He was staring at himself in the mirror… he was staring at himself in the mirror, helplessly trying to bring into focus his mentally projected self-image but instead, he could see only gray, foggy, shapeless substance, the kind of substance that is suppose to be a human. That in itself was not helping a herd of already pessimistic thoughts, running around his head like sheep forgotten by a sleeping herder.

“…How is it possible? Why is the emptiness, which should serve as a quintessential, equalizing yet basic definition of stability, ripping my guiltless head apart with its tornado of an eclectic misbalance? How is it possible, feeling this dominating and immodest pressure of potential, not to be able to see destination or even direction of this movement? What is this… an explorative wondering? A desire to create is almost unbearable but all possible anti-matters, all possible powers are trying to push me back into my jar – the jar, where circumstances are comfortably nurturing me…”

“…I am living with ever fading anticipation of something bright, something positive, cheerful, wonderful, magnificent, remarkable to happen, skipping days, weeks, years but nothing awaits me. Nothing, except the emptiness, with which I am granted since the day one. Does it mean that this is all in my head? Does it mean that I am a slave of my own imaginary, randomly located world?…”

He was staring at himself at the mirror. Life seemed to be as still as The Time itself. Those questions… those undetermined particles of every thinking process… an annoying pattern that grows around you like a branchy grape tree, cultivated by hand of caring winemaker.

And this where I should be summarizing myself? I cannot be summarized. I am not a guy next door. I am not down to earth. I don’t like running with my dog on a beach. I don’t even have a dog! Cannot care less for football season, whatever football it is. I am not interested in cozy mediocrity. And I believe, drama is boring and counter-productive.

Instead, I love racing my heart to the top of Palomar mountain, pushing my car to a roar – it’s a thrilling ride with some thrilling views. I love when music matches my mood… Jazz, House, Classical, Heavy Metal – whatever the best soundtrack for the moment. Listening to Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine” as I am writing this. I don’t watch TV but I love movies, those short-lived injections of emotion.

I believe, life is about testing your limits and catching your reflections in other peoples hearts. I believe that each intimate connection is always a catalyst for another self-discovery. I value honesty, sense of humor, confidence and common sense. If you are cute, fit, cultural and intellectually challenging, I would love to meet you.

She is an amazing woman. She is the woman I fell in love with from the very first time I saw her… Ah! How rare those moments, how precious. Why… why do they always end? Trying to be an optimist, I think, once experienced, they are trying to free up space for the new ones. At least this is the kind of self-delusion I choose to exercise. But how wasteful and hurtful those ends usually are… No choice, I must let go – dwell on this will lead to self-defeat. No matter how deep we have drowned into this abyss of love, rehabilitation is inevitable. Non si può tornare indietro! Avanti!

I feel blessed and grateful for my Path… not in religious sense but rather as a human being. Surely, I ate my grain of salt but I would never gained this wisdom and sensitivity towards the world around me as much as I did. I have truly loved and have been truly loved – what else can a man dream of? All this male posturing comes down to nothing – only finding yourself in other people’s hearts can bring true happiness, true satisfaction. Every romance, every moment of understanding, every sense of unity, every gaze into each other’s eyes brings nothing but assurance that there is a point in life. My only hope is not to loose this state, this sense of being tuned in…

Recently, I have developed a religion fatigue. Growing older, I am starting to recognize one of the most important blessings of my Soviet childhood – forced atheism. All those seventy-something years of Soviet Union, “they” have been patiently and methodically burning out any ideas or memories about heavily religious past of Kiev’s Rus, eradicating centuries of worship and tradition. Rare followers aside, the majority of the population have been living under the spell of Communism, paying attention mostly to their own achievements or achievements of the country in whole. More steel! More coal! More wheat into the bottomless silos of the Motherland!.. silos of the General Secretary.

Perhaps not the atheism itself – taken radically, it’s no different than any other religion, but rather an ability to review, analyze and agree, partially or fully, with any doctrine… or none. This unclassified set of beliefs really serves well for reality check, adding to personal balance and, at the same time, rendering the affected others as delusional. It almost feels like God must exist for those who lacks enough capacity to develop their personal strength or unwilling to recognize challenges and face the reality on their own, without His helping hand. Seems like not everyone is born be a champion.

And everything would probably be OK if not for the Church. Why in a world would I need often perverted middle-man to talk to God, especially the kind of God that loves everyone? Just as Santa Claus, he is so accepting, so welcoming… he should have no problem talking to me or anyone else, anyone should be allowed to sit on his lap. What a fraud. What a delusion. The finest example of superb mind control. Bravo!

A low budget masterpiece by Francis Fold Coppola, the film delivers extremely well crafted, slow and carefully unfolding analysis of humanly uninteresting but remarkable for his obsession with privacy professional surveillance expert Harry Caul – the most complex performance ever delivered by Gene Hackman according to many critics.

“You see, I would be perfectly happy to have all my personal things burned up in a fire because I don’t have anything personal. Nothing of value. No, nothing personal except my keys, you see, which I really would like to have the only copy of…” explains he to his landlord.

At first, he appears as a man who is assured in his own invincibility and proud of his professionalism, as he commissioned by The Director (Robert Duval) to record a conversation between two people somewhere in San Francisco, the city he has recently fled from East Coast to, hunted by guilt and sorrow… his previous assignment has lead to a death of innocent people.

While working on the assignment and lecturing his business partner Stan (John Cazale) on how uninvolved, how faceless, how autistic this business must be to the very subject of events and recordings, he finds himself engaged into the conversation he has recorded between Ann (Cindy Williams) and Mark (Frederic Forrest). This fatal deviation from this professional self-ethics established by the lead character himself, leads to complete crash and destruction of what is left from so-called life of Harry Caul.

Getting tired and aggravated by cacophonous instrument tuning, you are loosing meaning of the preparation. You are sitting there, waiting impatiently for opus to begin but instead, you are getting fed these meaningless exclamations of nothing. More and more you are getting saturated by this mis-balanced audio jungle, and sense of deception rises, gradually elevating you to a state of autistic-like absence and isolation. Drowning hopeless in the bottomless abyss of nonsense, you are wondering if change will ever come, if sacred manifestation of talent will ever be revealed.

And here it is. As it starts to fill flawlessly all available cavities of your soul, you immediately forgive. You are no longer a lab rat, you are no longer a powerless slave, chosen to be tortured by a supreme and being observed while at it. Warmth of certainty and light of assurance surround you and grow simultaneously in all directions, proclaiming nothing but ecstasy of understanding.

First resisting to its unconditional pressure but opening more and more, you are sliding side-to-side in its cradle, trying to achieve the ultimate climax on each and every swing. Further… coordinates of reality become amorphous, vague, and blurry, leaving you with fading away foundation and reason for sanity.

This ever ending carnival of emotions demands complete obedience and you feel that surrender is your only chance to survive and be rewarded. Continuously transiting to the unknown levels of pleasant autism, you are no longer yourself – you are helpless part of the whole, part of this well-orchestrated exposure of excellence.

Unexpected. The fatal ax of silence cuts off oxygen of expectations with its needless and irrational rudeness. Strong urge to scream is burning your throat in weak attempt of protest, to return to the Eden of sound… or at least not to acknowledge the End. But, nothing will save you; nothing will lead you to the salvation, to the clue for this upsetting charade. No matter… the hurtful but inevitable contrast of silence is final…

I.S. Bach: Adagio. Concerto for Oboe and Violin in C minor.