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Macht Frei. Complaint book.

-“A noun”- it’s terrible, think about it! You’d better be an adjective; be, for example, something white. Snow, celestial manna, rice from Indian fast-food, a jasmine flower, flour- like false dew on the leaves; are we of use or of harm- who cares? It’s we, who’d have to live, who’d have to get on, and, actually, who’d have to die are we too, not some irrelevant people, merciful masters, lords and ladies. And if turned out that we do live, it would be nice to be something white- OK not always, but maybe just through this summer, only to know how it is: something white. White. Funny, eh!.. Or, I say, something black. A cat in dark room, fuel for the boiler-house, or, could be, a bar of dry Chinese ink from souvenir shop, where nothing is serious. I like to think that dry ink is diluted with tears, but not ones of misery-nonsense-malice, just tears that run over your cheeks if you stare at the fire for long, long time without blinking.
“White-black”- it is clear it’s stupid. It’s not obligatory, even ridiculous- ‘white-black’. Kindergarten, ABC-book of feelings! But don’t you want to be not ‘someone’, just like something; not a noun, but an inessential adjective- at least until the autumn, and then at once become a verb, but it, I guess, is too much, unreasoned impudence, unrealizable fantasy, a castle in the air.


Macht Frei. Encyclopedia of myths. Book1 (A-K).
Chapter1. Aaron.
‘… calling a tongue-tied Moses for his prophet’s service, Yahweh tells him to take Aaron as his translator. In the myth, Aaron’s role is secondary: his destiny is to take part in Moses’ mission.’

The strange doom of Aaron reflected in my destiny like in a square of turbid mirror, useful only for hasty shaving in the morning. Like my predecessor, I am not tongue-tied; like him, never in my life I had my own “great mission”. Negligent, awkward, but devoted translator, for last couple of years, biting the tip of my tongue for persistence, I translate into the language of words the ecstatic mumbling of my invisible “tongue-tied Moses”, who is walking around me almost since the day of my birth. The meaning of his inarticulate babble sometimes is not clear even for me. An old-fashioned poet would have called my Moses a “muse”, but what kind of muse can this ill-tempered frantic old man be?!
Like anyone, who devoted all his life to the creation of texts, I do not mean anything on my own, and my stick will never turn into a snake in front of the amazed pharaoh’s eyes if I try to do it by myself. But if only my indomitable Moses tells me to- not ten but hundred Egyptian retributions would be put onto the first person I see, with me not dropping a single tear on his account. I hate compulsion and get furious even from my friend’s attempt to interfere into my life, but when my Moses walks by, I turn into an enthusiastic servant. I am ready to paint grass near the hedge and split into two if only he wishes it. I can hold the hands of my boss, master and emperor not for hours- for centuries: let him pray to his mysterious rigorous God if I can’t. His tongue-tied muttering reaches the sensitive hearing of that power, by whose will the Universe breathes in and out, while my distinct speech is only for human ears- that’s the way it works.
And sometimes, when winter nights seem to be too long, I feel the heaviness of unsure sands of time, I’m drowning in, with my whole body; I, the powerful slave, who turned into snakes not a thousand of sticks, beg fate only for one thing: not to find out in the end of the route, that there was no Moses at all...



Max Frei
Complaint book.
Small novel form nakhs’ life

Announce.

In a difficult minute, when it seems that your whole life is no good, do not curse your fate- neither aloud, nor even in your thoughts. A man from neighboring table in a café, a girl, smiling to you in the underground, a smiley old lady will be happy to live your life through instead of you. And you will never know about it happening. They call themselves NAKHs. They’re always around us. Braveness and will power to accept your fate whatever it is- is our only protection against them, but it always works.

