Memoirs of the Unborn. Galaxy

Memoirs of the Unborn. Galaxy

Ninth story

Our galaxy doesn't particularly differ from others.

 

Various versions are suggested regarding the origin of its name, the "Milky Way."

 

According to one of them, based on Ancient Greek mythology, it was the milk spurted from the chest of the goddess Hera, which never reached the mouth of the infant Hercules.

 

According to another version, it was a salty path used by salt traders.

 

There are other versions, but they are more interesting for science than for the uninformed reader.

 

Since names in history are often given post facto, our galaxy appeared long before its name. But judging by its appearance, it resembles both the Milky Way and the salty path.

 

The Milky Way includes the Solar System, where Earth is located, as well as other systems with their centers, cores, planets, stars, suns, and moons.

 

Despite the existence of borders in our galaxy, beyond which stretch the starry plains of its neighbors, people still give the concept of "galaxy" the meaning of infinity, forgetting that the Universe is infinite. We'll talk about the Universe separately.

 

For example, there are many brands under the name "Galaxy" - from interest clubs, dating sites to the name of a whole series of mobile phones from one of the leading manufacturers.

 

The Milky Way has seen different times, both peaceful and wartime. Planets in the Solar System waged wars among themselves. Sometimes they lasted for years, sometimes for decades. When the desired truce between the planets came, conflicts began on the planets themselves.

 

Our galaxy also knew more extensive campaigns when the Solar System declared war on its neighbors in the Milky Way.

 

Knowing how destructive intra-galactic conflicts of any scale can be, the Milky Way tried in every way to influence the conflicting parties, standing in their way to avoid the formation of new crises.

 

But sometimes more unpleasant events occurred.

 

For example, in the year 2075, a major intergalactic conflict occurred when the Andromeda Nebula faced an energy crisis, and as a solution, it collided our galaxy with the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds. Fortunately, realizing the potential scale of a Universal war, the most remote galaxy, UDFj-39546284, rushed to become an arbitrator, offering its services to the galaxies involved in the conflict. The conflict was resolved. Following the crisis, the Intergalactic Energy Union was created, which henceforth helped allied galaxies solve their energy-related problems.

 

The Chronicles of the Milky Way also describe interplanetary, intersystem, and intergalactic scientific conferences, folklore festivals, trade fairs, sports competitions, and many other events in peacetime.

 

Our galaxy could remember even more interesting events that could have happened if... it was born. Unfortunately, the brilliant novel "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams was never written, and the film of the same name was never made. These works belong to the science fiction genre, which means there was neither the galaxy itself, nor the Solar System, nor planets, nor neighboring and distant galaxies. Thus, none of this could come to the mind of the unborn writer. Because he was not born together with his unborn galaxy.

 

Our galaxy does not particularly differ from others. Only in the sense that it was not born. And about others, we actually know nothing.

October 26, 2014, Original (Russian) version.

Memoirs of the Unborn. Country

Memoirs of the Unborn. Country

Eighth story

Preface

This country never came into existence.

Although all of us wanted it so much.

We yearned for it, that "land of happiness."

Yearned, but never reached.

And wherever we all may be, wherever fate may lead us, we share something: we all come from that unborn country.

"Wide is my Motherland,

Of her many forests, fields, and rivers!"

This country hardly differed from others.

A country, like any other. People, like people. Cities, like cities. Fields, rivers...

 

In the historical museum, the entire history of the country was preserved, and anyone interested could familiarize themselves with it. For example, this country owes its birth to some explorer who stepped on its land many years ago. Later, it was named after that very discoverer. They say he discovered many countries. And all are named after him. It turned out he had many names, so each of the countries he discovered was named after one of them.

 

The climate in this country was tolerable, the lands fertile. The people were simple and hardworking. Surprisingly, politicians were prudent. Wars and disasters avoided it.

 

It was ruled, neither shaky nor wobbly, by a king.

 

He was neither short nor tall. Of average height and build. In his decisions, he relied on ministers and advisers. And two - or more - heads, as they say, are better than one.

The king claimed that his lineage traced back to either an ancient tribe or the very first discoverer, after whom the country was named. Either way, it didn't matter, as it had no impact on the course of history.

 

Hurricanes were rare in this country, as were snowstorms. Only dust storms often shrouded the country in a haze, whose territory stretched two thousand miles from north to south and one and a half thousand miles from west to east.

 

The historical museum holds information that during the reign of the great-great-great-grandfather of the current king, the country was invaded by a locust tribe, terrorizing farms and farmers and their families. Perhaps, it was the most terrible incident in the relatively prosperous country.

 

Browsing through the museum's materials, you'll find stories of various cities, country residents, families, and communities, the information about which has been stored almost since the country's discovery.

 

An important moment in the country's development, with around ten thousand inhabitants divided by deserts, mountain ranges, and rivers, was the documentation and perpetuation of today's history in real-time mode.

 

Royal documentarians recorded current events on video, took photographs, recorded on audio carriers, and even preserved them in 3D format. Moreover, artists and sculptors captured and immortalized these events on canvas and in clay, bronze, and stone.

