~*Revue_Blanche*~

Introduction
“William” and “Potter” are two kitschy modern day labels from the UK which I dislike. The story “Willy Potter” is a winter tale and summer tale at the same time. Summer will be soon, in a month. The story is a parody of the christmas tales that were popular in America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I would really appreciate your critique.
*Willy Potter*
Who does not know the stories on the dreadful christmas snowstorms when the howl of a wind mixes with the whistle of the tempest, when gray heavy clouds as though want to lie down on the earth, when the rich dance and play at the parties and the paupers freeze at the doors of their wealthy neighbors, doing much undesirable troubles! The brightest fantasy of a christmas feuilleton flavoured with a good prepayment turns faded as compared to reality. William Potter! The little child Willy Potter, who froze and was snow-bound in the frosty christmas night! I would like to tell about him.

William Potter was a child (who have never been a child?); as a matter of fact, he was even more than a child, for he was 35 when he came to New York City in one of the horrible christmas nights, described above.
True, there was neither a frost nor a snowstorm in the night, because it was a middle of July. As a matter of fact, there was not night, because the train had come at 10 a.m.
So what?
He had come from his rancho for refreshment. Because there was a certain special freshness in a big town; a great deal of money could not help to find such freshness in countryside. Usually Potter went to Chicago for refreshment, he was a tyro in New York City, so with a virginal carelessness he placed reliance on the cabman.
The cab took him to the boarding-house in 13th Street. Potter thrust his suitcase to the hall porter and went running to look for a barber’s. For he was a dandy.
Now he came out of the barber’s and went home, whistling gaily and expecting nothing bad. But he did not get to the boarding-house!
In New York every kid knew that 13th Street consisted of boarding-houses that were alike so much that even a very experienced eye could mix them up. And an inexperienced one – so much the more. Potter had an inexperienced eye, and it brought him to the wrong rooms. The bellboy ascertained Potter’s error and took him out.
Potter looked round and went to the opposite house.
“What do you want?” asked him the hall porter.
“Mister Potter… Does he stay here?”
“How does he look like?”
“Well… The nice one… Nice, not very tall. Like me”.
“No. I didn’t see such a man”.
“Well, but he left his suitcase here…”
Potter hung his head. “I remember the house so good! The main entrance, the gates on left, and a boy’s standing at the gates”.
He tried to butt in one more house, but the hall porter said dryly:
“As you’ve been here two times already, so, I’ll call the policeman in no time, and they at the police station will make out quickly who and what that Potter is!”
There were men of strong nature who were not lost at crucial moments of their life or at minutes of any dreadful danger. Potter had not been lost either. He took a cab and went to Roosterman’s for lunch.
There were few people at the dining-hall of the restaurant. A fat gentleman was sitting at the next table, and peeping at Potter he repeated emotionally:
“D-devil!”
Taking notice of it and being a gentlemen Potter stood up and introduced himself.
“You blockhead!” shouted the fat gentleman. “I’m Johnson! Mike Johnson! I was at school with you!”
“Ah! And how long you are here?”
“About three yeas”.
“About three years at Roosterman’s?! Well, you are a tiger!”
“In New York, three years, in New York! Let’s have dinner together?”
“I can’t. Busy up to a neck, going to the police office to find out where I’m living”. Potter told about his mischief.
Johnson helped with an advice. Consoled, calmed:
“Don’t be hurry, brother. They’ve stolen all your things already anyway. Come to stay the night at my place! Manhattan, 1914, 666th West Street, apartment # 7. I’ll be late today, and you feel yourself comfortable. Tell the maid to get a bed ready in my study”.
At 3 in the morning, the highly refreshed Potter found the house # 1914 in 666th West Street.
“Master-r told-d to get a bed in the study…” he mattered to the bewildered maid.
He slept very well. Woke up about 12.
It was silence in the flat. In the ajar doorway a round face of a gray-moustached old man looked in. A home velvet jacket could be seen beneath the face.
“Ah! There you’ve awaken!” said the face and came in.
The guest approached and sat confusingly down on the edge of the bed. Potter felt like encouraging him.
“And you… Have you spent the night here too?”
“Yes, I have… too. For four months I… spend the night here”.
“Well, that’s really something! Doesn’t he drive you out, ha-ha-ha?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the flat”.
“Why? I pay… 65 dollars”.
“65?! He’s an old file! To take such a lot of money! He’ll be rich soon!”
“He has three houses as it is”, said the old man.
“Three houses! And told nothing about! Indeed I’ve noticed something in his expression, I declare, when he ate the kipper. Something of the sort was in his face… And yet he’s a blockhead. Mike Johnson’s a blockhead, isn’t he?”
The old man was as though offended:
“Well, I can’t judge on that, you know”.
Knowing nature of humans Potter thought: “He fawns. Such a wheedler, sycophant and sponger”. And he said aloud:
“Has he woken up?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the flat”.
“Why should I know of that?”
“You are a crank! You live in the same house and know of him nothing”.
“Why in the same house? He lives in 9th Avenue”.
“Mike Johnson?!”
The old man nearly wept:
“Not Mike! Oh, God! My landlord lives in 9th Avenue. Mister Morgan. Good Heaven! Suffering because of my exceptional delicacy!”
Potter smiled ironically and started dressing.
“Because of exceptional delicacy? You?!”
“Yes, me! Other one would drive you out!” The old man rolled his eyes. “A man gets into my flat and sleeps! And sleeps!”
“I say! Johnson himself invited me…”
The old man topped on Potter’s shoulder and pointed up with the same hand.
“There’s Johnson! There! Got that?”
“Died?” guessed Potter and drew up not to yield to fain-heartedness.
“He’s up!” cried out the old man. “He lives upstairs. In the second floor. And I am Finch, retired. Finch! Dear me! Dear me!”

