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Phobia, go away!

OK, many people write here about their memories and dreams.
I would like to tap in subject of fears or phobias. Most of the phobias can’t be really traced. Some are probably imprinted in us. Let’s say, we don’t like snakes. I saw a snake first time when I was about 20, for instance, but remember, what when I was a kid, I always tried to sit in an armchair with legs up on the seat, as I was afraid what a snake would bite me from under. Even then I thought it can’t be possible what a snake would be on the 7th floor of our block of flats in a harsh winter, 20 Celsius below zero. But I couldn’t bring myself to put my feet down. I could spend a whole evening imagining scenarios of how a snake could sneak under my armchair.

Anyway, I suppose most of phobias are triggered by something in remote past, early childhood and long time forgotten memories. I can trace one my phobia though, as I can recall what happened to me.

I travelled to one remote city hitchhiking. I was very young, completely broke and wanted to see a girl I was in love with. To cut it short, she did not fancy me much and her boyfriend did even less. They lived in a massive hostel inhabited with hundreds students at that time. She had a kind heart, so instead of kicking me out I was fed and passed to a friend of hers who happened to live alone in a spacious room in that hostel. This friend of her was a girl of enormous size. She spoke in a deep low voice which could shake a glass and was torturing me all the way down along endless staircases and corridors with tales about her romantic adventures.
To be honest, my mind was occupied in that moment so I couldn’t remember what they were about even the next day, do not mention years later.

Eventually I found myself in her room. It was filled with hundreds of little objects. Everything was of dwarfs’ size. The girl obviously tried her best to fit in that space as many tiny objects as possible. Everything there was organized by a principle “the smaller is the better”. She had dolls’ furniture and cutlery, small carpets, miniature stereo and lots of stupid useless toy objects which she apparently was collecting.
It was too much… Simply beyond my capability to digest it. I left her place at once with a splitting headache.
That’s how I recognized that I have a psychological trauma about everything little.
Small things are just freaking me out; I don’t like dwarf pets, dogs and ponies either.

I wonder what I can do with it. Well, some people could say that phobias and fixations are the integral part of our individuality. Phobium ergo est. I’m scared, therefore I exist. Johnny Depp is afraid of clowns for instance. They are freaking him out, he said in his recent interview. I’ve met a girl while ago who confessed she is afraid of balloons. What’s wrong with clowns? What’s wrong with fucking balloons? Why do I have to feel uneasy surrounded by small objects? I tried to google my phobia, but couldn’t find even a specific name for it, so there was no way to find out how I can deal with it.
It’s not a serious problem though, just a little annoyance.
I have learnt anyway what one of the best ways to deal with phobias is to talk about them. That’s what this post is about actually, so you know.

abraxus

Other posts by abraxus

Love

I have recognized my last posts have been pathetic. Probably it is because for me important is not what happened to me, but the thinking I am having at the moment. I shouldn’t hide myself behind though, as I am still not a pure thought. There’s no point in keeping a list of what I am and what I am not. We need to start somewhere anyway. So I am a painter, if I can separate being in personalities. I’ll better say, I am a painter too. Painting for me is a very personal thing. It is suffering, and a pleasure too. I struggle because it is never perfect, it is never as you expect it to be; and enjoy it for the same reason. That’s why it is a very personal. I always feel like being naked when somebody’s else sees my painting. They are the mirrors, so I mostly hide my paintings, as dog hides a bone and always feel shy to show them. I trace my life through paintings. These traces are of more importance and relevance for me than numbers detaining years. This thing happened when I was doing that painting, or in between of those ones. I am not very productive, because I paint when I feel like, and I feel different every day. As every painting has a story and every painting represents time, I want to flip through my archives and post paintings what I find with stories they belong to. If the collection of my posts is something what represents my life, I can’t make it complete without paintings anyway. It’s enough of explanations. As I wanted to write today about deeply personal matters, I will start from love.

love2

Love (Portrait of Mayuko Ogawa, circa we just have met). Continue reading ‘Love’

Other posts by boris kislitsin

An illustrated post, regarding Dr.Lorenz, animal behaviour and choices we make

There was one scientist called Mr. Lorenz quite a while ago. He was a peaceful man and naturalist, one of the founders of behaviourist theory for which he was awarded a noble (The Nobel?) prize. He studied birds’ and animals’ behaviour and discovered imprints, or programmed patterns which all of us follow.

Illustration 1: portrait of programmed chicken

8 differencies

In one of his famous experiments he separated ducks from their eggs. He fed and took care of the new born ducks. They accepted him as a mother duck and after they grew up even tried to copulate with his shoes. Red wellington boots, named after an English aristocrat with a surname starting with a capital W, not the ducks of other sex were the object of their lust. I know what you are probably thinking about. No, I am not going in that direction. I am not going to make a parallel with “as seen on TV” culture, e.g a pair of trainers, named after Greek goddess of victory. I will not bore you with my thoughts on how Goddess Nike became Nike TM. I will not spoil your pleasure of coming up with allegories yourself. I will merely stick to the subject of this post, which is memory.

Continue reading ‘An illustrated post, regarding Dr.Lorenz, animal behaviour and choices we make’

Other posts by boris kislitsin

Father

Many times I was about to sit and write a very personal memory: about my father; but every time something stopped me from doing that.

Death underlines life. If life is the sum of our memories and experiencies, where should be total. My first teacher taught me how to do it in primary school. Write numbers you want to add right under each other. When you put them all, draw a line and add numbers in each column. Under the line there will be one number, “total”. It’s easy to say, but not so easy to do when it comes to a life of somebody you know well. It’s amazing, actually, how scarce my memories are. He was a very kind and simple man. What I remember is just little things: my father caught just in his underwear on his way to toilet late in the night; his shaking hands when he hold my newborn son for the first time; he is sleeping on a sofa in living room, covering his face with a newspaper. Little, random and unsignificant memories. I remember him reading me his poems impromptu, or running around our house in a search for a pen. He would write his poems on anything: old receipts, shits of paper, newspaper clippings… he would leave them anywhere: you could find them in the kitchen, in the toilet, under the bed, on TV, on the floor, between book pages… He was a hardworking man, killing himself with a hell of a job (that was my first impression of it, when he took me there: hell, as he worked on a metal plant. Fumes, dirt, unbearable heat and red liquid metall running under the overpass he had to stay on long shifts). But he would always say: I’m a poet. Indeed, he was. I never was fond of his poems and everybody in my family annoyed by them, though. He, probably, didn’t have a talent, but there was no shortage of enthusiasm and commitment. He stuffed with his poems a pillow case, and then few shoeboxes, and then plastic shopping bags when he ran out of boxes. Nobody wanted to listen to him. Continue reading ‘Father’

Other posts by boris kislitsin