 

Almost any day from the country's history could be reconstructed not only through media archives but also from this unique database. All information was carefully stored and duplicated.

 

For any historian and writer, especially in the memoir genre, this method opened boundless possibilities, and the only difference in their creations was the interpretation of facts and events.

 

But, as always, there was a flip side to the coin.

 

This country played such a meager role on the planet that its events and history interested no one except the country's residents themselves. Their historical novels and memoirs had almost no value, also because this extraordinary country... never existed.

It simply was not born.

 

The history of the unborn country was never born either, just like the history of the unborn Planet, on which the unborn discoverer never discovered this unborn country.

 

And the materials of its historical museum, which was also never founded, could only serve as the basis for one category of memoirs.

 

Memoirs of the unborn country.

 

Yes, this country hardly differed from others.

 

Except that it was never born.

October 25, 2014, Original (Russian) version. 

Memoirs of the Unborn. Planet

Memoirs of the Unborn. Planet

Seventh story

Our planet was a decent project. As it is known, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth." This is what we are going to talk about here, about Earth.

 

The story continued like this: "And God said, 'Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.' And it was so. [And the water under the sky gathered to its places, and the dry ground appeared.] And God called the dry ground 'land,' and the gathered waters he called 'seas.' And God saw that it was good."

 

To avoid quoting the entire Old Testament story of the creation of the Earth, let's note that the process of its creation was long and challenging. At times, tired, the Creator, fixing imperfections, filled it with all sorts of things until it was time for Man. That's when everything started!

 

And as soon as it started, our Planet - Earth - began to change. Following Man.

 

At first, he engaged in sports, and he liked it. Having tasted the forbidden fruit, he began to engage in sex, which he also liked—until orgasm!

 

Then he started smoking. Everywhere - at home, at work, while fishing, and even after sex. He liked to drink no less than engaging in sex, and he drank everywhere. Sometimes, mixed with smoking.

 

Having filled the entire planet with himself, Man flooded it with his habits. Not only the bad ones.

 

He went to the theater, listened to music, read books. But at the same time - he drank and smoked, and sometimes cursed.

 

Often the Planet felt that Man would not bring any good to it. Ruin it. Erase it from the face of the Earth. Sometimes, she let him know that he had gone too far, crossed all boundaries, "had enough." And then on Earth, disasters, wars, diseases, hunger, and chaos began.

 

The further Man went, the stronger the Planet made it clear to him that he was wrong.

 

With the flora and fauna, things were better for Earth. They immediately found understanding after "God created plants and spread them over the Earth, and he saw that it was good," and then "God created the animals of the earth according to their kinds, and the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good."

 

But even in these spheres, the influence of Man penetrated. After that, it was necessary to start the "Red Book," creating which, he ignored it himself.

 

Thus, simultaneously, the Planet evolved and degenerated parallel to the development and degradation of Man.

 

The Creator intervened as best he could, but the Man he created turned out to be not to his liking.

 

Moreover, Man abolished God and drove the last nail into the lid of His coffin.

 

So, day by day, year by year, the Earth changed - sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better.

 

In some places, it was good to live - exactly where the foot of modern Man did not tread. But as soon as his foot stepped there, the Planet began to react painfully to his invasion.

 

And sometimes, having recovered from human calamities, in a good mood, the Planet remembered the stages of the great journey, lasting billions of years.

 

She remembered how she was created in 6 days and how everything was good until the Creator populated her with people.

 

But these were memories of the future. After all, the Planet had no past. Just like its Creator.

After all, the unborn Creator could not create it, just as he could not create anything afterward - cities, families, twins, and other unborn ones. Like them, the Planet was not destined to be born. And why? After all, its birth would be the beginning of its end.

 

This would be taken care of by Man, who also was not born. After all, his Creator was not born, and together with him, all the intentions of the unborn Creator were not born.

October 20, 2014, Original (Russian) version

Memoirs of the Unborn. Family

Memoirs of the Unborn. Family

Sixth story

We are a wonderful family. Everyone around us thinks so: neighbors, friends, the tram conductor, the cinema cashier, the ice cream seller, acquaintances, colleagues, and even the cat that has been living happily with us for four years now.

 On Father's Day, we give Dad gifts, and on Mother's Day, we give Mom flowers. On New Year's, we exchange gifts with each other, turning family birthdays into a cheerful celebration.

 

Everything is fine with us.

This is what everyone who knows us thinks. After all, we always take care of others, without neglecting ourselves. We always have an abundance of everything - attention, positive emotions, food, books, toys, ideas. We often come up with something new, write poetry, draw pictures, win in competitions and contests.

 

We are an excellent family - both literally and figuratively. We are the best!

Some envy us a little, but mostly, it's a benign envy.

 

We live harmoniously, supporting each other in everything.

By the way, it's time to introduce ourselves.

My name is Mark, and I am the head of the family.

The father of Erica and Erika.

I work as a clerk in a law firm, earning a decent salary, and I love my job very much.

I love to read. Sometimes I indulge in writing, mostly poetry. The best of them is dedicated to my beloved family, and even to our cat, Adi.

