author . “ How many pages do you write per day , Isaya ?” “ About thirty “ , - he said , - “ I am very busy “ . I was busy with these ten pages for about thirty years , if to start counting from the initial emotion . He told to me that he writes mostly about fashion . So I remove from my forehead a label of “Anti-Semite” from the very beginning : after all I drink beer with Avraam and Isaya nearly every eve at local pub ! Another guy who usually join us is Simon , a top British pornographer , who is also from Jewish stock , and who is living nearby in a lovely house . Sex sells . But I don’t criticise Simon : at least he is not pretending that he is busy with something important , moral , “good” : he is pornographer and he knows it . Politicians , journalists , writers , artists , philosophers are pornographers as well but they pretend they are not . In fact any professor of philosophy knows exactly why he has his salary . What could be more dirty than a politician or a “successful” modern artist ? Compared with them any hooker is an angel .  They show to us all these rock stars , Hollywood stars all the time . I would like to deconstruct any of their “success stories” to come to really disappointing moral results . But it’s system , and we must respect it - it says us that we must  , so , George , just shut up . Our company must look strange , because it is a company of three Jews and one Russian Cossack who are supposed to hate each other - but we are together to have good times . To say the truth I find it difficult with British . They are too slow thinking , nothing happens . Jews are much more fast cars . They drive only in certain direction but I can’t claim they are slow . Their direction is not necessarily mine , it’s always true . But look at their speed ! It’s like Chaplin’s movie ! Gorgeous !

It’s like Germans and Turks . If I am a German Chancellor I would like all Turks to occupy Germany while all Germans occupy Turkey : in this case Turks will get some Western civilisation , and Germans get some sunshine they are desperate for . Actually they will be happy . The same is true about the British . If I in an a position of power I want all English to live in Jamaica . Why not ? They love their music , things , drums , you know  . So why not to live in this case in Jamaica ? And , being British Prime Minister , I am strongly for replacing current British citizens with Caribbean’s : perhaps they will bring to this country some vitality ? La-la-la , rock music : a British is happy because he is bored - and a Caribbean just wants money and security that he lacks . I believe that all countries must be replaced in terms of population . Why not to give away Britain to India while inhabit with 60 mln strong British population India itself ? I believe everybody of these British will have a reasonable accommodation and a great market to explore it - while all the India is just happy to come to Britain to open corner shops . It’s absurdity : the British are tired of capitalism , no fuck and bad weather . Give to a British fuck and good weather and low prices to see him happy ! They are obviously not so happy with paying silly prices for accommodation , bills , everything - but Indians are perfectly happy to do it ! So why in this case not to replace these two so different nations who want obviously different things ? A British wants everything to be cheap , easy fuck and good weather . I believe India is the best possible destination if there are no Indians in . It’s like me and Scotland . I like northern climate : I hate perpetual sunshine , and Mediterranean mood has no appeal for me - not to mention exotic countries ; I’m exotic myself . So Scotland . What a nice country ! What a beautiful lakes ! The problem is Scots . Remove Scots from Scotland and give me this country right now . I am staying on a hill watching sunshine and a beautiful lake , composing beautiful poem  - and no one Scott is around . Sounds like a dream . No Royal Bank of Scotland , no church , no Freemasons , nothing : clean space . I believe any place needs cleaning from people in order to return to it’s original beauty . Look around . First , why they are so physically ugly , then ,  why they are so stupid ? Aesthetically I cannot stay them . I can stay them socially , ideologically , economically , psychologically , philosophically - but not aesthetically . I mean I don’t regard myself a perfect sample of beauty and wisdom - but they are even worse than me . How is it possible , for the god’s sake , to be such an ugly and stupid creatures ? Who brought them to such a pathetic condition ? Why do they believe in being like that and for what purpose ?

Then , returning to Gerald ,  I’m not an occultist : I never belonged to any occult group , never published my stuff in occult press and certainly never ever tried to become an occult leader or guru , to teach people life and wisdom : I insist : this pose is the last one I am prepared to take . It’s as silly as my association with Sado-Maso circles : again , I was interested , but it was an innocent interest of a pigeon interested in bread , nothing more !

By my nature I am not dominative and not submissive  : I mean I find no pleasure in being dominative or being under somebody - and I always follow my pleasures , when other people don’t prevent me from doing it . Relax : they do it all the time . It’s true that I took some interest in occult matters - but who didn’t ? My interest , so , is purely intellectual . It’s also true that Blood Production received an invitation from The Church of Satan to have our site within their site - but it is all . So my joining Rosemary Baby clan never happened , although I‘ m LaVee’s sympathiser . He is fun , at least .  Life is so dull , to say the truth . Nothing happens . Occult life , unfortunately , is as stuffed with domination hungry leaders , know-how guys and sexual sirens as everything else . And it is - oh! - big business . I was involved with some occult groups , I can’t deny , simply because I’m full of curiosity from my childhood -  but I never belonged to any of them . From my point of view occult circles imitate these very societies they pretend to hate : the same Authority , the same Teacher , the same Hierarchy : exactly what I hate . By my character I am rather an anarchist kind of guy , Prince Kropotkin way , if you remove socialism that I hate as much as capitalism .  As an author I am rather  in one boat with Saltykov-Schedrin and Sukhovo-Kobylin than in any other boat . I’m just puzzled why Saltykov -Schedrin with his “ Golovlev Family” is not a popular reading in Britain : I recommend it to all my aristocrat friends - and as all my friends tend to be aristocrats I recommend it to nearly everybody : possibly you never read something so poisonous about your own family matters . I don’t know why Schedrin is not as popular as , say , Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky or Chekov - for me his “ Golovlevs” is superior .  Suknovo- Kobylin is also great fun . His fate was that he was  involved in a story with death of his French mistress : that’s why he is not to become as famous as Chekov ( whose own love life still awaits another story ) . It’s almost idiotic that in Britain they are not staging his plays : audience must be highly responsive : I’m ready to sit in box office collecting cash ( for reasonable commission ) . And in case of Saltykov-Schedrin it must be the same : show me a more funny story about being “ noble” , I can’t wait . I don’t know if these texts are translated properly , but in Russian they are just superb . So my dream is to write like Saltykov-Schedrin in prose and Sukhovo-Kobylin in drama to achieve my bravest ambitions . Gentleman in this country are wasting time reading something else . 

So submission-domination style of religions and occult groups hardly suits my highly independent spirit . It’s not that I am proud with this spirit or some stupid things - I just need it to be creative . I can’t create without it . I was interested in occult simply because it claims to give an alternative to bourgeois boredom , and because it pretends to be frightening . It’s my dream to be frightened . Fear is like love : it is sudden and powerful . The longer you live the less  fear and love you have . Take love , for instance . I used to be such a terrible romantic that I cannot describe it . With what a passion I had girls ! Today it’s different : seeing a nice girl in a pub you always think maybe she is in porn , or at least a bitch who will fuck your brain . And how I was interested what is between girls’ legs ! Now you know it exactly .

Then occult attracted me because it is theatrical , and I am highly theatrical myself . Exactly what I want as a writer is to be as theatrical as possible . So don’t believe anything in my writing : it’s a theatre , nothing more : I claim it . I don’t know about you  but I want from this life a more of drama : I prefer comedy and tragedy mixed , in performance - at least we can hope to achieve it . I want my writings to be theatrical , pretentious to the point of impossibility . I find contemporary prose writing ( not to mention poetry ) too primitive emotionally ; it often lacks imagination able to catch my own imagination . One could be primitive emotionally as well as intellectually . Today , I am afraid , we observe total primitivism in both cases . May I scratch for a moment my Victorian side-whiskers ? As to poetry , sometimes I hate her : she is a too demanding lady ; she wants all of me to belong to her , while I tend to treat her as a whore . When I want to relax , to take a lazy sleep , to walk by the sea etc. she is here demanding my attention .  People expect a poet to be a crazy guy , something like a hairy ( or bold , doesn’t matter ) rock singer on heroine ready for everything . In reality a poet is something like Eliot or Larkin : he is just a guy composing pieces , hopefully not of shit . Sometimes you need to be cynical , sometimes sentimental , why not : it’s like in music . It’s like in life , actually . It is silly if I am totally cynical about my child , for instance ; it is also silly if I am totally sentimental about him . Poetry is a balance .

Am I a great poet then ? I don’t think so .I understand that in order to be commercially successful I must to believe that I am , or at least to pretend that I am ( some idiots will possibly believe )  - but I am not a commercial writer , so I don’t need to believe and to pretend . I mean these social workers coming to my place couple a days ago , they asked me : “ What is your occupation , Mr Noskov ? “ I honestly said to them that I am poet . “ What do you mean by that ? Are your writing highly acclaimed ? “ Honestly again I said no .  Then they left my place . I was in position of Crowley explaining authorities poetry : silly . Instead I’ve shown to them my new jacket ( actually second-hand ) and read to them my poem about Chinese prostitute lost in New York : from my point of view it is a touching piece of poetry what a pity never published  . If to be self-critical I think that for a great poet I have a lack of intellectual discipline and I always indulge myself in my imagination what is rich but needs much more control than I’m able to provide . I regard myself a dilettante artist , an amateur writer and a philosopher who doesn’t know truth - that’s how I perceive myself . I mean my Muse must be much better off with other guy - unfortunately she loves me . She has chosen a bad boy instead a good one - but all girls are alike : show me a girl who wants good guy . I told to her : “ Hey girl , are you crazy ? It’s not me “ . But she told it is : women’s logic .

But I’m still curious about girls . This Arab girl in my B&B hotel is possessing my imagination at the moment . What a tits for such an age group! It’s very difficult to stay far from sin in this particular situation . And she gives me signs all the times that she is far from being not responsive if I approach in proper way - and that fucking way ! - possibly I don’t understand something else .  But if I play with her melons I would possibly expect the next day her brothers Ali and Mohammad claiming explanations  of what’s going on .  So I am stoic .

Writing . I told it in one of my other pieces that I went into it simply because I wanted girls’ attention and to earn money : managing director in Soviet times was earning less than a writer - so my natural choice was writing  . Am I a redhair to earn less money than I can ? After 3 years learning engineering I realised that in this field I am near to nil . But in writing ! Oh in writing - I shall make your jaws dropped ! I’ll write something that you will never forget ! I’ll create such a story that all girls and all money are mine ! That was my natural  intention . It was not about con : I wanted to write something extraordinary , something really beautiful to be proud of  . I wanted to write something beautiful . Beautiful , can you feel it ? I understand it was a dream but I’m still nostalgic about it . Kid’s dreams , you know .

