*la page blanche*
“After a long nap
the cat yawns, rises and goes out
looking for love.”
(from Japanese poetry)

My young kitty seems to have stopped spending too much time for playing. And she treats my hands more carefully, either with retracted claws or just without blood-shedding, as though realizing she hurts me. She begins to study now; she studies the world--around her for the time being. For the last several months of stay at my household she has got much fatter and therefore awkward at times, when she hastens too much, being excited and taking to her heels from an invented chaser, on the polished surfaces of tables and shelves, from where the potted plants and other nice things are thrown down on the floor with her strong hind legs--yet she never misses attacking. Domesticated, the cute little thing has chosen two main jobs for herself: one job is to examine shopping-bags, full of food, and another job is a morning round all over the apartment for the purpose of mice--she is an excellent mouse-catcher--anything for a quiet life. She is a sleek, beautiful cat. I can’t sleep without her presence in my room by night, and she seems to regard my room as her home, and by day she can’t sleep without my presence near by. I believe a bright young thing like she has to have her own full name, and here it is: Mila Secunda Richly-Angorsky. Decipher: Mila--Myla, if you like, is the name my first kitty who is no more; Secunda is the Second in Latin; Richly--Rich is the term that describes her colour; Angorsky--Angora is her breed. I wonder how does the name sound?
It must be said, her wit or her mentality--if we can speak of an animal’s mentality, but we can do it, since there is a new kind of science called “zoo-psychology” now, as I was told--so, her mentality seems to be that of a present-day child who has been educated by computer games. The plots of her playing are chasing, catching, fighting and killing that is all the actions which the most of computer games imply. Personally I never played a computer game, because I had not and still have no free time to do it. And my kitty as though imbibed the very essence of the computer games, and I suspect she was born at home where there were young children that is a new generation, though I’m not sure, because I never knew her home, for she was stray when I found her. Every cat, this most enigmatic animal is a personality--to be more truly, every well-groomed, healthy, satisfied cat is a unique personality. My kitty too; she is a young representative of a new generation, unknown to me.
By the way, she disapproves my sitting at PC, which seems too boring to her, though she guesses this sitting means something wise, something unknown and rather unnecessary to her; she agrees there are other persons around who are wiser because they are older and bigger than she; she is ready for admitting she is much younger than all the others around her. She’s found her own level. In other words, she grows in wisdom and stature and in favour with god and man.
It is said, Art for Art’s Sake is for the well fed. The well fed are all the babies in cradles and my kitty along with them. I am happy if my writings are for my kitty.
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*flight*
Night fell. Thoughts wander. Carved heads of lamps
swing shades dissembling outside the window.
Footsteps of passer-by, dissected by the moon, have died away.
O dark, my bliss… Immovable in this dark-born phantasm,
I feel the argent shades approach. Awaked,
like crazy Aladdin, I take the lamp of midnight dreams
from ancient pictures, and I steal away
into the windy night to fly above the sleepy city.
But Morning threatens always on the sly:
the cry of the new light will overtake,
and silver bullets of the dawn will strike my flight--
and night will leave for crystal of the mirrors
in timeless dwelling of Parisian Vampire.

