Tag Archive for 'time'

Requiem for a dream, or Quantum future of Humankind in Infinite Universe

Published by
boris kislitsin
 in dream. 2 Comments

Right, I know it’s not exactly a memory. It’s not even a dream, but rather a requiem for one. I used to think that we live in infinite Universe. I do not have any scientific background to come up with theories or statements, but as a human being I reserve my rights for beliefs. Be it belief in Jesus Christ the Savour, spirit of improvisation, Santa Claus, infinity of space and time, or belief in myself, belief is an integral part of any sentient self-reflecting being.

This belief in infinite Universe was simply based on the fact that we can’t measure it.

Of course, we have data that our Universe is 13,73 billion years old (as of the last week :) ). So we can imagine a ball 13,73 billion years in radius (given the speed of light 299 792 458 m/s and length of 1 year as 31 556 926 seconds it will give us approx. radius of 13 730 000 000 x 299 792 458 x 31 556 926 = 129893055103132202840000000 meters… so you know). But, as it took me about 2 min. to come up with this calculation, this radius became roughly 3597509496 m bigger.

We reached the point there I got bored myself. The numbers are just too big too mean anything. If you go shopping and see something cost 3 pounds 99 pence you’ll think it’s 4 pounds, right? This is what called approximation. So 129893055103132202840000000 + 3597509496 and counting… is a number I can’t imagine. It’s something like Bill Gate’s fortune, numbers beyond my grasp. I think that approximation of 129893055103132202840000000 + 3597509496 is infinity. There’s no need for me to operate with such numbers. I remember reading some anthropological reports about some aboriginal tribes in Papua New Guinea. They had numbers 1 to 5, and then groups: 1 to 5 too, so everything could be shown on 2 hands.

20 would be 4 times 5; 25 - 5 times 5 . Everything that was over 25 was “many-many”, uncountable, infinity.

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Unknown Beauty

Published by
Fran
 in dream. 3 Comments

Unknown beauty, sleeping, calmly breathing
Next to me
Turn around and there is nothing apart from imagination
Breathing, sleeping calmly, unknown beauty
Soft his fingertips on my upper lip
On my upper lip soft his fingertips
Walking down the imaginative landscapes, getting caught in the armpit, exempt from doubts, just climbing the bewildered mountains, following the satin path and drowning eagerly into the sea of sensuality and delight.
Just like this during the daylight. 2 o’clock in the afternoon while outside this passionate filled place, people are walking up and down, filled handbags.
A glance of the eye spies her lipstick, a packet of chewing gum against the bad breath and her cigarettes. The box still showing marks from a night out. 078821410 call me.
Buzzing headaches and the usual lack of memory. Call Jim, John or Keith. Or was it Jade she went to school with during her 1st year in Blackpool Junior School? Mhh…never mind move on to the picturesque colours of yellow, green and red- peppers from Holland and juicy tomatoes, next to the red and ocker painted apples and the leak withered at the ends starting to become yellow.
Quickly rushing through the crowded market street and following the movement of people, listening to their conversations on events of the week passed. Yes Kate came over for the weekend from Birmingham together with her estranged husband. It is so lovely when the kids come back to the former home they left for a slice of apple pie and a cup of tea once every 2 years. At least they write a card when they can’t make it. The other usual ones for Easter, Christmas and the birthday. If they do not forget you can expect one for Mothers Day as well- how lovely.
Meanwhile somebody else is catching the smell of grilled chicken and the sound of Bob in the ear…emancipate yourself from mental slavery. Cheers another pint downed, drowned the boredom, simmering down on a Saturday afternoon waiting for the evening and dawn to come.

Hours later my thoughts are carried away, out of this room through the cold window glass into cascading clouds, roaming above these endless roads people walked, passing the streams of imaginations people thought into the ocean of the dark, sliding, slipping away
Just the wind whirling up my hair, soft strokes my skin whit its cold touch but feeling warm inside when coming home. And crawling back underneath the blanket that is even warmer. A light smell of vanilla and perspiration. Moving a bit closer to feel your heated body and wolve into these strong arms. Vanish and disappear just for a fraction of an hour. Sensing that it is spring and everything starts to blossom.