My problem was that I didn’t realise that money are very close to social prestige . And I didn’t take a close interest in gaining social prestige - being not poor and not ugly and not Jewish and so on . I failed to have social complex then - what is the greatest sin in modern times . They are cultivating complexes to rule us , and to support religion , what is money . It’s almost interesting is there any thing people wouldn’t do for money ? My own relationship with money were always easy : champagne , girls , poetry ! Now imagine this army of functionaries who are peasant children doing “serious careers” within certain societies , Soviet , British , French , whatever - at that point proletarians of all countries are perfectly united . It goes without saying that my bonn vivant approach to things made them more than nervous .  I mean I am an amateur aristocrat artist while they are in serious business - and now this strange chap who is showing picture rather than a frame , who doesn’t give a fuck - and the most dangerous thing about him - he doesn’t pretend . At that point I disagree : I love playing ; what a pity they don’t believe it . And who certainly hardly confirms their own social prestige . As I understand they are better off without me ; actually that is why they are so well off : absence of guys like me makes them happy . Everything is all right : papers , mags , somebody’s books , things , TV interviews , things , you know . 

To say the truth I am not sure I want it , I mean fame  . I need some money to survive , that’s all . As to fame I don’t believe in it .  What is fame ? To be known by everybody . I find is difficult to connect it with my concept of exclusivity . I don’t want to create a “successful writer “ only in order to satisfy current ideologists who , don’t forget - all of them , in one way or another - promote love for money . I don’t promote love for money : I need some , as anybody else , but that’s it . Actually it’s not me who wants money : it’s them who want me to have money . The more money I have the more happy they are . Why ? Because I am confirming their religion , and they identify their existence with their religion , what is money .

I am not writing anymore because I want to attract girls or to make money : all right , I need some money ( landlords and telephone companies claim them all the times ) , but I cannot claim that I never had them ; even now I am not desperately poor - and girls gave to me a lot of their attention , even when I was desperately poor .  So why I’m writing , for what reason ? I believe out of boredom : life is boring , didn’t you notice ? In this sense I am writing in a way La Rochefoucald or Sterne or Joyce did it before - although in different styles .  Sterne’s life at Sutton-on-the-Forest was rather dull as I may suggest , as well as Joyce’s life in Trieste - and show me something as dull as Stratford .  Boredom produces pearls . That’s why we , artists and writers , must care about bourgeois societies : they are perfect plants producing boredom . I don’t believe that in a normal society anybody would need arts : what for ? I am already happy . Arts is nothing more but a human attempt to change reality for something different .  If I am happy with reality why I need to change it for something different ? I’m not talking here about speculators who are using these people’s needs to be transported from reality ( created by these very speculators) , but about genuine sense of arts .

Poetry . Muse .  She gave me a smile . At that point we’re leaving philosophy , for a while - but I never gave you a signature that I’m a full time philosopher ! Let’s cross philosophy and poetry to see a result .  The most interesting thing is that I didn’t want her smile . In this case I am even prepared to write a short poem  for fun . Look , I have no space to write a long poem , so be happy with a short one . Let me get it prepared for a moment, so it is .

Unwanted girl

poem

by George Noskov

She walks around as an unwanted girl ,

she doesn’t know her Future ,

she doesn’t know the pain of giving birth

and pain to be rejected .

She plays : she doesn’t know what’s to be used ,

or be abused and other fucking matters .

She wants to be a girl while being good -

in such an optimistic mood

let’s draw the girl who is in playground .

She doesn’t know that once a rainy day

she will be walking by a Scottish bay

being rejected and unwanted .

But skies are full of birds and they invite her

to join a company of angels ( it’s not less ) .

Unwanted girl : I see you in my dreams .

But once upon a time she ‘ll make her dress

and walk by storming ocean

and people’ll say about this girl

that she is really special .

 

It’s just short lyrics you know , like meeting a nice girl .  Nothing really special . Sudden verse , I mean . I’m almost lost with chat with you instead of writing my important piece ! I nearly forgot it’s importance !  You give her a smile only in order to fuck her ; I didn’t want any serious relationship .  I have inserted poetry in this writing only for fun : I tell it to all possible critics . I was walking by the sea dreaming about being an accountant , lawyer , estate agent or something fairly reasonable . But she became in love with me , this demanding girl . And from the moment you are in relationship it’s always difficult to get rid of it , isn’t it ? Sometimes I want to say to her : “ Hey you , girl ! Just piss off  ! There are millions of other guys desperate to meet you . Why not to come to them ?” No , she wants me - for reasons unknown to me . What is my life ? Lonely walks with my muse , dressed in black silk dress , wearing black hat decorated with ostrich feathers . Smart - I cannot deny it .  Beautiful - but demanding girl . It’s windy , and the ocean is brilliantly green , and slightly storming . Like in Cornwall where I saw it . We were at vacations with my business pals : lots of drink , happy smiles , lots of shots , video camera , you know .  The wife of one of my pals wanted to fuck me , but she was not-enough-good-looking-bird , so nothing happened . I like only beautiful girls : childhood habit . She was vulgar , and she wanted to create in my life another dirty situation as if my life is not already full of them . I mean I am not a coward , but why this shitty thing ? Senseless fuck ? I never betrayed my friends : they did but I never . It’s simply because of my egoism : I don’t feel that betraying friends is good for me personally  .

After a day of being courted by the girl I started feeling that I ‘m in an ambivalent situation . Why she wants it ? What’s wrong  with her husband and with my friendship with him ? He is a nice guy  and a Russian nobleman , like me - although they claim to cancel it long ago . How can I do to him such shit ? Why she wants cheating ? Boredom ? For me happiness is a suitable boredom . I don’t know why British Institutions don’t pay me for my wisdom : it;s silly . Never ever I wanted to create an underground writer George Noskov - instead I wanted to create  a well perceived professor Noskov : never happened , so , George , enjoy underground . A lot of rats in underground - but it’s another story , possibly not by me , because I don’t want to harm anybody and because I don’t really associate myself with underground for underground’s sake. I find “underground” a collection of pretenders who want money and fame in exactly the same way that objects of their enemies do .  For some reasons they are out of the game : generally because they are not gifted . Why she thinks different ? No , I mean perhaps I’m an original writer , but why she wants it ? Possibly because she is of her bastard promenade ? Couple of days were left ahead , so I was in need of escaping this sexually conscious woman . Escaping sexually conscious women seems to be occupation on my lifetime . Take this first wife who killed herself : she loved me , can you believe , seriously , she fucking loved me - I  was a bastard not to respond . Possibly I am not able to love ? Certainly this Cornish bored wife was not about me : what my poetry and she can possibly have in common ? I wanted to be alone . I was spending time wandering on an empty beach ( out of economy we were in a remote part of Cornwall - that I recommend : prices are twice cheaper and ocean is million times cleaner ! So if it is not your purpose to meet Hollywood star or it’s Jewish producer it must be a perfect destination) , watching birds , sometimes swimming in cold but amazingly emerald waters : I never saw such a colour . Later I made Crowley portrait using the picture of this shore . Sometimes I was drawing on sand pictures , mostly pornographic . The ocean was cancelling them all the time . After that what is time ? I was staying at the borderline between the land  and the ocean . For me it wasn’t an easy time . Business turned boring - but I had a wife and a child to support : family duties . I stopped my writing three or so years ago . I had no time and no energy for it . Actually I always hated my writing : I wanted to be a sane man all the time - but Muse , you know , she was so beautiful ! She was so fucking beautiful that I was not able to resist her charms ! I was not able to escape her charms . It’s like love : you understand it’s silly but what can you do ? It possesses you .  I was weak and wrong in it , I know ,  and don’t recommend it to anybody else : but I was really charmed .

So we are at seashore . One part of me was saying : “ George ! It’s a good thing ! You can be better off being a businessman than a strange writer . God bless England ! She made you a sane man . Compare wild romanticism of your Moscow years with your today prosperity and security !” Security was virtual ; prosperity was something like £ 500 per week , so virtual too . I can’t say I was unhappy , but I was experiencing another period of melancholy , that strikes me time to time . I was listening to this voice . But if you have a crazy spark in your brain it isn’t easy , and unfortunately I seem to have this fucking spark about my brain . I don’t regard myself a madman , but cannot deny that I am a melancholic time to time . These times you just think : “ What a fuck . Why I was born into this world , and why it is so dull ? I want a one sparkle from it - and I always miss it . Women are whores and men are cowards , aren’t they ? Friends are not real . And the whole thing seems to be Kosher comedy not funny at all .  I want to laugh but I can’t . It’s like pop awards or something : a lot of buts with little sense . It’s a Sunday paper that was bought only out of boredom : no information , no news , nothing “ . Thoughts like that .

I just had a God’s voice as well as Devil’s one . “ George , - he was saying to me , - it’s all crap . You are not happy . You have betrayed your youth , your childhood  dreams , you have betrayed your poetry .  How many people wanted to be in your place ! To write like you ! You was a chosen man - and you have betrayed yourself . That’s why life is such a crap : people are occupied with not really their occupations “. Having these things into my poor Yorick skull I was in a rather tricky mental situation . I mean I am as ironic as you , but sometimes we are to answer questions . We are in position of answering - the most hated position I always want myself to find in  !

Once I was bathing myself in green waves and suddenly saw a woman dressed in black dress , wearing black hat , lonely walking by the ocean . “ What a fuck ! “ - I said to myself - “ What a beautiful girl , my fuck ! “ - I thought . I’m weak about beauty , I must confess . No , I mean , seriously , at that point I’m losing control .

I beg your pardon but it’s real story . I’m wearing spectacles that were left on the beach with all menswear . Actually I was sitting naked as a frog , and blind ,  in a cold green water . To say the truth it was very cold , Cornish holidays , as they advertise them  - but I couldn’t escape before she was passing my point . I couldn’t see her face - only her figure . Only her remote figure , passing me by .  She made a stop and gave me a smile . And went away . I started coming to this place every morning , ten o’clock . But it was over : she has disappeared . Once I saw at the beach lonely Mexican band singing their songs and playing their guitars . Possibly they had their training . I didn’t want to explain it to Gerald . Possibly he will know it from this writing .