*snowfall*
The blend of the snow-flecks, the snow as a tardy revenge to the summer tumultuary grass.
The whirl of the snow-flecks--the dreamlike wing--the plural of the white non-existence.
The temper of the snow, the pain of the snow:
to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth.
The time of the snow, the cyclic fairy tale, the weird mist of roads, hardly comprehensible.
The sadness of the snow begun from sources and learnt by heart.
The call of the snow, the winter’s touches slowly falling from the dark to my carving hand.
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Through thousands blizzards my good friend, cozy cliché. This text I found on the Net:
“The Splendor of Love”
What is love? It is feeling, desire, happiness, melancholy, contentment, sorrow, delight, inspiration, pleasure, all words and none of them can define the splendor of love, but love shines out of waters of earth smiles out of its flower face, murmurs in its winds of evening and we can hear love in the varied voices of nature. Love is two rivers flashing proud and free in the sun darting down the canyons of their youth until they meet, then mingling until two are one and the one broad river flows slowly and peacefully on through tranquil valleys dreaming the one dream seeking the one sea. Love is a reaching out a bringing together as trees are earth’s arms embracing the sky, as the sky is the cloak of heaven, holding the earth within its folds. In silent splendor, love flows on endlessly seemingly without effect like water sliding over stone a transparent traveler over faults and problems. But just as water begins to leave its mark so does love wear all the rough places smooth. Love is frail beauty like that of a butterfly so delicate and small, a pair of wings that weave rainbows in the air a captive of the wind. Yet for all of its delicacy the tiny butterfly can carry the blue sky on its back and so love the invisible force of the heart moves heaven and earth to bring us joy. Love can be a whirlwind, a power that blows a path through the wilderness that stands in our way and it can be a gentle breeze bringing peace in the evening rocking a cradle renewing a life, and love is a seed from which only love can grow transforming a barren life into a garden of loveliness like the miracle of dawn. The herald of a new day, love is the enchanted dawn of the heart the bursting forth of light out of darkness, and like the turning earth the revolving seasons love is a perfect circle spiraling in ascending splendor within us all around us. With no beginning, with no ending love is always… (Unknown Author)
”I will survive”
Love conquers all. Men’s main aim seems to be conquest. But, dear, as soon as you conquer me you’ll leave me. Nothing constant but change. Therefore I’ll never let you conquer me. I will survive.
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literature on literature
V. Nabokov believed a book has to be read in original language. These are his lines on translation:
“What is translation? On a platter
a poet’s pale and glaring head,
a parrot’s screech, a monkey’s chatter,
and profanation of the dead.”
More his poetry you can read here:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/05/31/in_the_library_again~2364769

The poem on poesy by Lord Alfred Douglas, the “Apostate” as I call him, regarding his life after Oscar’s death and his memoirs as apostasy--how many apostates and turncoats were and will be…
“To see the moment holds a madrigal,
To find some cloistered place, some hermitage
For free devices, some deliberate cage
Wherein to keep wild thoughts like birds in thrall;
To eat sweet honey and to taste black gall,
To fight with form, to wrestle and to rage,
Till at the last upon the conquered page
The shadows of created Beauty fall.
This is the sonnet, this is all delight
Of every flower that blows in every Spring,
And all desire of every desert place;
This is the joy that fills a cloudy night
When bursting from her misty following,
A perfect moon wins to an empty space.”

As I’ve noticed, citing lines from works by Walter Savage Landor is a sign of good taste, therefore here is his epitaph written to himself:
“I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and next to nature Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.”
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the list
Phobia--an irrational, excessive, and persistent fear of some particular thing or situation. Recently I stumbled across the list of phobias, and reading it I found something interesting for myself. A true woman never fears. Apparently I am not a true woman because there are two or three things which I fear. And so, I have: Acrophobia (an abnormal fear of being in high places), Methyphoba (fear of alcohol), Arachnophobia (fear of spiders), Gerontophobia (fear of old age), Soteriophobia (fear of being dependent on others), Teratophobia (fear of freaks of nature), Telephonophobia (of phones), Coulrophobia (of clowns), Harpaxophobia (fear of burglars and robbers), Judeophobia, Russophobia, Nosocomephobia (fear of hospitals), Scolionophobia (fear of schools),
and I want thalassotherapy--if you know what it is, good for you.
Tell me, what you fear?
hackerophobia
Whatever my blog friend says about the safe security on any BCUK site, but the privacy of my passwords have been breached at least two times. Recently I found the letter F disappeared from the word OF in the latest posting. I changed the password, and yet the day before yesterday an unnecessary comma appeared after the word ABOUT in the same posting. Obviously, a hacker shows how mighty he is. I’ve changed the password again, of course, but… I really don’t know what am I to do…
Live and learn!
In the previous posting I wrote about the fear of mice but I didn’t know that the fear is called “Musophobia” (!!)
point of view
Recently I discovered that smoking and drinking alcohol don’t become some nations--but I won’t say which ones. A cigarette and wineglass become either those who have no other joys in life or the permanently tipsy smileys like this:
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