Fran

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My life as a tiger

Published by
boris kislitsin
 in memory. 5 Comments

Once there was a Bengal tiger in Russian zoo. It was born and spent most of his life in a small cage. He had just enough space to make a couple of steps, jump, make a couple of steps and jump again. Then the tiger had to turn around and repeat the same routine in opposite direction. I have read somewhere that usually in wild a grown up tiger needs something like 16 to 20 sq.km of habitat, otherwise it get stressed. I wonder how much space a human being needs. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, that particular tiger lived in a cage the size of 16 or 20 sq.m, and, obviously, was very stressed. When such an animal as tiger get stressed, it feels uneasy, and can’t rest. That tiger was restless. All it did from dusk till down is pacing the cage. 2 steps, jump, 2 more steps, another jump, turn, 2 steps, jump, 2 more steps, jump, turn around, 2 steps, jump… You have the picture. Naturally, tiger’s living conditions had to be improved. The story goes in the time just after the collapse of the Soviet Union and total collapse of everything on the 1/8th of planet’s landmass, circa middle 1990’s. As it happens in times like this, some people used the situation to the full, and made crazy fortunes. If you ever tried to get from 0 to 100 in just above 3 sec., let’s say on a powerful motobike, you can figure out how it is. Somebody, let’s call him Mr.S., made it from living in a shared with few our families run down apartment in sleepy suburbs to amassing a fortune Imelda Markos could only dream of, comparing to each a budget of a middle size African country is just a pocket money, in a couple of years time. So one day this Mr.S. visited zoo by chance. He spent a good deal of time in front of this cage with Bengal tiger, watching it moves. Maybe he was in nostalgic mood, maybe this cage reminded him the apartment he grown up in, or probably deep down he was a very sensitive person. Some say he was bored, some he was drunk. Whatever the reason, Mr.S. was touched. He went to the zoo director straight away, and asked him, how much money zoo needs to improve tiger’s living conditions. I know this story from the first hands, as a friend of mine, non compromise poet and alcoholic, worked there as a zookeeper, as it was one of very few jobs he could fit himself in. Next day the construction has begun, and soon everything was ready for the grand opening. They set an artificial landscape, so tiger could have a little lake to bath, a cave for him to hide and a little forest resembling jungle; that small provincial zoo somethat tripled in size. In attendance of TV crew, press and Mr.S., they brought in crane and lifted the cage.

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Змеи и шляпы

Published by
boris kislitsin
 in memory. 0 Comments

Есть такая игра, змеи и шляпы. Я играл в нее в детстве. Бросая игральные кости на доску, нужно переместиться на какое то количество клеток, пытаясь достичь Идеала, и при этом не быть укушенным змеей и не наступить на шляпу, которая возвращает игрока на определенное количество шагов назад, как учитель возвращает к столу ученика с невыученным уроком. Идеал можно передвигать: делать дальше и ближе. Шляпы раскладываются игроками. Дороги к идеалу также прокладываются самими игроками. Есть дороги простые и есть длинные, есть легкие и есть сложные. По ходу продвижения по одной из таких дорог я наступил на подобие такой шляпы, подложенной мной самим какое то время назад. Единственное, что вместо фишки на поле, меня переместили во времени, и мое существо оказалось вне контекста, как рыбешка, выброшенная на парапет канала в незнакомом городе. В изъеденном молью времени отеле, пропахавшем кошачьей мочой, куреными сигаретами и бездельем; в лифте, в котором чувствуешь себя пойманной канарейкой; на кипящей шумом жизни улице; в вагоне метро, залепленном рекламными плакатами и галдящими пассажирами; на скамейке у моста в парке, засиженной мухами и прохожими; в очереди за дешевыми сигаретами, контрабандой из Филиппин; в кафе, устававшись в экран телевизора с сериалом на непонятном языке, я не могу избавиться от неприятного чувства, что все происходящее происходит не со мной.

Я существую как часы, показывающие несуществующее ни в одном часовом поясе время. Все, что принято называть жизнью, все, что я вижу, слышу, чувствую, я пропускаю через себя без разбора, как провод пропускает ток; все представляется не как оно есть, не в том состоянии, в котором оно пребывает, когда я его не ощущаю, а принимает гротескные формы, искривляясь и коверкая и себя, и свои отражения, превращаясь в несуразицу.

Boris Kislitsin 

 

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