Sometimes I allow myself to have a mug of beer with colleagues, play billiards.

But this happens extremely rarely. Most of all, I love spending time with my family.

 

We often go out into nature, have picnics, walk in the forest for mushrooms and berries, fish, and barbecue meat over an open fire.

 

And this is Anita, my wife and the mother of Erica and Erika.

Anita works as a pastry chef. My family loves her pastries very much. Anita often spoils us with it after work.

It seems that she never gets tired and does a lot of work at home.

 

I know - my wife loves her job and our family.

 

She sews for her loved ones, saving money and giving us - her beloved ones - beautiful and original shirts, blouses, skirts, dresses, pants. Sometimes she knits mittens and scarves.

 

Anita devotes almost all her free time to me and our twins.

 

Eric and Erika are schoolchildren. Eric is in the fourth grade, and Erika is in the first. Eric responsibly performs all the unspoken duties of an older brother: takes care of Erika, helps her with homework, entertains her when we are not at home. He shows slideshows. And before bedtime, he reads fairy tales to his beloved sister.

 

Eric is into sports and already plays for the school football team. He is a strong and tall guy, playing in the attack. And Erika, with her friends, attends all his matches to cheer for her beloved brother.

 

Erika likes to draw. She has been drawing since she was three. And a year later, our family friend Gustav saw her drawings. He liked the works of our little one. Gustav suggested enrolling her in the art school where he teaches. Today, Erika's works decorate the art gallery of our town.

 

Recently, we went to the fair. Eric and Erika liked it the most. The thing is, our fairs are always accompanied by puppet theater performances or jesters, and sometimes acrobats. And not far away, there is always an amusement park, to which our children are never indifferent.

 

We had fun, took photos, and enjoyed ourselves.

 

And we bought Adi a new bell with a bright blue ribbon.

 

Our cat is grateful to us for being there. And for that, we love him.

Eric and Erika love Adi the most.

 

Sometimes they allow themselves to tug at his tail, ears, or stroke against his ginger fur. But he learned not to take offense at them for it. Adi knows that they mean no harm. Just fooling around. After all, Adi loves to play pranks too. Slightly. But we forgive him for small pranks because we love and appreciate him.

 

And now, a heavy downpour outside. Pouring rain, like from a bucket. We are all sitting by the fireplace, drinking cocoa with marshmallows, and looking through the family album, sharing memories of the fair and other significant events in which our family could have participated... if it had been born.

 

And not because it is perfect, and perfect families, like perfect people, are known not to exist. Like our family. It doesn't exist and never did. It just wasn't born. Like the twins and the city, they could all live in. Like the country and the universe - they all remained unborn. Like that unborn God, according to whose unborn plan all this did not happen.

 

It was not born.

October 18, 2014. Original (Russian) Version

Memoirs of the Unborn. City

Memoirs of the Unborn. City

Fifth story

 

"I know there will be a city. 

I know a garden will bloom...,"

said the famous poet, and this thought was picked up by city-building enthusiasts who had long been tired of sitting idle. This idea appealed to the residents of the settlement, which long ago was supposed to become a city, but for some, the hands never reached that point.

 

Most delighted with this news was the future mayor of the future city - the current head of the village council.

 

Well, if the lower class wants it and the upper class can make it happen, it's just a matter of time.

 

So, it all began.

 

So, the city began.

 

Everyone was curious about where the new shopping center, central park, stadium, planetarium, and cinema would be located, and what it would all look like.

 

To encourage future city dwellers, the future mayor of the future city announced a competition in which every resident of the settlement could propose their project - their vision of the main attractions, as well as the overall city project.

 

The competition commission of the village council received thirty different projects. Eight of them were immediately rejected because they lacked programs or drawings. Not finding the highlight in another 12 projects, the commission "swept" them aside as well. From the remaining 10, the commission chose the three most original projects that met all the conditions of the competition and declared the winners. The future city council approved one of the three projects, and work began.

 

The settlement began to transform into a city.

 

Excavators, concrete mixers, tractors, and bulldozers worked tirelessly.

 

Gardens began to appear in the city.

 

And there was a city.

 

Everything in it was new, beautiful, original. Everything in it appealed to both the citizens themselves and to guests, tourists.

 

New museums, art galleries, shopping centers, parks, and squares - everything breathed novelty. It was in everything.

 

Local poets dedicated their verses to their native city, artists painted pictures, and sculptors created monuments and memorials. And the status of the people in the arts grew: the village union of creative individuals became urban.

 

This and many other festive events were solidified by mass feasts and celebrations, immortalized in the local press, voiced on local radio, and the new city television channel.

 

The new city came to life with a new full life.

 

Factories and plants started working, kindergartens, schools, and universities opened.

 

Flowers bloomed, and swans appeared in the artificial pond of the new city park.

 

In the city squares, citizens fed pigeons, cats, and dogs. Janitors chased away boys who were eager to pick the not-yet-ripe apples and pears from the surrounding areas.

 

And everything would have been good, and everything would have been great, but...

 

This city never existed.

And the garden never blossomed. Its residents, the city head, pigeons, cats, dogs, janitors, and boys didn't exist either.