Suddenly I find myself a success with uppers . Partly it is because my wife’s activities , who was distributing my texts in a quantities unreasonable for samizdat : “ Wolf Island “ only was distributed in more than 1000 copies , in London and in New York . How it happened to me I simply don’t know . Crazy wife . At the moment I’m attacked by two ladies , both are titled . One of them is travelling to me in Bentley driven by a well mannered guy wearing grey hair and uniform . Grey hair is a part of uniform , I suppose .  “ Is it you poet George Noskov ?” - she asked me first . ( I don’t know how she knew my texts , to say truth - I suspect wife) . ( no , I mean , I am myself not an enemy of some promotional activities and far away from being modest - but it is simply not that case ) “ It’s definitely me “’ - I said proudly  . “ Underground writer ? “ “ Unfortunately”, - I said . I never wished to be an underground writer . I wanted to be published in all magazines and papers across the world , in every issue every day  - but they hate me , I mean publishers , so what’s my choice . Moreover , I wanted to be a good citizen of at least two countries : both attempts obvious failures . “ Come closer , darling , I want to see your better . You have lovely eyes “, - such a talk . What is so lovely about my eyes , it is almost intriguing ? Just eyes , you know . Nothing special : I checked after the conversation in front of the mirror. I found nothing special about my eyes , nothing that is designed to make me an enemy or friend of mankind . Happy birthday to you , George ! 37 years . What is achieved ? Almost nothing . I have no house , no flat , no money , no fixed girlfriend , no job , no car and no reasonable prospect how to have it . My “career” is near to nil : no normal publisher wants me - and I understand him : after all he has it all - house , job , car and kids in good schools . He cannot risk with it for me : understandable . It seems to me I am a failure . I don’t have even documents suitable to travel . I don’t want also to look pathetic , because it is too commercial to my taste of an aesthete of some reasonable sophistication . They can deprive me of money and power , but I’m afraid not of my personal sophistication : it’s beyond their powers . What I have is only couple of girls , sometimes of reasonable quality , who for some reason like my company , and I have a son who is bright : that’s all . And eyes ... They became a bit sad , from my point of view . Possibly I am able to repair my teeth and other parts of my body - but how about sadness in my eyes ? I’m afraid I shall never be able to drive it away with girls and drink , and with money if any . I don’t about you but I feel myself conned . This world is not that I expected .  All my ideas how it must work were conned . I expected something very different . I expected something very different from say love and friendship . I was also sure that talent matters . Naive idiot ! I believed that social systems are designed for people to make them happy . Again idiot .  I believed everybody has a natural right to be himself or herself : another failure of my logic . Now I find myself in Stalingrad of my hopes . It’s totally destroyed , and you are alone . Not alone - with Gypsies dancing around . Nice girls . But how it is sad .

Then we have a walk with her ( I mean lady with kind words about my eyes ) in Kensington Garden where nearly all my stories were written and where my friends Aldous Eveleigh and Stephanie Williams live  , as well as other friends not driven away by oily Arabs and successful pop stars and their not less successful producers . It happens once a week . What we are talking about ? Everything from gastronomy to Shakespeare . I’m feeling myself a Mozart having an audience with an important lady . At that point I realise limitations of my occupation - what I don’t know what . Certainly I am not a commercial writer , a darling of all these highly celebrated “publishing houses “ , a “hot thing” at literary market  : I hate them , and they hate me , that’s it . Naturally people hate everything that cancels their own existence . By mistake I was able to receive some education and I was published by mistake - simply because some publishers were nostalgic about literature . In general , publishers hate me because I deny their existence , and existence of their “authors” - and I hate them because they deny my existence as a bearer of literature .  It’s not that easy that I hate them because I’m not “in business” : it’s that I hate their “business” , all their “ authors” - I mean they have absolutely no relationship with real literature . Especially I hate “intellectual” authors because I’m intellectual myself . I believe , as an intellectual , that Random House and all other “ top” publishing houses must be attacked with nuclear missiles ; I would add to it all “prominent” art galleries together with their owners and their lovely houses bought for artists’ money .  I see Saatchi sitting in his garden reading Saturday paper  - and then a sudden missile : Saatchi is on his back , partly roasted with his mouth partly opened : “ Why ?” “ Because “, - I say , - walking around wearing black leather coat . “ It’s just for fun “ , - I add , biting a nice British peach .

I am ready right now to castrate all British journalists and critics - one by one , give me a knife . Columnists go first , then TV presenters .  I would like to burn all these fucking agencies and all the banks washing out from people’s pockets hard earned money . And I would like to put all pop stars in one black bag and to through it to hell . Guitar playing hairy idiots and girls who don’t know how to make them more naked and dirty than they are already . Inquisition !  Purge !

They can publish me one day , to proclaim me something - but for this lady I shall stay the same poor writer , a kind of poodle . Another girl is about 70 years old but highly eccentric . She wears minis and adores Rimbaud . I noticed that anybody adoring Rimbaud likes me as well : interesting exploration . She drives Ferrari Rosso . Our hotel porter is always slightly excited when this B&B place has such an unusual visitors . He cannot understand what such a classy ladies are doing around . With Ferrari driving lady we have mostly philosophic chat .  She likes me to entertain her with philosophy . To be plain I must say that I don’t satisfy them sexually - to escape silly talk . I believe that 99% of gossip about Rasputin’s fuck is just a gossip orchestrated by his political enemies ; in opposite , I believe that some thinking people were simply interested in meeting the man and having with him some not really  empty and purely social conversation . Rasputin possibly was not short of girls to fuck everyone to create social scandals . I don’t believe he was such a fool . Certainly he wasn’t .

So I cannot deny some interest shown to me by aristocratic ladies - who are lonely creatures . They are “well educated” in “good schools” and “good colleges” ( ask any of them about this “good” education in “ good schools” and they will tell you a lot about it ) just to find themselves in a position of bored housewives living in huge houses with husbands occupied with politics , business and commerce  with whom no normal communication is possible . Ferrari driving lady is separated from her husband and indulging herself with a couple of lovers , but they are just dickheads who are after her money . She knows it and she feeds them , like pigeons . What a lady of her breed can talk about with these guys ? So me . For her I am perhaps an exotic Russian who is strangely not after her money , that’s why we are friends .

But sometimes ladies are playful , I must confess ! When it was Rasputin Party I can’t remember anything but being drunk putting my hand under the pants of Countess X . I’m a gentleman , at least I think so , and I cannot say her real name . Her real name is Wwwwwwwwwww... no , stop it , George . Not only we had an extremely romantic deep throat kisses , but I had a full hand of her cum ( delivered by me in a gentleman way to toilette ) ( I found her pussy well shaven )  , and it was after that some bastard has broken my Austrian spectacles ( if you know who did it tell it to me !) for no obvious reason . Perhaps it was her husband ? I’m not Richard Branson to change my spectacles every day ! It was my luck that Billy Cunningham helped me with new glasses .

Gerald’s habit is to come in and to start his fierce criticism of me and my of writings . Like you I don’t like criticism . Who does ? I would rather prefer to hear how I am good , human , tolerant , intelligent , talented and so on , even if it is not true  . Possibly you are different but I am guy like that . Then , although my texts are making an impression that I’m an opened can in my personal relationship I like to keep a certain distance between me and other people , including even the closest ones . The former wife was furious about it , actually it was her problem with me . I want to watch things from some distance , it makes me comfortable . I want distance to be close enough but not closer than necessary . It’s like photography : you just need a perfect focusing . And as usually you are watching some poisonous insect I prefer the distance to be at least metre . Not at all I am against exchanging some ideas and emotions , but by nature I’m a private guy . Now imagine this sort of guy who was said for all his life that he is bad , inhuman , intolerant and has not a gram of talent about him . I insist that I am good and other people mostly much worse than me in terms of physics and morals. If I am so bad writer why this Gerald is sitting here all the time - and he made a habit coming every second day ?  Actually I have nothing against it : I am writing only one or two hours a day , the rest of it I am thinking about how to write and what about : unusual occupation for a writer , isn’t it ? So unexpected visitors is my pleasure . I am not a “busy” author doing nothing . Actually I cannot understand how a serious author may write more than 2 pages per day : it must be trash literature . How do they spend the remains of the day ? Possibly they negotiate sales . As my sales are near to nil I have nothing to do with remains of the day .  But they are busy all the time - take all my colleagues . What they are doing being so busy ? If they are so busy let me see any reasonable product of their activities .  Perhaps it’s just a business to look busy ? And journalists are heating it all the times : “ Look , John is busy , Jack is too , and Sally is busy as well ! “ In fact John is doing completely corrupt screenplay for Jewish owned East End theatre , Jack is writing his another idiotic novel about nothing , and Sally just changed another middle age lover whom she again disgusts to promote her career what is soup opera . As to me I am free and available all the times. I can’t imagine myself being occupied with my writing 23 hours a day leaving only one for my sleep . What kind of idiot I must be in my own eyes if I pretend to be such a crazy guy who must be completely obsessed with himself in such an obvious way ? And who in his/her sane mind would believe it ? They are so busy that it is unbelievable : Chaplin’s speed . It’s interesting who has invented the importance of being perpetually “busy” ? I know you know I know who . 

But why Gerald tends to be offensive ? I have noticed that nearly all upper class pals never miss an opportunity to say to me something unpleasant - and all my current readers are upper class ; perhaps better education is the reason why these creatures of darkness  are more responsive to my texts than other creatures of different stock . Middle class always hated me with the whole depths of their hearts - and working class seems to be interested in soccer and being middle class , so it’s out of my interest as well - although they pitch us with working class love ; especially middle class is active in this pitching : look at art world and “rock music” - what are big business , am I right ? They always present some guy or girl as a poor chap from . you know , Liverpool or Manchester “community” who became , suddenly , a world star , due to his/her  great ability to play guitar and to sing - as if it was not that girl was fucked backdoor by Jewish producer . I find in this sentimentality about “working class” almost Dickensian flavour , but prevent me from exploring real origins of all these “workers” . No , I mean , I’m not exactly against business , but some reasonable manners must be cared about ? They themselves insist .