It’s fearful in christmas night, when death, embracing the snowstorm, dances and howls entwining like a snow-bonfire… At the christmas night let’s remember of the homeless ones.

The End
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*The Lamp*
(eastern tale)
The desert. People gathered to dig a well in the sands. As soon as they thrust their spades, something metal rang. One man thrust his hands into the yellow sand, rummaged a little, and then he took out a beautiful lamp.
“A genie lives in the lamp! He can fulfill three wishes!” everyone cried out, and they set to take the lamp away from the man. But the man was quick; he took his find away from somebody else’s hands and took to his heels.
The crowd of the people and the man ran all over the desert for a long time but, eventually, the chasers perspired in the scorching sun, got tired and stopped chasing. The man hid over a high barkhan, and fell to thinking: “What would I ask the genie to do for me? Well, to begin with, let him make me beautiful like a Turkish prince, then – rich like an Arabian sheikh, and finally, married a most beautiful girl in the world”. He set to rub the lamp and call the genie.
He was rubbing for 5 minutes – nothing had happened; 10 minutes – without any result; he was rubbing for an hour – the genie did not get out of the lamp, but an odd inscription appeared on the side of the lamp. Now the man guessed to apply to a wise old man. He came to the wise old man, showed the lamp and asked to read the inscription. The old man tried to read the inscription for some time, and then he said that the words could not be translated but they could be read as they were.
“What’s that?” asked the man, when the weird words were pronounced.
“I don’t know”, said the old man. “It may be the name of the genie with the help of which one can invoke the genie”.
“Well now. I’ll do it”.
Since then the man walks with the lamp in hands, rubs its sides and reiterates:
“Ikea. Made in Sweden! Ikea. Made in Sweden! Ikea. Made in Sweden!”

The End
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Part 1 and Part 2 of my novel La Lune Blanche have been recently published at Turner Maxwell Books. Be sure to get your copy here:
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB2.htm
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*My Week*
On Monday I woke to go to work on Tuesday, but on Wednesday I learnt that it would rain on Thursday, so on Friday I thought: Why should I go to work on Saturday if Sunday is a day-off?