STOP I*
*Here and all the way further as names of chapters names of “stops” of the moon are used.
Moon stops are 28 stars and star groups – districts of ecliptics, about 12,86º. They separate the movement of moon over the round into 28 parts; each of those is related to average everyday movement of the moon starting at 0º of Aries.
Fragments of interpretation of this separation were taken from Arabian, Indian and Chineese astronomy and astrology. We do not know the whole study of it now. Maybe all these systems were based on Babylonian “Stars on the Moon’s way” astronomy study. According to haldean study, influence of the moon is defined by its position in its stops. Since Medieval times the system of stops was widely used for magical and astrological purposes.
All information about moon stops, including this comment, was taken from the book “Astrological dictionary” by S.U.Golovin, Harvest publishers, Minsk,1998.
Author does not claim these events to be precisely corresponding the described movements of the moon; furthermore, attentive reader will soon pick up that personal calendar of characters is either ahead or slow to the moon one.
Author thinks that it doesn’t matter at all.

Sign-Aries
Degrees- 0º-12º51'25''.
European names- Alpah, Alnat
Arabian names- ash-Shartpan- “two-marks”
Rising stars- beta and gamma of Aries
Magical rituals- spells for love and hatred.

“Bitch- I’m thinking.- Stupid bitch. Stupid. Bitch. Stupid bitch. Stupidbitch, bitchstupid. Bitchstupidbitch. Stupidbitchstupidbitchstupid.”
Thoughts roll like glass balls in fist. Slippery, cold, heavy. Clang, hitting. It’s nice. Hence, there’s some relief for me. And no harm for anyone else.
Of course, I’m not going to call her a stupid bitch aloud- it not what she’s paying to me for. She pays me for clear eyes, patronizing look, mystical fleur and other breathtaking stuff.
And that’s a deal.
I’m smiling to a stupid bitch. With condolence. With understanding. But with condescension too- as if saying “That’s not the worst I’ve seen. Everything will be fine, like will all the normal people, but better, I guarantee.”
She believes me. She feels better with me. I hope she’s not going to cry on my shoulders. It’s usually polite people who come to me. Well trained, safe creatures. Not predatory, they just eat everything. Each other, if you’re asking about it, too…
Oh, get lost, you hairy creature.
There’s nothing extraordinary happening. Not a consultation- free money, lunch break.
A forty-years-old fake blonde woman Helen had already stopped listening to me. Even stopped asking questions. Understood at last, that no questions can reunite her troublesome significator* with her darling King of Wands. Only a love potion, maybe, but I don’t do things of this kind. I never finished Spiritualist Academies on Orthodox Space Energetics courses. Never even started, thanks God.
At least she can have a good talk, which she is doing right now. Tells, thinks aloud, complains, curses. Makes distinct sounds, she does, my beautiful Helen. Sounds distinct, to say. Good girl.
All I have to do is to listen. If she had had two higher educations instead of her half-secondary, she’d have been sitting not in my room, but at psychotherapist’s- with the same effect, though. It’s the way it works: one always gets what he wants. But most human beings want not happiness, not canonic calm freedom even, but an occasion to complain. There are exclusions from this rule, but they treat me (and my colleagues, psychotherapists) like plague barracks, never getting closer than a mile to my room.
I think, they’re doing the right thing.
Sometime absolutely hopeless idiots come to me, but Lena, to treat her right, is just some kind of wonder. I haven’t seen people like her for a long time. They usually become victims of street gypsy crooks in very young age and loose all the interest to mantical practices forever. Natural selection, you can say that again.
Despite everything Helen had overcome the negative experience of teen age and came to me. And because one hour of my life is bought, I’d have to stand it for some time.
It’s only a half of an hour left to wait- that’s nothing. Piece of cake, if only not the tooth. At the low right there is a stupid senseless bloody bone thing. Under a crown, if I understand it right. My diamond darling damned torturer. Oh, damn…
Rubicon is crossed and no way back, all I can do is suffer silently. I cannot take painkillers in presence of a client! It’s not in my rules to show weakness. May not wince, put my hand on a pulsing with pain jaw, or complain- nevvvvvver. It’ not good, not in God’s way. Desacralisation, that’s how they call it. No one will believe a fortune teller with problems, even if they are as insignificant as a toothache.
And their faith in me is my bread.