 I believe I am hated by middles because of my total lack of security - the heart of middles . They don’t like me for it . I can’t say aristocracy hates me : it is with old money , so it feels itself more or less safe . Working class ( actually what this middle class is talking so much about doing their business , opening restaurants , you know ) doesn’t hate me as well : I believe for them I am a mad guy George , a lunatic who is interested in strange things , in some poetry - but generally - if they are able for generalisation - not a bad guy . I believe I’m tolerated within aristocracy and working class . But within middles - I beg your pardon . They simply hate me . Why ? possibly I don’t confirm their idea of security ? To say the truth I can’t find an idea why we have on Earth this particular breed of middles , what for , what is their use and - I’m making a special psychological point - what is their sexual and spiritual appeal ? Now middle class . In order to take out your money “middle class” is always pretending to be “working class” : it’s stupid to believe it . And even if it is genuine “working class” why to give away my money ? I don’t know about you I am prepared to give my money only for talent . In this case I don’t feel myself an idiot . I’m supporting talent in this case . Their own fertile imagination is based upon the idea of security . Certainly I lack one completely . Within their wishful dreaming about this fantastic security with touching details they are making gorgeous figures of fun . But shut up - they take it seriously . Once again : people like Damien Hirst for me is nothing more than a cabman , perhaps a witty guy , but what’s then , and Charles Saatchi is in fact a Jewish guy from Pale of Settlement whatever his money and whatever mine . He has this type of psychology . Is it possible for me to change my psychology for his - even taking into consideration all his advertising powers ? And Tracy Amin for me is a girl I wouldn’t fuck : that’s it . I don’t want her.  And her art - I beg your pardon . If these people are aggressive why I need to be “kind” ?

I’m myself modest : I regard myself an interesting writer , it’s true , but I am not an idiot not to  accept that I am writing after Shakespeare and Eliot , who are by no means as/or more interesting authors as me . I can name about hundred interesting authors from different countries - so I find it a scum when one author claims that he is the most interesting or important one . So my relationship with colleagues are simple : I tend not to know somebody who is nobody is terms of his/her personal creativity , but I respect everybody who is not a nil in terms of creativity ( not to mention that I’m heavily stealing from these bastards ! I’m stealing from them ideas , emotions , everything . I believe crime - and theft is crime -  is the hurt of poetic job ) . After usual criticising my writings ( “ You don’t speak proper English” “ Who does ?” “ You can’t build your plots “ “ Darling , I’m an author of a couple of scientific works on theory of novel “ “ You are boring” “ So , why you are sitting here ?” etc. etc. .) Gerald decided to attack my personality . First of all I am not an angel - let’s accept this plain fact . But show me one . Definitely I have no wings behind my back : guaranteed . But why Gerald himself is better ? “ You are trying to attract attention “. “ Is it a sin ?”  Really : why Robby Williams or some other pop crap is enabled to attract an attention while I must be quit ? I am not attracting attention to some stupid rock song about loving having fuck  , after all : I’m attracting attention to literature that worth some consideration ( although publishers are all as one in  disagreement with this statement ) . “ You are interested only in yourself “ . “ Why in this case I’ve written about 20 essays on different people ? “ Really , I was writing about Robert Frost and Mayakovsky , Pushkin and Rasputin , Robinson Jeffers and T.S.Eliot , Nabokov and contemporary British artists . Now I am trying to write about Dostoyevsky , who is , by the way , a writer totally different from me - but I do it , because he is important . I even did an essay about Armenian poet Arevshat Avakian ( published ) . I believe it’s unlikely that a totally egoistic personality could be involved with such an army of people . “ George , in this case you pretend that you are a saint !” He reads my thoughts . Let’s organise my canonisation before I am dead .  After I am dead I’m not interested in fame and money , although even while I am alive I am not really interested in them . I’m a  private person. Then , I believe that Beauty that I worship cannot belong to everybody . It’s like Wisdom . Wisdom cannot belong to everybody , just to some . At that point I am in agreement with Freemasons . It’s stupid to suggest that all the people tomorrow will start listening to operas or to read poetry , isn’t it ?

It’s like Norwegian poetess I met next days . She is good looking , like nearly all Norwegian girls that I had ( I’m afraid I had only three : lack of experience )  - but pretends to be very high class and extremely poetic . In her pretension being high class perhaps she is right , for in Norway there is no upper class anymore . Everybody with some cash is “upper class” . Her father is doing some sort of sausages , if I’m wrong .  I told to her let’s have fuck instead . Leave your poetry to your readers ( she is a successful poetess ) . She told to me that I am rude to treat women like that , although I was just suggesting real thing . I mean she wanted fucking : I saw it in her eyes . So why not ? I understand if she has a boyfriend who cares or loving husband , but according to my information she doesn’t . So what’s her problem ? What really stops her ? I’m not a sexual maniac myself because at the moment I have couple of girls satisfying me sexually , I am afraid not intellectually , that’s my problem at the moment - but why not ? I believe Norwegian poetess felt that I am of a rather low opinion of her poetry . I never expressed this particular idea , being polite , and I’m ready to accept that she is intelligent , but I beg your pardon for the thousandth time .  Of course , I’m an idiot ! I needed to say to her how beautiful her poetry is and how I am deeply moved by it - but I was simply not able to be such a layer . I believe she was frustrated with my inability to be caught by her poetic charms well proved at Norwegian soil - hence my fiasco . When I started approaching her cunt - innocent gesture of love and friendship ! - she told to me she will call police . Imagine if police come : I am with a small kid and a wife who committed suicide . What could be a result of another police visit ? I told to her go away then . The thing that made me  angry is that I was not really sex hungry ! I have a couple of mistresses at the moment ( most of them need to be sacked ) , and I met a Norwegian beauty : it’s just a sin to miss such a girl - I’m behaving accordingly .

Police ! Enough is enough !

I have sent to some of my friends a fantastic report about our lifestyle , issued by social workers - but you didn’t see the original police report . I don’t have it , but I shall try to cite it as I remember it ( I can’t guarantee 100% precision but I shall try hard to be precise ) . “ We entered the flat . Mr Noskov was walking in it completely naked reading loudly some poems in an unknown language . Is it Russian language , we asked ? No , it is Latin  , he said . About what we asked ? About love to Lesbia . Don’t you find your behaviour , Mr Noskov , anti-social and not acceptable for civilised society ? Not at all , he said , I am not pierced , not punk , not gay , not sado-masochist or any sort of perv . I can pass any test to prove it “ . They also stated that pornographic magazines were everywhere , and that my child was sitting in his underpants watching one . In other room was sitting “ Russian woman with lost face “ .  It’s all lies ! Kid was dressed as well as me : I was wearing black silk kimono ! Is it a crime that I was barefoot ? It’s true that I was reading Catullus , but what do they mean loudly ? I told to them he was born in Verona but lived mainly in Rome where his friends were Cicero , Hortensius and Lucretius ( probably ) . He indulged himself with aristocrat parties , was never rich and wrote beautiful poems about Lesbia . Police told to me thank you very much for such a helpful information but how you are intending to improve your own situation ?  

I believe people don’t like me not because they regard me an eccentric but simply because I am poor . For what other reason they don’t like me  ? They can’t really say that I am physically ugly or that I have no talent . They don’t really care about how do I look , what is my talent or what’s my ideas . They want me to be rich instead . Why ? Simple : in this case I am confirming their own existence with my existence . I make them confident about themselves . I confirm their religion , and their religion is money .  Capitalism is nothing but identifying Time and Space with money .  I don’t know why Karl Marx dedicated so much of time and space not to come to such a simple idea that could be expressed in one line ?  They believe it , all of them , from City secretary to Elton John .  They believe Time is money , and certainly they believe Space is money : the bigger house you have the more it is expensive , isn’t it - and don’t forget location . Big house in London or in Central Paris costs obviously more than the same size house somewhere in rural Portugal . Because they identify place with money . And place is nothing but space . And everything is for sale - don’t forget . Everything exists only to be sold : such an interesting logic - it’s not my logic , it’s just a philosophic commentary .

The heart of hatred is failing to confirm some religion . As far as you are confirming their belief you are a good guy , whatever you are . You may be a sadist , a fascist , a terrible perv , doesn’t matter as far as you are “ successful” - and by “successful” they mean being rich .  It doesn’t matter , in other words , how nice I write - the only matter is how successfully my books are sold . In my case it’s nil - for imagine a one “serious” publisher publishing George Noskov : what about his mortgage situation then ? At least it is at risk . Publishing my book , to be philosophically short , doesn’t really confirm his social situation - that was made extremely complicated by helpful banks and building societies ( that seem to build nothing except of their own wealth ). And imagine the anger of my pen-pals if meeting in print texts like mine ! Cancelling their own texts ! Who will want their texts after mine ? I’m expecting a lot of love from this side sitting with my hands crossed . I am not angry about publishers : they do their routine job. It doesn’t matter how nice I am - the matter is the house where do I live . It doesn’t matter how do I look - my salary only matters . Oh ! If tomorrow I am in all papers and multimillionaire I want to meet a person who doesn’t want to be my friend . It will be even fascinating to meet such a person who will reject me being a rich and famous guy being simultaneously a terrible asshole ! Possibly I have a right to make moral notes being such poor . I want to find a one girl from any “good” English family ( and all British “good’ families seem to be extremely bad , stuffed with sadistic parents , unhappy kids and problematic relationship , infested with Jews - as far as I observed them : private view ) who is against to become my next wife in a case if I have £ 60 mln . Show me a one girl in this country - and I’m instantly in love with her . I mean really : I am ready to gift to her my whole life .  But relax , it never happens this way .  The first wife was Romantic , that’s why I tolerated this bird . She had about her some wild Romanticism what spices cynic’s life , and I also liked her physical beauty. I was even forgiving her eccentricities . Her problem was that she possibly couldn’t decide what she is , and I am a bit detached person in private life . I am myself decided in my very childhood that I want to have with this “humanity” as little as possible in common ,  because it is so ugly , so stupid that sometimes it is almost unbearable , while I am myself is so beautiful and noble , not to mention clever ,  that they possibly can never ever appreciate it to the full . These people walking in streets - take a look how they are ugly , and not only physically : their thoughts are ugly , their dreams are ugly , their actions are ugly , their behaviour , everything about them is ugly : I can’t stay them : do you ? I can’t stand their literature and their art . Look at jewellery they are wearing : everything is ugly . At any point where I fail to find fun I am sad . Even their lovely homes - they decorate it in an ugly manner . So for me dealing with humans always was a problem , to be precise a torture . Initially I was of a very low opinion about the stock , as far as I can remember myself  . Stupid , idiotic , egoistic - that was my conclusion about humanity at the age of 6 . Maybe I can deal  with high specification species of it , I don’t know  ? The rest of “humanity” is not of a slightest interest for me . I am not interested what do they eat , how do they travel , how do they decorate their flats or lovely houses , what do they think , what dress they do wear . With my life I don’t confirm their existence - that’s why they hate me : the only explanation . But why to blame me or them then ? I am not interested in them , and they are , correspondingly , not interested in me , so what’s your problem ? I’m not really interested what interests them : some crap I suspect . Do you really believe they are interested in Prussian poetry or Bohemian magic ? I don’t think so . So that’s what my attitude towards humanity from young nails .

