Поход Годзиллы

Однажды Годзилла шел по мелководью близ маленького острова Япония, и думал - куда бы ему податься. Может, доплыть до какого-нибудь островка в Тихом океане, и завалиться там спать? Или поплыть на юг и заявиться к какому-нибудь племени, которое его будет почитать и приносить дары? Толстые женщины бывали особенно вкусны на закуску после глубоководной рыбалки, но всё это объедаловка... Годзилла тупел после такого, a ему уже нельзя было тупеть. Возраст не тот.
На северо-восток никак нельзя - дежурным войскам СССР было по-показному всё равно, что Годзилла творил вне границ громадной страны (хотя он был уверен, что между собой военные делали ставки), но переступи он границу, и сначала бы его обстреляли штурмовики, затем поставили синяки тяжелой самоходной артиллериeй, может быть испытали на нем какой-нибудь новый вид химического оружия, и напоследок могли бы прикончить атомным ударом.



Годзиллу начало мутить. Через какое-то время мучений он наклонился, и его вырвало. Целым кабаком со стоянкой и посетителями.
Годзилла опустился на четвереньки и медленно пополз в лес, где замаскировался во впадине, предварительно удостоверившись, что до ближайшего озера недалеко ползти.
"Ну и зачем эти люди? Существо не может пообедать в удовольствие, как они превращают всё в извращение с травлей, да ещё и пытаются потом при помощи своей примитивной магии выставить заснятое напоказ..."
Годзилла рыгнул ещё раз, выпустил зловонные пары от переваренной каши из людей, их пищи и спиртного, и задремал.

Piglet's Preserves Adventure

Piglet's fondness of mushrooms was typical. Back in home Europe, grown-up pigs loved larger, rather more smelly and more prominent mushrooms. Back in home Europe, there were lots of those.

   

But since Piglet had moved to a forest just east of Alaskan coast, he had to subsist on whatever the nearby town's stores had.

And mushrooms there were.

Yet one tragic day, a flood destroyed the county's mushroom farm.

So the local seller had to stock imports.

Mexican mushrooms.

Overjoyed after a long break with no mushrooms, Piglet bought a few jars.

   

Then he'd popped open a couple.

He decided to try one for taste, just to make sure those were real mushrooms.

Then another one.

Then a third one.

And then the very hot taste of jalapeno, marinated with mushrooms and carrot bits, came off within his mouth.

Winnie.rtf (English translation)

Winnie-the-Pooh woke up in the middle of the night. Randomly? Not.

So it seemed (actually, that is what humans had made a habit of: they say "...seemed"; in reality, he belonged - not randomly at all).

Muttering, gathering speed, at last, singing - his favourite mutter-song - "Hackers in the Night" - the bear-cub stepped (or rather, stamped) close to the modem.

The modem was joggling lights like a Christmas tree.

Winnie stared at the modem, gaze unmoving, for a small eternity. About half a minute of clock time elapsed.

The bear-cub approached his workstation (called "Hunnybunny", an old SGI Octane, bought at a sale on lucky occasion, expenses split with Rabbit).



Were they being scanned, or? Or were the numerous Rabbit's relatives planning to visit them?

He booted up a sniffer.

Packets started dropping into the window, one after another. Right on - letter headers.

"Might any one of them bring at least a small honey jar?" - thought the bear-cub.

"Although, almost all of Rabbit's relatives were two-three times his tall, or even smaller than that."

Piglet used to be happy when the numerous yet courteous Rabbit kinsfolk came, leaped and dragged themselves to visit. Usually at least someone brought acorns; not that many, but of rare kinds, of which there weren't any in the forest.

"Yet honey they won't deal with. Especially with bees they won't."

With those thoughts on his mind, Winnie-the-Pooh typed "shutdown -t 0 -l" on his special (increased-button-size) keyboard.

Oak-and-honey-paint-finish Octane started leaping across the runlevels, turning off daemons.

Winnie sighed, left his old mail server gathering letters, and dragged himself to the kitchen.