 

The city never came to be, remaining an unborn project on non-existent paper.

 

It remained only as the memoirs of an unborn family, unborn twins, and other unborn residents.

 

The unborn city with its unborn residents never came to be in the unborn country, which was never born on the unborn planet. The latter, in turn, was not born in the unborn galaxy according to the unborn plan of the unborn God.

October 15, 2014, original (Russian) version

Memoirs of the Unborn. God

Memoirs of the Unborn. God

Fourth story

Throughout the history of humanity, many have been involved in the birth, annihilation, denial of existence, and killing of God.

 

It was fashionable and prestigious in all times, in any society.

 

People invented God, and they either took Him out of the game or simply killed Him. Physically and spiritually.

 

The most interesting aspect of this chain of births, denials, and deaths is what no one ever thought about: could God have been born dead or not born at all?

 

Scientists did not ponder over this question; it did not receive attention in literature—both in poetry and prose; reflections on this did not take physical forms in sculptures, songs were not dedicated to it, and it was not depicted on canvases.

 

No one simply thought about it. And how to think about the flip side of the coin when everywhere, all around, you find confirmations of God's Existence, Dismissal from Service, and Death!

 

But absolutely nowhere will you find even a small iota of doubt that God was never born. Except, perhaps, in this narrative...

 

People invented God to explain the unexplainable.

 

It was simpler that way, as He was assigned responsibility for what happened to people.

 

And responsibility comes with a price—worship, offerings, the construction of temples.

 

Philosophers and theologians argued with each other trying to explain the essence of God, His role in human life, and the influence on it.

Atheists proved that there is no God, denying claims of His existence.

 

Feuerbach abolished God, and Nietzsche drove the last nail into the lid of His coffin.

 

And structuralists simplified the task altogether, stating that man invented God, and the Latter eventually became an independent structure detached from humans.

 

Independent of human faith or disbelief in Him.

 

But none of them started from the thesis that God was not born at all. According to the achievements of philosophers, He died... Unborn.

 

He was remembered and recalled, mentioned in memories, in proverbs and sayings, in folk tales, epics, and legends, in superstitions. Books were dedicated to Him, describing in detail encounters with Him—in dreams and in reality. The living and the dead wrote about Him. Naturally, the dead wrote about Him only when they returned to the world of the living again. And they attributed their glorious return to a miracle. A miracle that was not handmade, and therefore - Divine.

 

So, He lived and existed in the minds of believers and non-believers—because even those who deny His existence still proceed from the assumption that He exists, otherwise - there is nothing to deny.

 

He received congratulations and offerings, granted forgiveness, created laws.

 

He was glorified in verses, songs, and prose. He was depicted on canvases, sculpted.

 

People turned to Him in hopes of a miracle when doctors were powerless, and judges and executioners were unyielding.

 

They entrusted Him with their secrets.

 

They worshipped and cursed Him, loved and hated Him. The unborn God.

 

Because He was never born.

 

That's how He "exists"—unborn, which means that everything attributed to Him also never was born. And therefore, like Himself, it could not die.

Memoirs of the Unborn. Twins

Memoirs of the Unborn. Twins

Third story

We are very much alike, and not just because we were born on the same day, at the same hour, with a one-minute difference.

We are not just twins.

We have absolutely no external differences.

Even our mom could never tell us apart. That's how we grew up.

Even when we turned one and started walking, no one could distinguish us: as if, without realizing it, as if conspiring, we would switch places, rolling from one end of the bed to the other. And then confusion would begin. Sometimes it led to very unpleasant situations, where one of us was fed twice, and the other remained hungry, until the wail of the deprived pierced the entire house, waking up everyone nearby at that moment.

Over time, we enjoyed this game. We already knew that we wouldn't go hungry, and so, with a mischievous sparkle in our eyes, we would exchange colorful ribbons.

And when the ribbon time passed, and we went to school, they tried to distinguish us by our headgear. They were of the same color and size, with equally shiny cockades. The inside of one of our headgears was marked with white chalk in the morning by our parents. But the end to this temporary distinction came very quickly—after all, scraping off the chalk from the walls of nearby houses or whitewashed trees was not a difficult task.

We were so engrossed in this game that we would substitute each other at the chalkboard during class, in exams, and even... on dates. Girls also confused us.

We were confused by the draft board, and later by the commanders in the army. When enrolling in college, teachers confused us. Then, like in school years, we were confused again during exams. And if one of us was better prepared than the other, he would draw two tickets, solve the problem twice, point out distant countries on the map, recite memorized poems, or describe medieval battles, conducting experiments in the chemistry lab.

Wives and children confused us, bosses at work confused us so much that one of us got reprimanded for both, while the other received double bonuses.

We laughed - to ourselves - even at mistresses. That way we could exchange them - for variety.

If we had died, they would have mixed us up even in the morgue. It was a mockery of fate itself.

It seemed that fate itself was playing with us and against us, teasing us.

It seemed that life itself confused us, and this confusion could continue for a lifetime.

But instead, it continues forever.

Like all possible variants of confusion, which have no end.