I want to be better than I am , it’s true ; I want to write better than I’m doing it now , I agree with you  . I want to be better in almost any attitude . For instance I would like to have better teeth than I have at the moment . What a pity there are no girls to smile to - only shag . I want to be less cynical than I am , but in order to achieve it I need to fall in love - what is difficult for a philosopher of my school of cold observing “reality “ . Really , I want to become less cynical than I am ; I’m staying a cynic because I ‘m desperate to find any other school of thought suitable to satisfy my demanding intellect . My cynicism is my problem . I don’t believe anything .  Sometimes -often - I feel myself a Russian hussar sitting in a brothel listening to a Gypsy music with a whore on his knee : drink is here , whore is here , but where is fun ?  And at nearly every point where I find myself believing or involved I find myself a fool what is not a pleasure . It’s not even that I believe in importance of being “clever” , I’m not a Jew to believe in such technical things .  But my cynicism makes me sad , I can’t deny . I would like to be more romantic than I am - but naturally , without pretending , without showing off , just for myself . All my stories are about a great honour of being a writer ; a real writer , I mean , in dark times . In fucking dark times when nothing is supposed to happen , and within my empty and corrupt generation , when it is only nothing that is supposed to happen and nothing else .  They say I’m bad writer , but I feel differently . They , I mean my writings , are about pain and happiness of being a real writer . Real . About fun of it . And about pain of it .  And about tragedy of it . About silly and tragic situations . About beautiful women ... Possibly all my writing is  about Life ? In “Wolf Island “ I said that I love myself . Possibly I love not myself but the whole of the world breathing through my body , smiling , singing through me ? Maybe I love not myself but Life itself with all it’s people , oceans , wild palms , Soho lights , night stars ? I like myself as Life . I want to find out in myself and in everything this shining , this will for love and impossibility of love . By “Love” I don’t mean any hippie thing , and I am very far away from Indian philosophy that I find in general too technical : it’s fun but only like chess ; it’s fun in a way Cabal is fun - but I wouldn’t spend my life learning Cabal . By “Love” I simply mean sympathy : I am sympathetic about something or somebody , and that’s love .  Say I may love to draw , or I love fishing , practical things like that . I love my fishing rod - don’t give me another one : that’s love .  So love has nothing to do with domination , first of all - that’s why in Britain I find so few of love ; people here believe in domination , and in it’s twin sister submissiveness , of course . It’s not that I posses my fishing rod ; it possesses me as well . Here people tend to try finding  their personal happiness in ownership . As a result we have this boring drama of British relationship . Who is not tired to watch it ? It’s completely technical and tends to be predictable : exactly what Love is not  about .  As a poet - and for me a poet is not an idiot but a person having his own attitude often different from public opinion - I work with Love - it’s my job ( hardly paid) : I am dealing with Love and Beauty , what is the same , although this concept is currently corrupted and ridiculed . I don’t care : just current intellectual trend ; I’m cynical about trends , to say the truth .  I know that poetry today is corrupted and mostly reduced to some commercial rock music and middle-class sentimentality , however it survives , as you see . I don’t understand why it must survive , not to live , but we live in a perverted society , do we ? The very concept of poetry is perverted . That makes me sad because poetry is my occupation . But corruption of concepts is like collapse of rail stations : it can be repaired . Some may find my point highly  eccentric - how to talk seriously about poetry when people are making money ? - but I ‘m also able to find it eccentric buying a Docklands warehouse for £ 600 000 and spending all your life being a mortgage paying barrister . So my way is by no means not more eccentric than anybodies else . What is me ? I believe a theatre with George Noskov as a director and an actor . How about public ? I’m a small theatre , a very private one . I’m afraid there just few people visit this place . It’s not a La Scala , you know . So I’m doing this performance for a one girl visiting performances . She is always alone , wearing black silk dress and black hat ( Remember her walk by the ocean ) . I’m making my performance for her . She is my Muse . When I don’t know how to make a scene I ask her for advise - and everything goes well . Or I ask Shakespeare : this guy is always helpful in showing the way . We like to have a drink together . It’s a poet’s routine job to travel in Time , so I’m naturally involved in it . In old times they were burning guys like me proclaiming us witches ( somebody who is not in agreement with these corrupt Popes and with land owning Church making a mental model what they believe is a “system”- as if it is not simply a projection of their ill mind into so-called “reality” ( and no one academic “philosopher”never ever gave to me a satisfaction explanation what is “ reality “ ) ; these days they ignore them : the whole issue of “capitalism” was invented to block it .

I’m telling to him my story , and Will is telling to me :” No , George , it could be written better “, - and this bastard is always right ! He also loved Life . Bastard never fails - unlike me ! Even now I am struggling with my “Dostoyevsky” piece without much success I must say .

But how about Death , George ? “Why they are afraid ?” - were my first words that I can remember .  Why ? I was about 3 to 4 years old when I said it . Characteristically , my first memorable words was a question , not a claim . Really , why ? I remember myself on a beach to find out a dead dolphin on a sunny sand , under the  bright skies . He was on his side and had a smell of decomposing dead corps , and I remember it’s bared sharp teeth . People were staying around in their bright swimming suites : actually I was so small that I remember only their suites and bumms . I have passed it and came close to dolphin . And I touched it .  Then I asked people staying around : “ Why you are afraid ?” These words started my consciousness . Strangely , I remembered it only this morning . And today is such a sunny and bright morning , with doves flying above Kensington Gardens . I want to live like a tree , and I want to die like a tree . On my fantastic road from an acorn to the dead oak I want to be as natural as possible . I want to have sunshine and rains , and snow , and hunters on the snow , and squirrels . I want to be a green oak with birds singing in his leaves .

Poetry is nothing but losing reality : Romantics were right , for sure . Romantics were later presented as crazy guys not able to sort out their problems - by the  guys and girls who were very able to manage their own problems , I mean materialists , positivists , feminists , socialists , college teachers , not to mention other homosexuals , lesbians and Jews . I’m sorry to come to obvious conclusion that critics of Romanticism  in most cases fail to have any of it about them .  I don’t want more controversy that I have about my writing already - but take an independent look at the issue  . If poetry means losing reality there are two general points arise in my ill mind  . First , why people really want to lose reality ? If this  reality is so great as advertised why all the times one  wants to escape it ? I’m not insisting - just proposing a question . It drives my cynical mind to a simple conclusion that this reality is not really perfect ( not to mention that it is somebody’s else concept what is reality : I mean a lighter I’m using right now is somebody’s concept what is a lighter and how it must work : obviously ; all other things are like that ) . The second point that troubles my mind is that losing reality means losing your mind . Plainly speaking it’s madness .  Do you want to become mad ? I don’t want to . Poetry is dangerous because real poetry is always a travel in unknown . Coming into it you must be sure that a ) the door behind your back is opened , b ) you have a key with you  ( and never trust a key to anybody and never drop it ! ) So now we are ready to go into the zone what is hell. But we are also going into a superb poetry , so don’t worry  . So at least you will have some fun . Watch , I’ll show it right now .  It’s simple . All poets before went through Hell , so I’m going through it too .

There is the borderline between the light and the darkness where you turn grey. Here , in the gloom , all really important things happen. It is the most dangerous zone one can ever explore , but it is the only point where one can find his or her existence .  Somehow you may arrive here with your clean mind , cleared from all dogmas , ready to do what you want . It sounds almost unbearable even for me - although I told to you already before that I am a theatrical person , in Rasputin or Aleister Crowley way , so let’s create a drama ! Let’s create great drama , ladies& gents , let’s do it right now . Perceive everything below as comic strip , I mean keep irony all the times , because it’s important . We are entering dreamworld . There is nothing dangerous about it if we understand where we are . If we look at our lives we can easily find out that we are spending them trying to please somebody but ourselves . Let’s spoil ourselves for a while . So I write it solely for pleasure and fun and don’t want anybody in Future regard it as an “occult” text that has any philosophic “significance “ . Personally I wanted to create fun for somebody who is not idiot , and certainly , first of all to please the guy whom I love most ( it is , of course , myself ) . All the times we fail to please other people : our idea of their pleasure is not necessarily their idea of their pleasure - but don’t forget that people often don’t have any coherent idea of their happiness : they just mechanically enjoy things they are said to enjoy . Plainly : they are not having holidays because they want to have holidays : they are having holidays simply because they are said to have and to enjoy holidays . Then , there are many other pleasures : eating some sort of food , courting ladies , drawing etc. . What is pleasure for one person is torture for another one : try to make me a pleasure with a book on organic chemistry - but some guy will enjoy it very much to the point I am enjoying shagging girls .

So , with clean mind , without fear you are at your point - to make a choice , to chose your idea fixe , your primal pleasure , to walk into it , like jumping into abyss . Why ? Because of our human curiosity . Exploration makes us really happy - and happiness is what we are all about ; happiness is our natural state ; we all are born happy and designed to be happy , if healthy - the simple truth Christians deny .  It’s almost interesting in what way exactly we are losing our happiness ? Who creates our problems ? To create a problem is to invite to it’s solution , isn’t it ? And it’s always helpful to make you feel weak to provide a helpful and sometimes not really free service . The more problems the more not really free helpful services . And what is fundamental the more authority services providers have . Then it’s a child task to identify in mass mind authority with power , what are in reality two different things ; Polar bear is powerful but is it for you an authority ? So we are at borderline .

At that point you must meet yourself as you are - and to like yourself as you are whatever you are . This point is dangerous because people rarely know who they are . You could think all your life of yourself as of a gardener - but in fact you may be a policeman . Your choice of gardening was purely mechanical , and you was afraid to find out that you are in fact a serial killer . By the way that’s why people try not to be at the point : they don’t believe in themselves ; they are frightened with “it” within . They are scared : what if instead of City lawyer I meet in myself Jack The Ripper or somebody like that ? But some strong people find the point and meet themselves , to give to their doubles a Narcissistic kiss . But to realise it one needs to meet himself at the borderline , one must be brave enough to be in the zone where things turn grey , like wolf fur .