Winnie.rtf

Винни-Пух проснулся среди ночи. Случайно? Нет.

Так ему показалось (собственно, это люди привыкли говорить "показалось" - на самом деле - он был причастен - не случайно).

Бормоча, разгоняясь, уже напевая - любимую бормоталку - "Хакеры в ночи", медведь подошел (точнее, подтопал) к модему.

Модем играл огнями, как Рождественская ель.

Винни просмотрел на модем, не отрывая взгляда, маленькую вечность. Прошло где-то полминуты часового времени.

Медвежонок подошел к своей рабочей станции (по имени "Hunnybunny", старому SGI Octane, купленному по случаю на распродаже вскладчину с Кроликом).



Их сканировали, или? Или это многочисленная родня Кролика собиралась в гости?

Запустил нюхач.

В окне посыпались пакеты, один за другим. Так и есть - заголовки писем.

"Может, кто-то из них притащит хоть баночку меда?" - подумал медвежонок.

"Правда, почти вся родня Кролика раза в два-три меньше его ростом, а то и того мельче."

Пятачок обычно бывал счастлив, когда вся многочисленная, но вежливая родня Кролика приходила, прискакивала и приезжала волоком в гости. Обычно хоть кто-то, но приносил желуди - немного, но редких сортов, каких в Лесу не было.

"Но мед им не под силу. А особенно пчелы.'

Так, размышляя, Винни-Пух впечатал на своей особой (большекнопочной) клавиатуре команду shutdown -t 0 -l .

Окрашенный в дубово-медовые тона Octane поскакал по runlevels, выключая демоны.

Винни вздохнул, оставил старый почтовый сервер подбирать письма, и поплелся на кухню.

Kid's Tale

Once upon a Time there was a homeless dog.
Maybe he even did have a house, but a home he did not.
Mayhap, he even used to walk on the rear paws, like humans were used to (and humans don't know how to walk their way when born, though puppies do).
And cats... Well, cats might like here and there. They could make any spot their home. Dogs, even when they're out-and-out (and all the more because of that) won't easily mark a spot as theirs.
Dogs need life. For everyone, not just within themselves. Which was why smart dogs strengthened their life.

The Desert Sketch

Originally posted May 14th, 2005
That desert... Oh yes, that desert! Such a cruel hit for someone accustomed to mild climate - at first! Wild heat during the day, dry, pondering heat, they said it was better than the wetter, tropical oven-like exhaustion, but! At least when there's water in the air, the water inside one's own self makes contact with the air. The dry air, smell-less, deserted air of high altitude, and that heat - enough to drive one insane with lack of anything. Breathe, yes, the breath was getting lost at first because it had little to breathe with.

And at night, the temperature dropped to the other side of the thermometer (the trusty Swedish model, Celcius-scale). Quickly - from dry frying pan around everywhere - to dry cold of a food-vault.

So! Still, the desert! Oft-times it had the luring of a snowdrift - as they used (back home) to tell tales of weary travellers who stopped feeling anything, despaired, and slept into the snow.

Back in the North, one could lie on the earth and become one with it. Here, the pulse of earth's life was hidden below the soil's crust, or did ooze thinly through whatever survived in the desert. Actually, the desert was full of earth-life, it was thick of that, but it was different, it was raw essence, much like essence of a woman, but not the refined, lively vegetation of a Northern forest. It was full and raw. Engulfing, suffocating in its blindness.

He's gotten accustomed to making mental notes for himself and speaking (and explaining) to friends, to those same friends he's gotten tired of conversing with, to those same people he's grown weary of during all those days of hermitage - to those same people who were torturing now by their ineptitude, but their lack of tact... Ah heck, whoever they used to call savages, could be way more understanding than this... these, those civilised greysuits.

Of course, few of them actually wore grey suits.

Story 2 (...continued...? .)

Originally posted May 14th, 2005
The lulling grave-like cold was luring inside, into itself; tranquility after tranquility, a forgetting that ever increased.