We constantly move from one situation to another, confusing everyone who thought they were confusing us.

It's a constant cycle, filled with millions of versions of us.

But it's not happening to us.

Because we were never really in any of these situations, just as they never happened to us.

We simply weren't there.

And couldn't have been.

Because we were never born. Like these memoirs.

Memoirs of the Unborn.

07.10.2014, Original (Russian) version.

Memoirs of the Unborn

Memoirs of the Unborn

Second story

Even in kindergarten, I showed great promise, smoothly purring all the popular hits of that time. Despite not knowing any foreign languages, I pronounced the words of European chart-toppers precisely in tune with the melody. I possessed perfect pitch and a rare voice.

 

During holidays, especially on Christmas and New Year's Eve, as was customary, my parents would put me on a stool in a bar, and I sang for the adults. I imagined myself as all the stars whose songs were part of my repertoire back then. They applauded me. Those were my first applause. And my first fees came in the form of candies, chocolates, and toys.

 

In the early school years, at my mother's insistence, I started developing my voice and took vocal lessons from the best experts at our conservatory. I was invited to numerous auditions.

 

In middle and high school, I sang first in the school choir and later in the school ensemble, winning, as its soloist, at all district, city and state competitions. People started recognizing me on the street and gave me flowers.

 

So, I became a star.

 

Now, I was recognized not only on the streets of my hometown but beyond its borders.

Beyond the region.

The state.

 

My head spun with anticipation; I painted pictures where I was the star of singing reality competition television series like "The Voice," "American Idol", "X Factor", "America’s Got Talent"," and others.

 

It seemed that my "fifteen minutes of fame" would turn into an hour, and not just one.

 

Here I am on the stage of Carnegie Hall, La Scala, The Vienna Musikverein, The Royal Albert Hall, Berlin Philharmonie, Suntory Hall…

Here I am on the America’s national TV channel, my compositions topping the charts on all radio stations. My name was on everyone's lips. My photos adorned the covers of fashionable glossy magazines.

 

I grew up, and my popularity skyrocketed like yeast. Now, I'm a mother. I appear in commercials where I sing. I have millions of followers on Instagram and my YouTube channel.

 

And here, in this picture, I am at one of the most expensive resorts. Paparazzi don't leave me alone. They don't ask me to sing; they just click and click. I am needed by everyone. Men of all ages, nationalities and religions fall in love with me. I am a Diva.

 

How pleasant it is to bask in the rays of fame, earned not only by natural talent but also by hard work. It's happiness.

 

I review these photos and postcards from the album of my triumph, replaying in my mind the events captured on them, reliving the emotions of those happy moments. And everything is so vivid in memory, as if it happened yesterday. I look at all this from the outside and see myself in the midst of the events of those days.

 

No, I haven't aged. I'm still popular and hot! And I'm not showing my album to grandchildren. I'm just looking and analyzing. After all, all this happened or could have happened to me. Because I really could have become a superstar, a Diva, a prima donna, an empress of the stage. I would have liked that very much.

And I could have.

If only I could.

If I were born.

Because these are just memories from my future, which never existed. Which could have already been in the past. Which was not destined to be born. Just like me.

 

These are the memoirs of the unborn.

 

The unborn me.

02.10.2014, Original (Russian) version.

Memoirs of the Unborn

Memoirs of the Unborn

First story

Every day I reevaluate my life: achievements, failures. I review events. I try to approach life philosophically, analyze the past, predict the future. And everything seems nothing special. Sometimes it feels insufficient.

What else to fill my days with? I pour myself another cup of coffee and go to the window. The wind rustles the poplar leaves. Pigeons perch on the wires. Not a single crow in sight!

 

A fly darts across the windowpane. It's flawless. I wish I had wings like these!

 

I sip my coffee, observing people on the street. Everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. None of them even suspects that I'm watching them.

 

There goes the heavily sweating overweight man rushing to cross the road. The light will turn red soon, and cars will traverse the pedestrian crossing. Hurry up, chubby!

 

Not far away, at the bus stop, a young woman sits with a stroller. The baby inside, snoozing quietly. It's not easy for him to adapt to the new environment. Luckily, mom is right there. But it won't always be like that. Enjoy the moments, little one!

 

And here comes the well-groomed gentleman in a hat. Though it saves his bald head from the heat, his attire is entirely inappropriate for the weather. Black tweed suit and monochrome polished shoes. The crimson tide tightly cinches his neck. The blue shirt is buttoned up all the way. He is serious and focused. So, what if it's 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit outside! "Burst, but maintain style," as they say in Odessa. Good luck to you, sir in the hat!

 

And now a young lad is racing at full speed on his new bicycle. He is well-prepared for the ride, equipped as needed! Shiny helmet, elbow pads, and knee pads. Hand on the horn, as if on a pulse! May your ride be successful, young lad!

 

So, hour after hour passes. Faces, colors, and scents change. The clock hands inexorably carry me into the past.

 

I think about all these people, trying to predict what will happen to them after they leave my field of view.

 

But they don't think about me. They don't even know that I'm observing them. So, hour after hour, I piece together an endless puzzle of human destinies that momentarily intersect with mine.