You are still sane and still have a fresh air , but lazy green wind from the darkness is on your face too. The freaky creatures are watching you from the darkness.  They came here for you on their all fours , to the borderline . Their limitation is that they cannot  cross the line . You belong to yourself : now . You may show to them your tongue : do it .  They are staying in their darkness , but , staying grey , you can perfectly see them . Hello, old friends! The frog travelling on human arms. The giant wet and black centipedes with many human heads . The birds with long beaks , having human feet . And all the rest.  Hello, boys ! I was missing you for so much ! The boys could hardly be described as beautiful ones ( currently I’m deep down , so things may look strange - I’m making this note ) . In fact they are a sort of this or that perversity . They are cold and bloodless . They are here for your blood. One step ahead and your blood is gone . But you don’t make the step . The main thing is to fix your position : to see and not to be seen . To see - and to be untouched. People always miss the point . They are passing you going into darkness with their eyes closed , in a big sleep .  They are slightly pushing you to cross the line with their sleeping bodies , all the time , but you know your special point . You are fixed on it .  People’s bodies are transparent and full of red blood - before entering darkness. After that their blood is gone. You can’t prevent them from delivering their blood into the darkness. They are persistent and pushy like lunatics. You cannot say to them something . They are sleeping . Try to talk to a sleeping person : it’s senseless . Their sleeping bodies have no free will . It is the sleep that rules everything. They are just bringing their blood to hell . Why ? Nobody knows.  It is the will of their sleep. It is not even their sleep - it is somebody’s else sleep . They are not aggressive or something .  Sleeping people cannot be really aggressive . Aggression could be a sign of awakening . That is why aggression is “ bad “.

I don’t believe in god - gods are changing all the times , like rock idols  - but once I asked somebody or something : ”  Please, bring me to that hell.  I want to know  what it really is . I want to see it , to feel it , to understand it . I need it ”.  Then , a part of me was free to go ahead . In occult circles they name it “astral body “ . Although I am not sure about the term and certainly fed up with occult speculations about the issue , all right , let it be astral body . What I don’t like most about “astral body” is that in reality it is both spiritual and fleshy while we are invited to believe it is something supernatural : reflexes of Christian dualism that I always want to escape .  So let’s now go to hell , ladies&gents . Happy holidays !

In fact there is no difference between our physical and spiritual existence ; the whole task is to integrate them - under a hard social pressures , what makes it a difficult task . So let’s go deeper now . The darkness at the borderline was nothing more than a black smoke to pass it very quickly. I suspect that the freaks you see while staying in zone are not real. They are created of a black fog . After the dark smoke you enter Arizona like field . You see two people , male and female , copulating on this desert soil , naked , she is riding him , and the big black horse is staying nearby.  It is not a real horse , but it looks like a real horse. The time is evening. You do not see the people’s faces. Probably they don’t have ones. You are passing it by. Here we are , ladies&gentlemen. Welcome to the hell!

What is it look like? It is not a metal melting plant , nor it is a product of a frightened mind limited by cultural prejudices. It is eternal. And what is it? In short , it is a sea of shit. Sometimes writers of the Past saw it , but never as close . They also replaced Hell with idea of torture , but their idea of torture was superficious and Sado-Masochist in terms of imagination . So what is real torture ?  They also thought of this hell shit as of excrement , cack. That is where they stopped . In fact , the hell shit has nothing to do with a common cultural taboo of cack . Cack is too human to be really frightening . It is warm , smelly etc. Not the hell shit .  It is icy cold , lifeless and hopeless . There is no life in this shit . It is hopelessly dead . It cannot be a soil or to be transformed into something useful . It is not creative at all . It is not oily . It has no smell . It is just a dead , hopeless and eternal shit . And the hell is nothing but the sea of shit under smoky evening skies , black&white , toned with blues and greens . Once again , in Sado-Maso circles these features of Hell are represented by black rubber what is cold and artificial and long living . But the whole problem is that I find Sado-Maso imagination too human , not really organic , based in Western Europe , so too local , and after all a social product of reaction against bourgeois revolutions and contemporary conditions following these revolutions . I don’t deny de Sade’s obvious intelligence , but I can hardly find in his writing something beyond purely social context . The same is true about Freud . I’m not sure he is describing anything more than social complexes produced by industrial revolutions in Western Europe . As to “sex” I am to say that before these revolutions people normally never had any sexual complexes . Look yourself at “repressive” Medieval art , literature , philosophy : I find them completely free from this tension . They say it is because of Church censorship that these tensions are not really reflected in culture of this period . It is not true . First , it is not possible to be in full control ; then , just read Casanova to get an impression that monasteries in his time were nothing more than brothels , and also note the relaxed spirit of his time ! The art of this period is also playful , full of free eroticism without problems - just think about the fashion of portraying ladies with naked tits . Think about personal habits of Catherine The Great or Louis XV’s Versalles brothel that cost £200 000 a year to maintain . It seems to me that “sex” is a product of bourgeois times . I understand that this statement may make angry about me an army of “psychologists” , professors and everybody involved in getting money from the problem , but I confirm once again that I don’t see any sexual tensions outside bourgeois period , not in upper class , nor in lower class . As to pornography it was certainly not as a big business as it is now and had a character of innocent joke .  So don’t regard this piece Freudian , because I definitely don’t share Freud’s point of view , I mean his assurance that he is talking about some fundamental things .

Being in hell means staying in this sea of shit. Being a part of it - not being a figure or something . Just being this shit . You are just staying in , and that is all . You don’t have your own body . Your formless body is that shit spread to eternity . You have no ideas , thoughts . Your thoughts and ideas and all kind of “spirits” are shit . The dead one . Hopeless . There is no life about it  . Nothing can happen . Blood , life , anything like that is simply unimaginable here , in a great desert of black shit . And that is real hell . The only thing happens is bubbling of the shit  . Senseless , monotonous  , eternal  . That’s all .

Do you have any chance to out the shit while staying in it , in the hell  ? The problem is that you do not really exist . as a free will . You are a part of that sea of shit . You are dead . Emotionless , cold . You exist only as shit . That’s you . You are together with all other elements of this shit .

Unlike Freud I don’t pretend that I’m describing a universal concept of Hell : my Hell is contemporary , but I also hope it is archetypal in terms that it was Hell all the times ; it’s just bourgeois period that made it so just . People always hated to be in Hell - but it was bourgeois period when they found themselves in it . But how to escape it ?

Time to time  there are some figures growing from the sea of shit  . They are growing to the blue and grey skies from it , arriving above the sea  . They are the same shit , but having a humanoid  form . They are brought to another zone of the hell where they meet iron - now they are on a huge iron arena full of the protruding iron thorns .  They are standing here , and the big wolf head is arriving from the dark to clean them with his rough grey tongue . The wolf cleans them and they turn human likes , with human skin, with human like eyes .  Now they are ready to be instructed . They even get a consciousness . It is not exactly their consciousness , it is a somebody’s else consciousness , but it is programmed into these boys called from shit . They cannot have their own consciousness because they are dead , but they  will get microchips inserted into their shitty bodies . All they get is a sort of fear to come back to shit. In fact , they are shit . They just look humans . So, their fear is false . Any fear is produced by hell and belongs to it . It is all is spreading from the hell , like a nervous roots covered with black shit . It is not a healthy animal instinct - it is virtual thing . It doesn’t exist . It is an animation , a frightening animation . But these creatures are full of it .  They cannot live human life. They are bloodless  , lack any animal drive  , any real life . Their life is as monotonous and absurd as the existence of the sea of shit .

Who instructs them ? A Death Warrior kind of guy. Lucas had an important archetypal dream . It is something real. The planet where he is instructing them is dead and moon-like. There are only sand and dust , and the non-stop night. And this black guy is not a living creature , he is just a machine , a robot. He speaks as a machine . He has no consciousness of his own . It is again somebody’s else consciousness , and he is only a robot stuffed with a strong programme. With unbelievably sophisticated programme - but it is just a programme. Everything is purely mechanical about the guy . There could be no real life , no real sense about him. He is as dead as his pupils and as that planet. He is pretending to be a human , like his pupils. In fact they are dead .  But  they are here ready  to complete the mission. The mission is already programmed in their heads. Their heads are in fact empty - they contain only a small  green  microchip where all the necessary signals and information are .  Now they are the soldiers of death. It is not a fun to be a soldier of death. In fact it is even worse than to be a formless shit. Their mission is to reproduce and to keep safe this sea of shit . Why ? What for ?

The main trick is that something happens all the time , things happen , and it must be a reason or something why they are happening this particular way , not an other way.  Somebody must be behind the screen , and it is him whom you would like to see - not these bloody marionettes , these pieces of shit , these people fucking in Arizona like field, not the sea of shit , and not the horse and the wolf. You could see it without being here . You could dream of it - many sensitive people did it before in the Past.  You wanted to be here because of him. Because of that bright Lucifer star. You are not afraid to see it. Other people are . Not you . I am a brave boy George , and I want to see the truth whatever dangerous or frightening it is .  I am here in my sane mind. I am here to understand the thing . The craft.  Like a wolf coming out from the dark forest with his yellow eyes. With his brain clear and hungry to find out the things that are difficult to obtain.  Now I want to see that special light , so different from  the light of the Sun and all  the planets . What I want is to see his own light . That is why I am calling out all the demons from the human psyche .  That is why I have chosen such an uneasy wolf path instead of the broad and comfortable roads .  So , I’m here for you . Where are you? Where ? I’m here to look at you . Not to serve you , but to look at you.  Why all this shit? Why is it important to turn everything into shit , to make people suffering , unsure? To frighten and to be frightened?  Don’t test me anymore with these fears. Don’t show me miracles . Just show me yourself and don’t think that I’m a coward who could be frightened with a cigarette end.  At that point I am not afraid to lose , to be “unsuccessful” , to look silly , to be used , to have no home , no respect , no money . Everything. I am ready to put it all in trash right now . I am here for the craft. Here I am , a desperate man George . Nobody replied .  So , people just invented all the thing ? All this shit ?

I mean I was nearly killed couple of days after writing this piece . I was walking near Swiss Cottage station thinking about things when these two Negroes arrived to ask me for a cigarette : a classical beginning of robbery . I told to them I don’t smoke ( lie ) . They have measured me attentively to realise that I am 1,90 m and nearly 100 kgm piece of meat , and , in a case , they can have with me problems .  I must say from the very beginning I am not a racist : I just hate all idiots of all nations and generations without any particular preference ( it goes without saying that I regard myself a very clever guy ) : we are talking attitudes . I had so many black girls as mistresses and couple as serious romance that it’s difficult even to list them - name me a racist after that ! Of course I had less black girls than I had white ones , but I also had yellow ones quite a few compared with white ones - simply because the birds are not as plentiful as whites . But just for fun let me remember highlights of my black&white adventures .