*One Day…*
One day, a satanist came to himself. But… nobody was there. “Sorry,” said the satanist, “I’ll come next time”. With that, he departed.
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*The Spiritualist*
(Sci-Fi)
Everything is in confusion in the Sumarokovs house--in other words, all in the patrimony of Count Sumarokov is in agitation. Yes, rather--for according to rumors, the most famous prophet and spiritualist Omenov is expected here. On the occasion, many noble and respectable families have gathered at the Count’s estate today. Awaiting for the dear guest, everyone whiles away the time in different ways, but the main ways are two: talks and champagne.
“It is said, Omenov foretold Napoleonic War, but nobody wanted to heed to him those days”.
“Yes, yes, and rumors are about, Omenov warned our father Tsar about the imminent attempt upon the august life”.
“Let it be known, gentlemen, about the crop-failure and the famine riot in Mogilev province Omenov knew beforehand too”.
“Stop it! ‘It is said’ and ‘rumors are about’! In my own person I was present at the spiritual séance of Omenov with… with Jenghiz Khan!”
“Have you seen Omenov himself?!”
“Well… in fact, I didn’t see him, for anybody cannot see him. But I heard him. At the séance. True, it was dark in the drawing-room”.
“So we won’t able to see him? But Count Sumarokov called us, promising Omenov himself will be present…”
Suddenly a stir and motion run through the awaiting people. Someone cries out: “Here they are!” and the territory of the estate a cortege enters. The cortege consists of…--attention, please!--…a carriage drawn by six big motor bikes. This wonder rushes through the territory, frightening or throwing aside the agape idlers, and begins to turn in order not to enter the mansion itself. But the turn proves to be so rapid that the carriage overturns along with the bikers and passengers. General shouts; ladies faint en mass; noise; uproar. The drunken bikers curse using foul language. Someone has fallen in the pond. Count and Countess Sumarokov run around the guests, scream and gesticulate, increasing the panic--in short, horror.
Now, in the middle of this alarm, a door of the overturned carriage opens, and Omenov himself gets out, and jumps down on the grass. “Gentlemen…” Omenov tries to out-voice the much cry, but nobody listens to him. “Comrades… Brothers and sisters… Citizens…” he tries to attract attention to himself but in vain. “Hello, f**k, here I am!” But it was quite useless. The mass hysteria goes on. Then he says to himself: “What idiots. Mere goats. I’ve come to tell them about how our band, my friends and I, having tried too hard with the ‘trash’ of coke and mescaline one night, flew so far that found ourselves in their lousy 19th century instead of our 21st. But it looks like I have to put off my story. Nevertheless, the party proves to be cool. Luckily, at school I was good at history”.
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Revue_Blanche presents
my musical taste:

I was and am a Modern Talking fan. I used to love Smokie and Dire Straits. I always love Depeche Mode. But my main favorites are Tokio Hotel now.
That’s all, in general.

*To Bill Kaulitz, 1 Sept.2006*

Don't let the melody die away.
Let the dawn of life come in.
Let your daemon forever stay
with you, in your heart and within.

I wish you'd never feel pain of loss and sorrow in your heart,
I wish you'd forever stay with me, in my life, but...

now you're looking upwards to the blue skies
now your starry eyes are in darkness.
And I love you, love you beyond measure,
you, my Diamond Daemon of Pleasure.
(Lara Biutz)

*It’s a Miracle*
His tired, grown dim eyes opened the narrowed, almond-shaped chinks that imbibed the slow run of bright photons. Passing through the deep-blue filter of his eyes the electric light slipped along the winding corridors of his good brain, turning into his thoughts, feelings, words and slow motions. The hot tea in the white and blue cup endowed the slumberous town air with anxiety of the East and with aphrodisiac pride of blooming jasmines. Arching over the smooth surface of the writing-table the lamp projected whimsical, ritually leaping shades on the walls of the room. The music the stereo-system outpoured calmed down anxiety and tiredness and evoked pleasant recollections. A thick purple paperback emitted aroma of mocking prose of life. His straight confident back, the result of training of good manners, supported well his still strained body. While lying on his left leg his right leg moved gaily in rhythm of the familiar melody. Now and then his tongue showed itself and left a wet glittering trace on his rosy lip. His hands enjoyed training upon the keyboard, making appear and disappear tiny letters. Being un-histrionic usually his mouth and eyebrows made a little moue of confusion, tiredness and a slight anger; they frowned, laughed, and he bit the right corner of his lower lip. Having bashed a full stop he leaned back on the chair and closed his eyes. His simple, fluent motions always delighted me; the easiness of the motions had to tell about pondering and elaboration. And what a smile this boy had! Every time he appeared at an unknown company and spent an hour there, all his companions recalled him the next morning first of all. His warm fascination like a large bluish cloud pervaded his all thoughts and actions. If he built his own town then you would see neither banality nor ugliness, nor angular fences, nor suppressing heights there. His curly black hair smelled of July night, and made trust him. Now he looked round and shrugged shoulders slightly as though with cold. Moving with his long black eyelashes he rose and placed the purple volume back on the bookshelf. Making quickly two steps he began hurrying for some reason; his reflection in the mirror put on a beige jacket; his eyes twinkled, he opened wide the heavy casements of the window, took a glance at the gloomy furniture of the room for the last time--and then he flew away into the cold nasty night.
2006