 

And we have one thing in common: we are strangers, and we are unlikely to ever meet. After all, all of this is happening only in my mind. A mind that was never born. Just like me.

29.08.2014, Original (Russian) version

The Rain Seller

 The Rain Seller

The rain seller, named Celedón, was an amazing person. He lived in a quiet village where the inhabitants depended on nature for their harvest. However, every year there came a time of drought, and during this period Celedón offered his services.

 

On the driest day, when the earth was cracking with thirst, Celedón would go out to the central square of the village with a colorful umbrella kiosk decorated with images of clouds and raindrops. He was dressed in a multi-colored raincoat that resembled a rainbow, and his smile sparkled brighter than the sun itself.

 

Passing by, residents noticed him and approached the kiosk with curiosity. Celedón smiled hospitably and began his unusual ritual.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, today is your lucky day!" he announced. "I offer you something special - rain! All you have to do is choose what kind of rain you want, and your plot of land will become an oasis in this arid desert."

 

The villagers, faced with such an amazing opportunity, were interested in choosing the type of rain: light summer rain, refreshing after the drought, or moderate rain, which would contribute to a bountiful harvest. Celedón used his magical umbrella, raising it high into the sky, and soon dark clouds began to gather over the village.

 

When the first drops began to fall, joy and surprise overwhelmed the residents. They took to the streets, danced in the rain and thanked Celedón for his amazing services.

 

But Celedón did not take money for his work. Instead, he asked only one thing - that everyone who felt gratitude for the rain would plant a new tree in gratitude to nature. Thus, the village became not only richer in harvest, but also greener and more resilient to climate change.

 

So Celedón, the rain seller, brought not only rain to the village, but also hope, inspiring people to take care of nature and each other.

ПРОДАВЕЦ ДОЖДЯ

 ПРОДАВЕЦ ДОЖДЯ

 

Название (но не идея) позаимствовано у Натана Ричарда Нусбаума, более известного как N. Richard Nash.

 

Вы наверняка встречали этого продавца на улицах вашего города, просто не придали значения встрече с ним. А зря. Ведь когда так нужен дождь (а нужен он не только тем, кто занимается сельским хозяйством, но и каждому из нас: ведь дождь — это чудесно, в нём и омовение, и очищение и обновление всего вокруг, от природы – до нас самих), именно на этого продавца мы и уповаем.

 

Продавец дождя существует в каждой культуре, у каждого народа и даже племени. Ацтеки называли его Tlaloc. Он был богом дождя и грома, сельского хозяйства, огня и южной стороны света. Был владыкой 3-й из 5 ацтекских мировых эпох.

 

В древнегреческой мифологии это была Дио́на – богиня дождя, титанида.

А в аккадской мифологии этот был А́дад – бог непогоды, податель бури, ветра, молний, грома и дождя, воплощение разрушительных и созидательных сил природы.

 

Несмотря на то, что этих народов и их верований уже не существует (от них остались лишь легенды и мифы и археологические артефакты), продавец дождя – это реальный человек. Ну, может быть, не совсем человек, но реальный.

 

Цена дождя

Вас, наверное, интересует, почему его (как и древних богов) называют «продавцом» дождя. А не дарителем, повелителем или носителем, например. На самом деле, объяснение этому очень простое: богам всегда приносили подарки, жертвы, а взамен они давали (или не давали – если их не удовлетворяло преподношение) дождь. Это своего рода товарообмен: вы преподносите богу дар, а он вам – дождь. И чем лучше, больше и ценнее дар – тем дольше и чаще будут идти дожди. В общем, рыночные отношения в чистом виде. Только богам нужно было ещё и молиться. 

 

В отличие от его предшественников, современный продавец дождя – это человек из толпы. Он всегда ходит с разноцветным зонтом, напоминающим радугу – даже если дождём и не пахнет. Обязательно в плаще. И, конечно же, в галошах.

Вы видите в нём странного чудака, улыбаетесь при виде него и идёте своей дорогой. А от него много зависит: пойдёт ли дождь или нет, когда и какой и как долго он продлится. Будет ли засуха или затопление. Обновится ли природа. Сгинут ли невзгоды, смываемые дождём… И, конечно же, дождливое настроение. Это, когда хочется смотреть, как идёт дождь за окном, укрывшись пледом на диване и попивая горячее ароматное какао (написав эти строки, автор так явно представил себе эту сцену, что он побежал на кухню за какао, но его не оказалось, а за окном лил сильный дождь, который отбил у автора желание выйти на улицу).

 

Вообще, дождь оказывает разное влияние на людей, вызывает разные ассоциации и фантазии. Как эта, например:

 

«Дождь притих, устали капли

Барабанить по стеклу,

Зарисовываю мысли,

Толь во сне, толь наяву.

 

За окном большие лужи,

Ни проехать, ни пройти,

Замышляю себе ужин,

Размышляю по пути.

 

Капля к капле, лужа к луже,

Есть помельче, есть поглубже,

Так гулял себе по лужам

И придумал себе ужин:

 

Запеканку с облаками,

Булочки из молнии,

Тучи в кашу влезли сами,

Грома чашка полная.