My first black girl was prostitute ( but my first white one was too , so there is no racism about the statement : I also believe that all girls are more or less prostitutes , at least those whom I ever met - certainly “upper class” birds : they cynically sell themselves for comfort - and if we take “models” , “ actresses” whom they show to us in all these magazines as role models I just cannot find words to describe their actual purity ) ( the matter is that I , by mistake , know a few , but I’m certain the rest is even worse ) : a huge jumbo mamma whom I tried from every possible angle , including masturbating her with big dildo . I selected the largest dildo possible , of course . She said this dildo is to large . After that believe women when they are stating you are small dick . I am to make now a serious scientific revolutionary claim that the depth of woman’s vagina is very rarely more than 7” , and that the most sensitive part of it is clitoris . After these facts they say that some guys are not really well handled ! I am with Hemingway when he said that they are just trying to manipulate us boys stating that we are not really big boys .  I have a very long list of birds and claim I never experienced any problem with one of them because my dick is about 8” - I did experienced problems only when I was too drunk and not had erection , if you name a problem peaceful sleep  .

I’m rather happy with this first relationship with black woman  lasting for about half a year . I must even say that she appreciated my genuine interest in black girls . But I’m not a racist : I like all girls of all colours : at that point I’m again an adamant Freemason . Actually I also fucked her girl friend ( also prostitute ) who worked at the same place - but only in case if Black Mamma was busy . Missing a number of other black prostitutes I need to mention an accountant girl who was perfectly black driving red “ Nissan Micro” car and who was waiting for a kind of relationship . I wasn’t really prepared for it , although tried my Member of Parliament couple of times with this girl thirty something . A nice girl , I can’t deny . But she was looking for something serious , she wanted some involvement , and I was feeling myself a guy who is wasting her time .  I mean she even “loved” me in her way . She was preparing for me food and once bought to me T-shirt with tropical motive , but it couldn’t be forever .  “ Where you was this eve ? “ - my wife asked me . “ Business negotiations” , - I risen my right brow looking into her eyes with all possible honesty possible for a man lying to his wife .

Again , let’s miss another crowd of black girls following it . The next girl was jazz singer - with such a tits that I beg you to forget all big tit porn you ever seen ! It was not tits what really conquered me ( by my observation I know that girls with small tits usually fuck better than cows) - but the fact that she was really devoted to me . She was really serious about me , about my writing , poetry , you know . She was intelligent and highly sensitive and wanted me to stay with her . My former wife , also sensitive and not a bit less possessive detected this affair and made me scandal . With breaking dishes . Nightmare ! “ Darling , -  I said , - are you mad ? It’s just a private adventure of private gentleman in search of private inspirations” . Seriously : I am just playful and full of vitality . I was wrong : she took it as an affair , whatever reasons I was giving to her not to do it . I believe she felt herself betrayed , and certainly she wanted to have tits like these jazz singer’s - although I said to her that I like all girls , with small tits or big ones , as I said before , so there is absolutely nothing to worry about .  To the black girl I simply said that I have a wife and a kid and don’t want to put it in trash simply because of relationship with a girl even so nice as you . She was really nice to me  , liked my poetry and wanted to create a relationship . But I was perceiving it as a friendship with occasional fuck pleasant for both parties . In bed she was nothing really impressive - not like a Brazilian girl that I had simultaneously ( I had about 5 Brazilian girls , all are black ) who had so a nicely shaped bumm that I recommend her to everybody . Wife was still angry . Missing another portion of black prostitutes we may come to the two of them whom I fucked near Paddington - both collected there . One of them had a perfect figure and bleached hair , another one was a big aunty , and the third one was street whore whom I usually had in council block closed to Paddington . This the third first was a problem because I was not able to gain erection - the same happened with King’s Cross black whore who tried to make me French in nearby place for £10 . And another disappointment I can remember was girl from sauna - that one was simply superb in terms of her physics and very friendly as well ! I don’t know why and where I became such deadly drunk - and why I went after that to brothel ?! I can’t forgive me that I was too drunk to fuck her . Not to mention that at the  moment I live with mother and daughter who are black . I must say that only tomorrow I was walking in streets being with myself and met black woman who was a bit pissed . She told to me she is hungry . “ Possibly for fuck ? “ - I made an innocent suggestion . Then imagine this very woman trying my balls , literally , and then leading me to her place ( it was Maida Vale ) , while I was checking her breasts and cunt ( she actually was insisting that I must do it more actively than I was doing it already - to the point that I was not really sure about my public image in streets - everything has it’s borders !) . She was leading me so forcefully to the point that I said , that I can walk myself ; I know my way . I told to her that I have no money with me : at the moment I am poor as a church mouse although I’m not giving a fuck to all these churches . Simple morals . She was trying my balls in a way only Tartar girl Alla was doing it couple of years ago - with the same female passion . Nothing happened : I never had Alla , what a pity - she wanted it so much . But there was some guy who was serious about Alla , possibly about merrying her , that I thought it’s stupid to intrude : perhaps he wants to merry her or things like that  , so nothing happened .  I mean he can be a serious middle class guy who believes it .  He doesn’t know yet his wife , and to know your wife means understanding she is a woman , and I don’t want talk much here what is a woman because this talk must be too long and I have a lot of penetrative things to say due to my rich experience  - but I din’t want to show him the way . It’s always disappointing for me to disappoint people . So  I stayed apart . N.B. : if you don’t fuck a girl she is your instant enemy , so better do it ! She starts believing that there is something wrong about her body , things like that . She cannot realise the reasons why you don’t fuck her . Perhaps you don’t want to betray your friend or to make somebody a harm . But she is blind to such a reasons ! She feels herself rejected by you and in order to confirm herself starts hating you. I mean there is nothing special in being rejected : I was myself hundreds of times - but it’s not a reason for hatred , as I understand . At the moment I am rejected by publishers , but I hope a reader of this piece realise that all written above about publishers is just an innocent joke leading to laugh . I had a thought that Alla’s Romeo is a solid man who wants to create stability . So was I in my right to prevent him then ? He wants three bedroom house - that’s I know for sure . So I didn’t want to intrude in seems to be serious situation . By the way ( with black girl checking my balls ) we met her friend Peter , a fifty something years guy wearing business suite and looking as a rather bored bank manager . “ Hello , Peter , - she said , - that is my friend George “ ( I knew her for less than 10 min ) . “ Hello , George , - Said Peter , - How are you “ . “ Hello , Peter , and what about you ? “ People pretend they are all right , all of them . Peter made an impression of a guy terribly bored with his job and family and having sexual problems , according to my scan . I also saw his two children and the third one who was born dead , and I even saw a birth mark on his daughter left leg . They live in Acton .  Certainly I didn’t tell it to him . Why to frighten the guy ? Then I disappeared . I never had any “sexual problems” because I never needed ones . I was never an ugly looking guy , never really poor , never a short man , not a Jew or something : so this complete absence of complexes is fact . First I believed that girls liked me simply  because I am from Moscow professor’s family that is not poor and has certain promenade . Now I am a poor immigrant - but girls still like me . Enigma ! How many guys - just imagine ! - tried to seduce girls with their impressive houses and cars and jobs and it is me , a penniless chap close to his forties who’s actually seducing them ! I mean life is unfair . Personally I’m prepared to exchange my charms for money suitable for a real gentleman : Satan , where are you ? I’m signing right now .

So Negroes wanting cigarettes were obviously pissed after understanding my position .

My mistake was to wait for another seven Negroes who went to the scene then .  They asked me for cigarette again , gaining the same question - but I am a desperate guy in terms that I don’t expect anything good to happen . I don’t expect to meet a friend or a girl or to see an interesting picture or to read an interesting book : it’s not that I am against it but I’ve lost all my hopes . I told to you before I’m a cynic , and that’s my problem . People like Damien Hirst and his friend David Bowie are able to indulge themselves in business&gardening , they want creating restaurants , they want their portraits in all magazines , they want cash&carrygirls - but I don’t believe it . I don’t want to be poor but fuck them , I don’t believe their religion .  I don’t have an intention to support this middle-aged fifty-something philosophy of middle-class “rock stars” jumping on stage in clouds of faked smoke and singing a song how he ( or she) wants to fuck . I find it extremely tasteless . I don’t want to be offensive , but I see it like that .  I understand it’s a business , but I don’t want to have anything in common with it .

So I don’t give a fuck ( at least I thought about myself that way : actually I was wrong because I had in my pocket about £ 100 : money must always confirm not only our presence but also our importance ; and our importance is nothing more than our reflection in people’s eyes ) . They cleverly and crafty surrounded me and had my arms in their control . Now is the text produced by me what is slightly cut and reduced in terms  .

“ Fucking baboons ! What are you doing ?! Black assholes ! You are robbing a poet ! Why you don’t robbing some asshole businessman , a President of a Company ?! Ah?! Corporation , I mean , advertising company , I mean , bank , I mean , mortgage company , I mean ? Let’s make a gang that will rob local Jews , for instance ! Oh , many-many muney they have about them , not to mention Rolls-Royce cars ( parts of them are of a value ) . Let’s crash local Indian corner shops , let’s put them in fire ! Let’s crash their windows with building humers ! What are you doing , guys ? What are you fucking doing ? I am a writer , I’m a poet . I’m as poor as you , and I want to write a  beautiful book - beautiful -  you assholes - although everything is against me and my book and my free spirit and nobody on my side. Including you , assholes ! Even you hate me - together with all this art&literature establishment ! You think it’s easy for me ? I’m a Russian , not a gay , not a Jew - you believe it’s easy being like that , yah guys ? You think it is an easy business being a poet ? Fuck you ! What are you doing to me then and why ? And I have a kid to support . I mean he is a small boy - and I need to support him ; he is a clever chap but he cannot support himself yet , so I need to support him , yea , fucking yea ? I wanted ... I wanted  to express things - like , for instance , a London bus stop and a lonely black girl in it , proudly walking around in her red  jacket . You believe I don’t know where she bought the jacket and for what price ? Yea man ? You really  believe it ? What a fucking writer I am after that ? Fuck you baboons after that . I understand all these fucking publishers and agents are all as one against me , because I’m cancelling their fucking safe&secure authors who are not real - but you are together with them ! Fuck you ! “

After that speech , to say the truth , gang was quit .  They left my arms . But one of them , an extremely shitty and short guy started to fly his knife in front of my face , with some skill. When one forwards everyone follows : it was not so bad that aggressive idiot scared my arms ( my only weapon) , it was bad that they have succeeded in bringing me down to earth and started beating me with metal tube , trying to break my spine . At that point I was just saying to this life good buy .  I started to think whom I made a harm . Found few . I forgave all my enemies : I believe it’s Christ’s good idea . And I thought about kid , who will care about him ?

