He held on for almost two months then brought from Yerevan a sack of second-hand garments for the village kids, a kinda payoff for his unfulfilled intentions, and I’ve never seen him any more…

And when the shy and soft first snow coated the ground hardened by the first frost I got it first-hand that possession of a tin stove for wintering, yet having nothing to stick in and kindle inside it, would feel unquestionably cold.

So, I grabbed the ax bought in the process of the mentioned ceiling-remodeling and started off to the woods…

On the slope grown with mighty beech trees, something certainly collared me and brought to the tree as large as any other yet almost put away by the deep cave in the trunk, close to the roots.

Maybe, the dryad dwelling up in the tree got sick and tired of the insufficient nutrition through the defective trunk and called me? No way to figure out why and how it still managed standing upright.

Hacking the trunk leftovers through did not take long before the tree fell with the bye-bye snap-and-crackle.

However, the fall was intercepted by a neighboring beech. Which situation called for climbing the felled tree and cutting it into separate pieces, for then to fall again and reach the pretty askew ground, one by one now: the crown, the pillar, the foot.

Some exquisite picture! No fucking circus will ever reproduce! The Magic of Ax Acrobatics!

The audience got frozen by awe, and horrified admiration in their seats. Houdini! Houdini! Cast a look from wherever you are at the poor wretch, one of the crazy dare-devils of you followers!

Hugging the tree up there—so too high!—with just one hand, uses he remaining one to cut the other tree—felled but not fallen as of yet.

That’s a hell of an uphill job, fair ladies and kind gentlemen! Sure it is!

The man is shedding hot sweat and frightened farts, when another of cut off pieces threatens to pull him off and down in their final plunge…

After all of the quartered tree landed around the supporting trunk, the executioner dropped his ax down and descended clench-hugging the freed prop…

When on the slanted ground, my hands a-shaking and the knees a-trembling after all the strain up there in the Circus Sweat Dome, I felt the urge to go pee-pee, unzipped the fly, and craned over – what the heck! Where’s my doodle?

Instead of the dick I used to, there stuck off a willy of a kindergarten kid.

That’s why in the pictures on the ancient Greek amphorae depicting sportsmen and warriors, this particular part in the man’s frame was drawn so dinky – your body cannot concentrate in all directions and for all purposes at once.

Not that I really needed a dick in the empty wood on the winter eve, but pinching that medicine dropper out from its sheath of the muffler of non-artificial skin with your trembling, inflexible fingers is a hard nut to crack, which is not a circus any more but some fucking porno thru and thru…

The next day, they snatched me to the village council, from midst the classes. The chairman started his bullying. In Russian but with a noticeable Caucasian accent: why da tree da cut? Dey uud prison you.

– Felled, – sez I, – as to winter thru because.

And the wood watcher was also present, Dad of Garrick from the 4th form, putting a good word in, in Armenian, that the tree had been long since kaput already.

In short, the following day they gave me a truck and a couple of young hands to fetch the cut over to the one-room two-storied house. True, on the way some part of the booty was dropped by another house too, yet the remainder still lasted to the next summer…

And the 4th grade was the most populated grade at school, by the bye. Two boys and two girls. But later Arega’s parents moved to Armenia and took her over as well.

So, when the The Portrait… was finished, I did not instantly switch over to Ulysses but felt some inclination for that rascally scribbling once again.

The payoff on the try amounted to 11 pages, however, not a sequence to what had stayed back in the gray notebook, yet from a period ten years later.

Well, I saw they hit it off well, the pages, and only then I plunged into Ulysses because there remained just 9 years from the stipulated stretch.

Thus I put my self-made doodling off, for fifo remains fifo in the Caucasus too, and if you want to get it indeed what it could mean then ask your system administrator.

However, as it turned out, my own writing was put off for 29 years and till some absolutely offbeat village…

What the heck! See? To find the point for a start is just half the battle because the question of equal vagueness and importance is to shut up in time. A lil bit more and this here blog installment would call for a whole keg instead of the routine bottle…

* * *

Bottle #4: ~ The Skedaddler ~

And all that does not mean as if this here Island will serve you anything at all delivered on a dish embellished with a blue rim of great artistic aptitude and value. Damn no! Here you’d better keep your expectations in check, firm and proper. Don’t drip your mouth water in other guy’s property without knowing first who’s who in the turf…

Just for the record, the Island is Uninhabited, if you think fit to remember, and besides, the over-abundance of blue color or, say, pink, not to mention the dazzling mixture of them with other darlings, would cause a closer attention to you so as to catch on which way your orientation slants, and that’s why the like services stayed far back in the past, that sweet, innocent, naive, and fucked up with all kinds of deficits past, the strictly straight past which wouldn’t tolerate your finicky nitpicking about rim color and stuff but slurp whatever was ladled out and dished to you, asshole!

To wit, don’t ever count on any dainty dishes here. Yet, on the other hand, they won’t take you for a bird of their feather, them those faggy parrots in their horny, epidermal outgrowth all aglow and—look! ah! dearie cuties!—see those whoopee tails on them?! So big, and long, and simply yummy!

Besides, no, not everything is here in heaps and plenitudes. The calendar, for one, is lacking in the Island, in toto. Though yes, who gives a fuck smack bang among the everlasting tropical summer.

Or is it winter, after all? Well, you feel the seasonal switch okay, but it is hard to say: we are drenched with Cancer’s non-stop winter or Capricorn’s unceasing summer rains right now?

Then, secondly, watch your mouth about “fuck!” because OBPS (check Bottle #1 in this here blog for explication) perlustrate your bottle messages and when you come to talking in the natural way they substitute your words with asterisks like this “****” and that’s their way to fucking filter your stream of conscience out and expose it as an unnormative lexical anomaly. So if you take aim at presenting human emotions whole-hog then go and break the orthography rules.

Now, who turns out a real lover and who’s the asterisked perverter of the language alive?

How come them OBPS guys see thru thick ocean waves plus dim bottle glass? No problem at all. They keep a computer program out there to run down and eradicate from texts the very roots and footing.