 

А пока я размышлял,

Солнце появилось,

Сразу аппетит пропал

И мечты не сбылись».

 

Но вернёмся к нашему продавцу. Ведь вам интересно, что он берёт взамен, давая нам дождь, верно?

 

Как ни странно, он не брал деньги за свои труды. Вместо этого, он просил лишь одно – чтобы каждый, кто испытывал благодарность за дождь, посадил новое дерево в благодарность природе. Таким образом, не только земля становилась плодороднее, а урожаи – богаче, но и сам мир становился зеленее и более устойчивым к изменениям климата. Он становился ярче и добрее, распускались цветы, цвели фруктовые деревья, появлялась радуга. Мир, как и сама жизнь, становился прекрасным, отражаясь своей чистотой в каплях дождя. 

 

Так продавец дождя приносит в нашу жизнь не только дождь, но и надежду, вдохновляя людей заботиться о природе и друг о друге.

АУКЦИОН

 

Со временем я понял, что моя «зона комфорта» не имеет чётких физических границ, форм или очертаний: это не домашний халат или пижама, в которых можно лежать на диване (который тоже не является частью этой зоны), не камин с потрескивающими поленьями и не удобное кресло рядом с ним.

Это даже не мой рабочий кабинет и не балкон-аквариум (особенно, когда идёт проливной дождь и кажется, что всё вокруг плывёт и уплывает, меняя свои очертания и будучи смытым дождём).

 

Моя зона комфорта — это не место. Это другое измерение: время или процесс. В котором я нахожусь наедине с моими мыслями. Которые я записываю в компьютер или в записную книжку моего смартфона. Как сейчас. Ибо кабель от моего ноутбука куда-то запропастился.

 

При этом антуражем моей зоны комфорта может быть мой рабочий кабинет, балкон-аквариум, поезд или салон самолёта. И даже пальма на пляже где-нибудь в далёкой и прекрасной Камбодже, в которой мне довелось пожить.

Именно в зоне комфорта рождаются мои рассказы.

 

Как, например, вот этот.

 

АУКЦИОН

 Предисловие

 

«АУКЦИОН» родился в моей зоне комфорта, и, как это часто бывает, поначалу, был недописан.

 

Так бывало и с моими стихами. Зачастую перед сном у меня рождалось четверостишие. Не полагаясь на свою память, я записывал его и ложился спать. Проснувшись утром, я садился за рабочий стол и записывал "рождённые" ночью четверостишия. Так появлялись на свет мои стихи, которые я начал писать в восьмилетнем возрасте.

 

Переквалифицировавшись в прозаика, я так же начал записывать и первые наброски будущих рассказов. А потом дописывал их по мере посещения меня музой.

Кстати, должен вам сказать, что это отнюдь не женщина. И, подобно моей зоне комфорта, муза не имеет чётких очертаний. Это процесс, который можно назвать настроением или желанием. Ведь когда нет желания, тексты не рождаются.

 

С «АУКЦИОНОМ» случилась та же история: пока у меня было рандеву с музой, я записал мысль и надеялся развить её позже. Но муза ушла надолго и вернулась только сейчас, именно в момент написания этих строк, которые с точностью до секунды фиксирует и датирует мой телефон.

 

В прошлом, в подобные моменты безмузного состояния, я обращался к коллективному разуму через соцсети, предлагая моим виртуальным друзьям и подписчикам (интересная мысль: что это за мир такой, в котором друзья стали виртуальными? То есть - нереальными. Прямо как деньги в банковской системе. Зачем нужны друзья, которых невозможно ощутить? Зачем нужны деньги, которые невозможно положить в портмоне или вытащить из него? Зачем нужна виртуальная жизнь, когда смерть, по сути, тоже виртуальна - ведь мы её не чувствуем, не ощущаем?) подкинуть мне идеи для продолжения работы над тем или иным текстом.

 

На этот раз я решил не делиться мыслями с виртуальными людьми. Я поделился ими с реальным виртуальным интеллектом. С ИИ. ChatGPT. И он (она или оно) был/а/о настолько любезным/ной, что дал/а/о новое направление творческой мысли (я даже позаимствовал у них (всех троих) один образ и пару-тройку фраз). Очень надеюсь, что ИИ не следит за мной и не привлечёт меня к суду в соответствии с авторским правом .

 

Должен отметить, что, несмотря на ограниченность творческих способностей ИИ (как мне показалось, по части абстрактного мышления), тандем наш удался на славу. Хотя, конечно, не мне судить. Но вам.

 

Итак, «АУКЦИОН».

 

Вы наверняка знаете, что на аукционах можно приобрести произведения искусства, антиквариат, древние артефакты, предметы, принадлежавшие знаменитостям...

 

Но есть аукцион другого типа. Он проходит в подземном зале, окутанном полумраком и наполненном загадочными шепотами. Здесь торгуют не драгоценностями или произведениями искусства. На этом аукционе выставляются на торги черты характера человека, его страхи, эмоции, чувства, стремления, желания, страсти.