*Invention (Love Story)*
I’ve invented myself. First I didn’t exist, and nobody existed. And then He appeared. He looked at me… but I didn’t exist, and He couldn’t see me. Then my desire arose. It was a little, simple desire: may He see me. I looked at Him trying to understand His desires, likings, interests, the things He aspires to. How did He live? How does he live? How is He about to live? I’ve studied Him as much as it’s possible to a human who didn’t exist. And then I’ve invented myself.
He looked at me… and noticed me! But He couldn’t see me in a shape I was about to appear before His eyes. I’ve not studied Him well enough. Then I started studying Him better, more intensive, dipper. I took Him to go for a walk on the soft spring grass, showed Him the white clouds in the blue sky, watching Him, His reaction. I sang sweet serenades, expecting Him to be vomiting from my sickly sweet feelings expressed with sounds and words. I touched and kissed Him. He liked all this; and if He disliked something then I reinvented that.
I studied Him and built myself. And He believed He studied me. He showed me His shady and thorny forests, and He embraced and kissed me too - both of us liked this kind of studying most of all.
Once, on a nice glade, while studying Him with my tongue I realized I changed no longer. My wish had come true: He could see me in a shape I wanted to appear before His eyes. My wish had come true and… I found it tedious. I thought for a little while more, studied Him for a little while more expecting something to remain, but no… nothing.
And then I disappeared to Him.

A NEW SLIMMING DIET !
Last year I invented a new slimming diet that I tried myself. That is a simple diet. Your breakfast is light, for example, one croissant and a cup of coffee. I have a small helping of porridge and two cups of coffee. Have coffee or milk as much as you want. You have a small piece of boiled or roast meat or fish or a hard-boiled egg and a helping of sauerkraut with a drop of sunflower-seed oil for dinner. The same for supper. If you are hungry between meals, have as much sauerkraut as you want. No sweets, no pastry, but you can have any fruits. And you can have one plate of soup of cabbage and beet or some salad for dinner, for a change, but your main food is sauerkraut. Thus, your stomach is full a day long, and you lose weight. Sauerkraut intensifies metabolism. The diet works. Usually I lose 2,5 kilograms within a week. Someone can make more impressive progress.

Apropos, here is the recipe of Salade Russe that you can have for a change:
1 boiled beet
1 boiled carrot
1 boiled potato
1 onion
sauerkraut
vegetable oil
salt
Mix the peeled and grated beet, carrot and chopped potato with chopped onion, add a bit of salt, mix all with sauerkraut, pour vegetable oil. Someone adds vinegar to the salad, but I use chopped pickles.
A good helping of Salade Russe is rather substantial meal; it is for the great eaters who want to eat much and to grow thin.

SOME MORE RECIPES
Two Country Salads:
# 1 One boiled, peeled and grated beet. Salt. Vegetable oil. Sour cream.
# 2 One sliced cucumber. Salt. Sour cream.
Green Salad:
One chopped cucumber. One chopped green apple. Chopped dill. Tined green peas. Sour cream.
White Salad:
Chopped onion. Chopped boiled potato. Salt. Sauerkraut. Vegetable oil. Sour cream.

It’s simple, healthy and delicious. Enjoy yourself.