Two Irish builders took me out of the situation . So I am alive  again . What for ? What sense my life can possibly have ? For my writer “friends” I am certainly an unwanted pretender for their money from publishing industry . They are happy without me - actually it’s the very source of their happiness - an absence of guys like me : I don’t confirm their own existence . They are doing business while I am doing literature that nobody wants . I mean some people only  , but commercially it has no value .  Even more : I am afraid that commercially it will possibly have some value . In these cases related to money , guys&girls , I mean readers , I cannot control it : you know it .

How about paradise , happiness ?

So the Key . It happened  in Mongolia , and I was a kid . My dad was teaching Mongolian students his important engineering at Ulan Bator university . I don’t think it was a reasonable occupation , for I remember a very little of engineering around , except of ugly blocks of flats . It was a privilege to live in one of these flats and we had it. My daddy’s civilisation couldn’t conquer the space . Even in the city you was feeling yourself like in step . Everything was naturally looking and smelling . Snow was smelling like snow . Stone like a stone . Flower like a flower . Death like death . I found a dead bird at our yard and smelled it . It smelled like death . Exactly . And the sea of white Mongolian yurts was storming the concrete walls of not many “civilised” buildings . We were secretly drinking beer with my Polish pal Robert staying on the balcony , playing balalaika  , watching white yurts and clean mountains. People from the yurts were living a simple and happy life . We were travelled to their yurt town with Robert . They always invited us in their yurts to give us some tea or kumys or to show us their TV sets . Their TV sets were black&white and Soviet made , and the picture was not really stable or clear , and it was only one or two programmes available - but Mongolians were perfectly happy without much broadcasting and public entertainment . After showing us their TVs they often were showing to us how they sing. They sang loudly , accompanying their songs with Soviet accordions , but we liked their songs very much , because they were so happy . They seemed to have no religion and tugricks instead of money . Their kids were showing to us how to through stones : nobody can do it in a more crafty way than Mongolian kids. I remember myself having perpetual bloody fights with these kids and I was throwing stones all the time  : that’s my Mongolian childhood . In a strange way these bloody fights were completely harmless . I cannot remember myself being bullied or something like that . We played like animals . It is my daddy who bullied me and my mom , because of his obvious social problems : he has married into an old family being a simple Cossack . Well , not really simple , but simple enough not to fit our family . That’s his pain , as I understand only now . I was cruel to him. I was treating him like shit - and was wrong . He is a leading Russian engineer to the point British Gas wanted him for hundred thousands a year contract . So he must be somebody . Today British Gas wants me for £ 600 a year , I mean to pay it to them . But for me he was a simple mind : intruder . He wanted to be my friend , but always failed . He wanted me to become the same engineer as him - and was right . It was much later than Mongolia , but I remember myself trembling with fear , pretending proving some silly mathematics theorem - and secretly reading Montale . I was absolutely not interested in bloody theorem , and I didn’t want to prove it . Usually I was keeping poetry on my knees to escape punishment . From my knees I was reading Italian poetry and French poetry , German and Swedish poetry , Ukrainian and Kazakh poetry , Lithuanian , Korean , Japanese , American , English, African poetry - everything that I could find . Strangely enough Brezhnev government was spending a huge amounts of oil dollars for translating and publishing contemporary poetry . I was buying everything I could : my mom was giving to me money . Daddy was beating her for doing it . He didn’t understand that poetry is everything . They cannot  sell their cars without imitating in their adds some poetry . He didn’t understand that nothing exists without poetry : love , sex , kids , beautiful buildings , crime , mathematics , space ships , nothing . Even his engineering . He had no respect for it . Instead I was pitched with my sister. She is good and I am bad . Bad boy George . He always hated me , I believe , because of my poetry . I am an anarchist , as I said before . It means I respect nothing except of things I am prepared to respect with my free will . You may simply say that , George , you play an anarchist , but look at your friends -  most of them are aristocrats  - but it is simply because they are better educated that the rest of crowd . In this country they tend to bread aristocrats better than other classes . What can I do with the situation ? I’m full of democracy myself  , but what can I do to help things ? I understand that being an anarchist nearly means looking a stupid guy in “peoples’” eyes - but I don’t find Prince Kropotkin or Bakunin particularly stupid , although I don’t share their “socialism” .  Bakunin is perhaps is a bit Freemason to my taste , and Kropotkin is a bit sentimental , aristocratic way , - but I can’t state the guys were fools . I mean somebody can have little information , one may never read some book or knows nothing about important things - but this fact can hardly stop me doing what I am doing .

At one step daddy succeeded : I joined his engineering college with “excellent” for both mathematics and physics. But it was later .

I was escaping from this idiot with the Polish Robert - to Mongolians . Unlike “Solidarity’s statement that these two nations are in war I found Robert not only friendly towards me , a Russian , but also a great lover of balalaika , and I was a great lover of his father’s Polish beer that we were stealing from his fringe .We liked to watch national Mongolian wrestling . They did it wearing colourful hats and boots . One guy , the big bellied man , was always winning . After every win he was making Eagle Dance . He was not pretending ; he was becoming an Eagle and was making his strong and proud Eagle circle on arena surrounded by blue mountains . These moments I wanted to be him . He is spreading his arms and making his lonely dance - not to show his domination , but to show the beauty of his achievement . Mongolians watching the dance were serious . Nobody was laughing or talking crap these moments . “ That’s art” , - I decided , and was right .

In order to satisfy my daddy’s passion for fishing we were travelling across the country in an old Soviet army jeep . The jeep was painted in military green and had on it’s doors red Satanic pentagrammes . I liked them very much . Once we lost our way in step . Completely . Maps were senseless . Idiot daddy was trying in vain to locate our position with a help of his stupid maps . If he was so clever why he was not able to find his way out with his “science” ? It was not his “science” that was around . It was Mongolian step smelling the step. Monotonous , endless , eternal . With far away mountains . It was evening , and the skies were gloomy . Not a good sign : tornadoes are very usual in this part of the world . Daddy was staying with his map like an idiot , trying to read it with a little help of jeep headlights. I was walking around the jeep kicking horseshit thinking that it is daddy . “It is dangerous, - he said , - the night is coming , and the weather is not stable . It can be a tornado . And there are wolves in this step “ There were plenty of wolves and red foxes in step , it is true . “What is to be done?”- asked himself idiot daddy . “Let’s go this way”- I said to him, pointing at some remote mountain . “Why this mountain? - he asked, - there are another mountains much closer . We are short of petrol . Why this mountain ? “ “ I don’t know” - I said . It was the truth . I did not know . I don’t know why he followed my advise . Within an hour or so ( the air was so clean that I thought the mountain is much nearer) and with literally empty petrol tank we were near the mountain . “So fucking what?!” - he cried . And this moment we saw a small light on the mountain . We left the jeep and started to walk uphill . The mountain was covered with high cedar trees . The light was the fire made by Tibetan monk. He lived there - but strangely enough for the occasion he spoke Russian very well , for he was educated at Moscow military college . We spent night in his small stone house . I don’t remember his conversation with my daddy , because I felt asleep.

The morning was bright and sunny , and the forest was unbelievably beautiful - or it is childhood remembrances . I was walking around the place and washing my face in a clean brook . I also found out the stone altar which was nearby . It was Tibetan altar , very old, made of grey stones. They smelled stones. In altar there were some interesting things : animal bones , old coins and the key. The key was a piece of rusted iron and had a strange form . It was not a European style key with which you can open your door or your shop. It was a really strange key that resembled an hieroglyph or labyrinth or something like that. I never saw such a key after . Later I had it hanging on my Moscow wall , above my desk . where I tried to write my first things - unsuccessfully . It is possibly still there. I wanted to take it from the altar and nearly touched it when I saw the monk . He was staying by me with very serious face - that was a surprise , for he was laughing and joking all the time . Now he was very serious.

“ You don’t need to take the key” , - he said. “Why?” “ Why do you want it? It was here for many many years. Why do you need it?” “Because it is strange, unusual. I like it”.” It is not a toy. You cannot open with this key a case full of gold. If you want gold take this coin instead” Idiot! I didn’t take the coin that could possibly make me a billionaire. I was so young and so silly.  When you are young everything  appears as something fascinating , interesting .  When starting my writing “career” ( what is a seria of publishing in small and mostly academic magazines) could I believe in what a dirty “publishing business” I am to go ? All these self-important agents and publishers playing shares : reality of writer’s life . But I was dreaming about something else ! I was dreaming about great literature happening , can you believe it ? Now I cannot believe it myself . Perhaps I look stupid but I did . But at that point I don’t care am I look stupid or clever .  Certainly I was wrong , as usual . “So, what this key can open?”- I asked the monk. “ It  opens the Door of the Wind”.  The Door of Imagination . “That is what I want!” - I was idiot! idiot! “But it is dangerous . The wind will be strong , and it can destroy you” - he said. “ Not necessarily . I am strong too . I am not afraid . I shall do it “. “What for?” “I don’t know. I like it. I like wind”. “ Are you sure ? “ “ I am “ . ”So take it”. “May I?” “Don’t ask me anymore. Just take it . It was waiting for you for many years. Nobody wanted to take it. People are afraid of their imagination . Actually it’s their fear ” . And I took the key - o bloody hell! How many times after that I regretted about my silly kiddie curiosity! The monk smiled. He walked me to the cliff from which we could see the step , the  blue skies and the eagle gliding in them. “ Look at the step . It is so beautiful. So peaceful. One day , Georgy ,  you will open the Door of the Wind , and you will see all the world’s beauty . Remember it and keep the key . You will see white birds rising to blue clean skies ,  lonely eagle flying above mountains , herd of white horses running in step, and the wolves swimming in deep snow , free and happy . Do you want to see it?” “Of course. It is so beautiful!” “ So in this case take the key and open the Door of the Wind and show it to people . Show it to them. To everybody . Do  it”. I was a rather calculative kid. “ But will they want to see it? Will they?” “ They will. It is all this life is about , Georgy . Beauty . That is all people really need . Don’t judge them . Just open the door and show them the world’s beauty . They need it . They are about it . And don’t be afraid . Nothing can really stop you from that moment  “.

“What a silly piece of rust” - my daddy told to me while we were driving the jeep home . The jeep was fuelled with the monk’s petrol : the monk had a petrol operated generator and gave us for free some fuel .

So I’m opening The Door of the Wind to let you see white birds rising to blue skies , and lonely eagle flying above mountains ,  herd of white horses running in step, and wolves swimming in deep snow , free and happy .

Walking with my Muse , dressed in black silk dress , wearing black hat decorated with ostrich feathers .  It’s windy , and the ocean is brilliantly green , and slightly storming .

 

 

 

London  1999- 2002

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