 

Переднее место зала занимает таинственная фигура в маске, олицетворяющей Хранительницу аукциона. Серебристые звезды на её платье отражают свет, создавая иллюзию звездного неба.

 

«Уважаемые посетители, дамы и господа, добро пожаловать на аукцион ваших собственных качеств! Здесь вы можете приобрести то, что зачастую остается скрытым от чужих глаз, но так важно в нашей жизни», звучит таинственный голос Хранительницы аукциона.

 

Первым лотом становится «Бесстрашие». Появляется смелый молодой человек, готовый отдать это качество тому, кому оно по-настоящему нужно. Торг начинается, и в зале напряженно следят за каждой ставкой, словно она решает собственные судьбы аукционеров.

 

Со следующим лотом – «Терпением» - поднимается спокойная женщина. Она терпеливо готова отдать этот ценный ресурс тому, кто находится в поисках внутренней гармонии.

 

За «Терпением» следуют «Творчество», «Сострадание», «Смелость» и другие качества.

Каждый лот несёт в себе историю и возможность для того, кто решит его приобрести. Аукцион человеческих качеств — это не только торговля, но и возможность обмена, обогащения и преображения.

 

Все человеческие качества, будь то «Бесстрашие», «Терпение» или «Творчество», поставленные на торг — это не просто готовый продукт. Это потенциал для развития и изменения.

 

Когда качество приобретается, оно может претерпевать адаптации и эволюцию в зависимости от личности покупателя. Например, если кто-то купил «Бесстрашие», оно может начать проявляться в новых, неожиданных ситуациях, которые ранее могли вызывать страх.

 

Эти изменения могут подстраиваться под индивидуальные особенности: возможно, человек, приобретающий «Терпение», предпочтет его выражение в спокойных ситуациях в то время, как другой предпочтет воспользоваться им в сложных моментах.

 

Такой подход к аукциону придает процессу динамичность и позволяет качествам становиться частью уникального пути истории каждого покупателя.

Нужды покупателей и продавцов бывают разные. Одни продают то, что у них в избытке. Другие покупают то, что уже имеют, но им этого мало. Третьи – восполняют недостатки в наборе своих качеств. Или проводят "чистку".

Бывает так, что человек устаёт от себя. Такого, каким он является. И он готов избавиться от качества, которое ему мешает.

 

Например, слишком добрый человек. Который готов отдать последнее нуждающемуся. И когда излишняя доброта вредит её обладателю. Когда ему не на что купить еду, нечем заплатить по счетам – этот аукцион именно то, что ему нужно. Ведь всегда найдётся тот, кому не хватает доброты.

 

Аукцион человеческих качеств предполагает разные ситуации и правила. Например, некоторые качества могут отторгаться подобно донорским органам или клеткам. Либо «вживлённое» чувство или черта характера могут начать эволюционировать по собственному плану. И если ещё не поздно, можно вернуться на аукцион и продать не подошедший вам товар. Если, конечно, вы сами не испортили его. Хотя у лотов этого аукциона предусмотрены гарантии и даже сроки годности. Лоты даже страхуются.

 

Как можно испортить качество? Эмоцию? Способность? Как именно может человек влиять (портить или улучшать) на приобретенные качества? Возможно, своим поведением, решениями или даже внутренними конфликтами.

Например, если кто-то приобрел «Сострадание», но страдает от негативных воздействий и решает поддаться злости, это может повлиять на проявление приобретенного качества. В какой-то степени человек может испортить свои качества, если не уделяет им внимание или допускает действия, противоречащие этим качествам.

 

Идея гарантии или срока годности для человеческих качеств не имеет смысла, поскольку человеческие черты не являются материальными товарами. Но не на нашем аукционе: здесь существует «гарантийный период», в течение которого приобретенные качества обещают проявляться в определенном виде.

Срок годности может зависеть от сложности качества и влияния внешних факторов.

 

Этот аукцион позволяет участникам не только продавать и покупать, но и обменивать свои качества. Если они равноценны. Например, человек, который приобрел «Творчество», позже решает, что ему важнее «Сострадание». Тогда он может попытаться обменять свои качества с кем-то другим на аукционе. Это создает интересную динамику, которая позволяет человеку формировать свою уникальную комбинацию качеств, соответствующую изменяющимся потребностям и жизненным обстоятельствам.

 

Некоторые заядлые аукционеры выстроили себя такими, какими хотели, создав уникальный набор эффективно взаимодействующих качеств. Одни стали политиками, другие – созидателями, третьи – магнатами, четвёртые – разрушителями миров.

 

И хоть наш аукцион вымышленный, вымысел являются частью нашей реальной жизни. Ведь людям свойственно желать перемен – как в обществе и окружающей их среде, так и в себе самих. Ведь, меняя себя, мы меняем свою реальность. Или, по крайней мере – своё представление о ней.

 

А какие свои качества вы готовы выставить на торги? Что бы вы хотели приобрести?

23.12.2023

Иллюстрация: The Babylonian Marriage Market, Edwin Long, 1875

Илья Розенфельд

#аукцион #зонакомфорта #дождь #измерение #время #аквариум

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