The bitter sweetness of the night was aphrodisiac. The air enchanted with the mixture of cinnamon and gillyflowers. The star-spangled sky was velvety black. And no a bloody sound despite the fact that a highway should be buzzing nearby. It was as though the coming something was swallowing all the sounds, leaving mere clues of what's about to happen. It didn't make me unnerved, but lent a feeling of a pendulum swinging above my head. And I liked it in a way, because I knew what would happen next. It would be a thunderstorm with a raving rainfall and a wind, unleashed in its fury. I loved winds and rains; they brought changes, new scents and rhythms. They also brought memories--both good and bad--yet equally unwanted now.
My presentiment was right: weather changed, and it rained the next day.
Now the ominous darkness; just a few threads of moonlight piercing it. I am lost and bewildered. Where am I? Why does it feel so weird to be sitting on a bed when I could swear only seconds ago I was walking all alone in the middle of nowhere?
It was all the same that evening; tired as usual I was sitting in a cozy armchair and reading a book, when suddenly I heard a light knock on the window. Wind--I thought lazily and yet for some reason or other I went up to the balcony window--nobody--just the trees waving and shaking under the fierce wind like sinister shadows of unknown fiends. Shuddering with coldness I was about to go back to the room, but the air was so fresh and moist with the smell of dampen leaves and vivifying rain that I leant forward and closed my eyes just for a bit of a second. And the moment I opened them I was falling into the horrifying obscurity of the abyss; I felt my voice too weak to scream and body too benumbed to move. Could you ever imagine how frightening it is to realize that there might be something you can’t resist? Held down by enormous fear, I closed my eyes as though reconciled. But strangely I never fell; I was carried away by something so powerful and yet so airy and weightless that I could only guess what it was. A shadow? A haunted spirit? I never knew. It was like the entire world around me turned into something uncontrollable and wild. All I felt was the wind in my long hair, all I saw was the flickering light of cold and indifferent stars high up in the night sky and the blood chilling ghost-like creatures and eerie grey shadows who seemed to be everywhere. My frozen mind was incapable of understanding, and yet I found strength to try to scream again--and the very moment I attempted that all this madness was gone as though it had never existed. I felt myself lying on wet ground and heavy drops of rain falling on my face. Excessively high trees were bending, cracking and rustling under the fierce gusts of wind. I got up and made a hesitant step. I had no idea where I was or at least in what direction to go, but I started walking. It was hard: branches were closing my way, becoming denser and denser. They were scratching my face, ripping my clothes, hitting my hard, but I didn’t stop as though there was something that was beckoning me to some mysterious place and whispering all the directions into my ears. These trees seemed to be live creatures, obstinate and willful. They didn’t want to let me go and at the moment when I was almost exhausted and lost all my hope, at the moment when the wind became so brutal that the trees started crashing down with great roar and rumble--sudden silence--and I found myself standing on the soft grass, so pleasant to my bare feet. No trees at all. Nothing. Greenish sparkles were flying around like tiny fireflies. The air was heavy and hot as though before a thunderstorm. Unaware of threat awaiting me, I made a little step and plunged in water. Flash of light--and darkness. No air left. No, nothing I could do, benumbed with fear. Darkness. ”Awake, awake!”
Have you ever dreamt in this way? Me--never.
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*Love’s Labour’s Lost*
I was standing at the window of his bedroom, spreading my wings that I got from the spirits of the Dark when I took their side. I am a daemon though I wanted to be the entity like that never. How much time had passed since the moment I fell in love with him? No matter, for my body was immortal now. Now he was sleeping home, sleeping serenely like a child. Apparently, it’s a true love indeed as you love a man who much younger than you, and you can feel his mood, and understand his pain. I could hear now his long black eyelashes move in his sleep. He was beautiful, but that’s no matter if you truly loved. I recalled the first half a year of my love, when on an autumn night like this, when the snow began to fall on the town, I wanted to walk down the street along with him, looking at his bottomless eyes, blue as the sky. I happened to see the best image of his eyes, the sky above Rome--it was when I went out for walking with another man. I stood on a bridge, looking up at the sky; and I wanted to live; and two tears rolled over my cheeks and dropped into the Tiber. But it was so long ago. I did not want to die then. Now I understand that the Dark, to which I invoked, did not leave me to live for nothing. My friend, the jealous god Zephyrus--the West Wind who was also in love with the youth--wanted to be with him too, though the god was interested in his mental outfit not in the list; all the god wanted was the youth’s body, thumping beautiful, and the god wanted to get hold of him or his body--to get hold or destroy. Today was a decisive day; Zephyrus would come at dawn, or more truly, shortly before dawn, and I was here to ward off mischief. I could stay by him, but I would not like to thrust myself upon the man who I could not make happy. For I had no soul any longer; for I had become a daemon.