Honestly, I don’t eat bread. Only black rye bread in extreme cases and tasteless crackers made of rice, buckwheat and other don’t-know-what grains.
And not a single word of butter.
Nothing to do: hereditary qualities of mine are no good. My mother, reaching her sixties, was comparable to a small mountain. My father was not a grasshopper too.
And too much flesh in of no use to me. My hands must be thin like bird’s leg, cheeks must be sunken, like that of attractive tuberculosis- struck girl, and all other body must be negligible. As soon as my cheeks go red and round, my face turns into usual nice face, which can be sympathetic, but will never make anyone tremble. Alas, I have no witch’s crooked nose, so fake black curly hair, real black eyebrows and perfect laughter like owl’s does not help much.
That’s the way.
At the same time I’m listening to another chapter of endless saga of difficult doom of blonde Helen. I listen to her plaintive twittering with half of my ear- everything as usual, plus tooth, minus heart. That’s nothing, I can stand it. Sometimes add half of word, not more than expected. Even grinning sometimes- fakery of course, but better than nothing. She wouldn’t rather see the difference and I will find a way to deal with my conscience- an extreme case by the way.
Oh, this bloody extreme.
The toothache doesn’t kill me, but apparently does not make me stronger. What are you going to say for this, mister Nietzsche?* No answer? Then, goodbye, you’re the weakest link.
*-reference to quote from Nietzsche’s “So did Zaratushtra say”: “What does not kill you, makes you stronger.
Thirty minutes of my torture to freeze down like shivering jelly, turn into eternity, but can’t yet. Ran out. Hitler kaput, hooray.
-Thank you very much,- Helen twitters, wrapping herself into sheepskin coat. –After talking to you even my toothache faded. It started hurting, while I walked here, but here it stopped.
That’s how it turns out to be. Misfortune comrades, you can say that again.
-You had toothache? - I’m asking with condolence. –You should have asked me for a painkiller.-
-I thought it’s inappropriate… Furthermore, it stopped immediately.-
Inappropriate, yeah. To ask for a tablet. Stupidity comrades- that’s about us for sure.
At last, she leaves and I’m rushing to the chest of drawers. There, in the dark, not the satanist amulets are kept, whatever some unaware people can think, but just the painkillers. Of which I’m going to eat three tablets at once, so it works for sure. That’s the black magic, have never been blacker.
Tear apart the paper package and open mouth to meet my savior, remember that if you need to swallow that much rubbish, it’s better to water it. Turn around, seeking the bottle of mineral water: it used to be around in the morning, but now it feels like in has hidden itself. Get out, you partisan, there’s no escape!
And then I understand, that there’s no need in water any more. And no painkillers. My tooth changed its mind. Not calmed down, lowered the volume or whatever, but just stopped causing pain, as if it didn’t screw up all the previous consultation.
It reacts onto my grumbling without understanding. If it could, it would have been proving that there was nothing happening at all. As if it only seemed to me.
OK. If it gives a promise to behave, we’ll pretend that really nothing happened. My crown is the best in the world, a perfect couple; its union with the tooth is everlasting. They’ll live together longer than anyone, even me. Especially me.
And I see nothing bad in it. The opposite variant seems much worse to me.
And if I’m so lucky with my teeth and there is no one willing to chat with the Fate around, I can demand some coffee from Marina. According to our agreement, I can get up to three cups a day. I had had only one today, so there is some point in existing yet.

***

I walk to the bar counter, searching for a key in the pocket from my cell. Key is on its place, so, I can shut the door for no Alice to get to my “wonderland”. I don’t really care, but see no point in disappointing the child. No bats in the corners, no skeletons in the wardrobe, no exotic snakes, no even banal mandrake root. Only a couple of tarot decks, a laptop, as old as prostitution, and pretty aged black sheepskin coat, the most demonical thing of mine. And the heaviest one.
It’s five pm, but the café is nearly empty. Such an amazing day is this Monday. Every Monday evening is the blessed time, when it’s empty even in Moscow coffee houses. As if the beginning of the week kills ability to move in people and they lay in their offices, surviving this Monday paralysis, silent and restless, only clanging their teeth plaintively, waiting for simple miracles of forthcoming Tuesday.
But Marina is happy to see me. It boring in here, and I’m a kind of entertainment. And climbing the chair in a long “uniform” skirt is a kind of entertainment for me.