Misery loves company... True, common misery. But not misery that's become inner truth. Not inner truth that is miserable, living in misery itself as a truth, truth of a trespasser.

Of course, truth was out there, and life was out there too; not life in the broad (and ever-widening) sense (sense, and not meaning); life, the kind of which is vitality, life lived through and submerged into, life grasped by life, vitality in thought which loved because of feeling what it grasped. In short, the only true life: understood, loved, and living inside one's own self.



















But, why? And what for? And whom for? For oneself? Oneself should've existed in the first place. And he did exist, perhaps (mayhap) a few years ago. But having a solid "oneself" isn't exactly knowing or understanding or even living - that solid "oneself" which most folks have is but a fossilising accumulation of their desires and frustrations, their inabilities of being - for one cause or another, and usually not-blaming, not-obviously-logical (logic! what they call logic! isn't it strange - trying to rely completely on that auxiliary function which still has to be fed visions and understanding, and perception of the world - without a complete perception of what they're trying to digest through logic?).

Incomplete, yes, that's what these folks are. What's the point of searching for any-notion within them? Mayhap take an imperfect (or rather, incomplete, incompleted) idea or understanding, and develop them into some-notion full?

That's too expensive... Besides, they've existed a while ago... What happened to them? They did live within, and they did live helpfully and happily...

Ah well, tea. Some warmth. Its effects have been decreasing for the Bloke, for the Bloke in focus of this story's camera. Warmth, ah yes, warmth, that warmth which the Chinese call Ji.

It was some Chinese observer... Strike-through that word, not observer, philosopher... Ah no, not philosopher! For sanity's sake, the biggest trouble with these folks is that they try to impose their thoughts constantly on someone who may make meaning of those thoughts, but what kind of an impoliteness and brute savagery that is! They're faithless... Ah. O, back to the Chinese. Would it be not wise to call that life-savant? Nay? Well, then, there was a life-savant in China who said: "Of all life's pleasures, tea is most important". 'tis true: a properly prepared tea, and a properly drunken tea lives in harmony with one's life. Ingestion... Ah, Latin. Again, a language so olde. Let's say so: drink-in. Yes, drought. Wetted drought, constant drought, it's been there ever since she... Ah, there always had to be a she, hadn't it?

And so the thoughts waned from left to right, in ever-dissolving loops... East to West, mayhap? Didn't they have to be and become? Who knows... Certainly not the already dummy-like character who's been just introduced...

The Tiny Sketch

Originally posted May 14th, 2005
Mid-nineteenth century, somewhere around Texas or somesuch place. A completely abandoned, small, tired town of miners/folks trying to work their way towards some money.

A small tavern-like place, half-dirty, half-maintained in the tedious fashion of people who work out of drilled habit, not out of living.

A tired, dirty, disillusioned guy slowly enters the place, barely dragging his feet. His looks are so despairing - it's clear he's lost all interest in anything reminding life; he's barely existing; he doesn't seem to have a grasp or concatenation with life.

Nobody has ever seen him in town, but it is clear that the guy hasn't been in touch with anyone for a long, very-very long time. So much so that he seems to have lost pretty much every notion that usually keeps people together - notions that people consider their own.

The bloke is lifelessness incarnate; so much so that one of the tired, sucked inside-out by work guys stands up and points his gun at him. In a flash-moment, the bloke shoots him off a perfect line-of-sight, without aiming with his eyes proper. For a couple minutes, he seems alive; but only in the looks. He soon drops back to his stillness, all the while the on-lookers are in shock. The first to come back to half-broken reality, another scared, stiff like a stone, miner-looking, tired, sucked-out-by-everyone-and-everything-including-his-job-which-is-the-only-that-keeps-him-going(somewhat) guy, points his revolver at the tired bloke. The bloke, having felt the threatening sight, shot the threat right at the palm of his right hand.

He seemed a bit more alive then.

He moved to the bar and sat there, asking for a tea in barely audible voice, one that would've appeared humble. He slipped into his barely-consciousness again. Until the tea was brought...

...