He was sleeping. I would love to touch his hand. But I never did it, for he could see me, and I could catch his fancy if not endear, and then this would make me waver at a crucial moment. I wondered what did he dream about? Silly question. Penetrate into his bedroom, penetrate into his brain and know! But I never did it. I wanted to kiss him now, but my kissing could attach him to me for ever… And now, the pre-dawn freshness--it’s my westerly rival approached along with the daemons belonging to him. The daemons were weaker than me, because I had stepped over all my maxims and improved the Lore of the Dark. It was quite difficult to do; may be you would laugh but like most of girls I dreamt about family happiness, wishing to become a wife. It’s so silly, isn’t that so? But now I know I was intended to the sublime mission. Here the morning sky turned black again, and I looked at the window of his bedroom for the final time. He was sleeping. And I was not entitled to let him down.
It was a horrific battle. But the mortals never noticed it; for them it was but an unexpected autumn thunderstorm. I won, for I should do it. The cost was an awful wound. The tempest subsided, and the sky above the town got purple--it was my blood. Black feathers began to fall from the sky; like snowflakes they whirled slowly in the air falling on the ground in the sunrays. It was feathers of the daemon’s wings. While going to work people talked about the radiation, the changeability of the climate and so forth. He opened the window of his attic and stared at the purple sunrise. He did not know of truth, but he could guess it had been an unearthly battle. Whirling a white feather fell on the palm of his hand. It was a feather of my black wings, the only white feather, and it was like a symbol of the love that lived in my heart. He quizzed at the feather. And then he turned round and called somebody in the room.
A youth appeared behind his back. The youth with whom he spent last night and about whom he dreamt the nightlong. Both Zephyrus and I had lost.
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*The Viper*
In the shade I was waiting for a long time till the scorching disc was replaced with the cold and white one. I can watch the white reflected light. It paints the grass in silvery, and my body merges with the world. Yesterday I felt my skin was too tight for my body; my body wanted to tear itself away, but I didn’t let it go, I waited till the moon rose. The earth soaks up the pale fire that pulls all skyward, and the high tides are at the sea, and I can soar over the surface of the Eternal. I feel somebody’s voices--it’s humans, they love the moon too, they take away its energy, though the sun is given to them, they demagnetize the white disc. I hate the humans. I steal up to their dwelling, lean against the wall that protects them from me, and I slough off my old tight skin. With the new young skin I imbibe the moonlight till the morning light. At dawn I creep in a split and fall asleep. And then I hear cries--it’s the humans have found my skin, and it has frightened them--for it is my mark, it is a piece of evil beside them. I am near by, I am here, I am dangerous; they know of that now, and they can’t change anything, do anything but burning my slough in the fire.
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”Rather a joke to fill up on coke.”
Time opens verges--the first phase of a dream. A feeling of an involving power, warm and tender. It dips you in the world of contemplation where any verges disperse like mirages. You feel that you’ve been involved in a wonderful travel, and that all is possible in the future. Desire on the verge of contemplation--a moment of intense passion and tenderness. You can just see without touching. Sinking in the mystery of the passion you feel that your desirous heart opens to something great, something unknown. Night dreams open the way. The pagan treasure, the travel to sombre pyramids and night forests, a touch to the legend of which enigma is shining oddly and beautifully as a raven’s feathers against the red sun. The travel to Shangri-La--all of us are from Shangri-La. All of us have lost our Shangri-La once to search it in the labyrinths of our consciousness and legends from books and somewhere beyond the skyline. The white flower under the snow--a moment of fear, a moment of pain. You contemplate the white flower as a symbol of peace. The alarming phase of a dream, as you feel relentless flurries and the brittleness and defenselessness of the world. When the sea is open, you feel warmth. You rush to the warmth. Now you walk along a road and a light train of white butterflies fly behind you. The road opens the sea as an endless valley of the emerald and azure light before your eyes. While standing amidst this infinity you have a chance to look at the face of eternity. Close your eyes and you’ll see the white shaman’s dream blown round with ancient winds and glittering incantations of white sand--framed with mysterious rocks and silvery foam, glowing as a fire and descending in infinity.
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