Collecting Moments

I need massage for my mind, And soul and heart Just relaxing - not thai for a hundred baht. My shoulders are fine, So as feet and spine But inside's a bit rough. Could you please press here, but not so tough? No pain, no gain - As my teacher said, A small “therapy point” And the thoughts won’t spread.

Life in the Irish countryside. Art is being greatly appreciated...

Listening to the silence of nature in the sky-roof temple of humans... ***************************

Just a walk in the cliffs With the train underneath And grey clouds above And the fish and the chips In the end of wet trip As a sign of love?!

A haunted house The folks around here say it’s a haunted house. Nobody has moved into it since it was built and nobody would even enter it today unless you are a foreigner like me. For me it was only "haunted" by the beauty of light and shadows playing around; by the wind blowing through and the silence of nature taking over the space…

I draw with a charcoal, play my jaw harp, write poems, read and walk along the fields with cows and sheep. TWO YEARS AGO when I left my computer programming job I couldn’t even dream of such luxury. During this time I wandered around abandoned villages in Cyprus, said hello to wild donkeys in Karpas peninsula, got to a Phoenician island with no phoenicians, tasted the best olive oil in Sicily, enjoyed Frida Kahlo art in Rome, explored a huge abandoned factory in Greece, showed my face on security cameras of all the synagogues in Istanbul, tasted an Armenian lavash just from the oven, got robbed and got my money back in Georgia, saw all Armenian monasteries from the Parajanov’s movie, got into every derelict cottage in Ireland, got my unemployment benefits in Israel, survived Ramadan in Kurdistan, sneaked into an abandoned amusement park in Berlin, visited Basque Country (neither Spain, nor France), learned basic Spanish, got lost in the Love Valley in Cappadocia, hitchhiked around Cauc...

Сказки и звуки изумрудного леса...

Как трудно просто жить И спать без снов В реке не утопить Весь груз из слов, Воспоминаний, мыслей, фотографий — В торфяник бросить По полям развеять И ничего не сеять. Вставать, дышать, Искать звезду над домом Топить углем, Но тот этюд, в котором еще вчера так много было смысла — Оставить. Черными руками Не трогать белый лист И не звонить... Как трудно просто жить.

That morning the sand storm brought Santa. The one I’ve seen in foreign books - in a red suit with long white beard. - I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier on. I just would like to wish you a happy Christmas, - he said. - Thank you, - I didn’t know what I was supposed to answer. - How are you? Where are you from? - The desert. - Oh, I heard it’s a beautiful place. Mrs. Claus was telling me the other day that it’s all sand there. Is it? - It is. - You see, all we see really is snow. It’s all white over there. - All we see here is sun, - I said laughing. - I wouldn't like sun, I would melt in the sun. Now, I’ve heard you’ve been very very good. - Really? - Yes, so what would you like for Christmas? - I’d like to see the world. - Oh, that’s great. - Can I stay, Santa, in your house? - I have to ask Ms. Clause first. And you’ll have to share the room with loads of elves. Do you like elves? - I think, I do. And I want to see the snow. - Oh, that’s easy. But now ...

This is Bob, 70 years old. He buys ruins and turns them into beautiful atmospheric houses working all alone. "Tomorrow there will be a kitchen here..."

I loved the colors in that shop. All those orange, red, black, blue little drops that Mary used to put in my hand. Seven of them - for each day of the week. My favorite candy was the pink one - it was sour and sweet at the same time and I left it until the last day. It reminded me of Mary. She lived in a dark cold house but always met us with a tender, beautiful smile. She had lovely kind eyes and told us the same story every time we dropped into the shop before going to the cinema on Saturday. I've forgotten it unfortunately. Last weekend I was in town and went over to buy sweets for my kids. Mary opened the door for me, smiled and said: “Remember I told you that my father had the first bicycle store in Roscommon…”

Just the beauty of time growing through...

Hiked 23 km today to see the Ballycowan castle (XVI c.). A middle-aged man opened the gate for us. He's been living all his life in a 500-year-old cottage on the farm next to the ruins. No wife, no children. All alone he's become as integral part of history as the castle in his backyard.

Заброшенный дом Вера в нём — Крест на стене. Покинутый дом Прошлое в нём — Портрет на столе. Оставленный дом Память в нём — Игрушки в шкафу. Забытый дом Боль в нём — Стекло на полу. Пустой дом Ветер в нём.

It might not look that impressive but it's the eighth wonder of the world - the Irish bog :)

My friend told me the other day that when her sister was dying she cried and said "I never got to be me. I never got to be me". And I immediately remembered what I heard from another woman in completely different circumstances also somewhere in Ireland... GO HOME Go home and tell your husband Go home and tell your kids Go home and drop your burdens on the floor in a pile of the laundry Tell them who you are, who you were, who you could be... (© Tina Pisco) The more I stay in Ireland the more I realize how damn lucky I am to allow myself to be me. And that's why it's time to move on now...

The day started with a hitchhiking trip from Clara to Roscommon. Two lifts, 70 kms, one hour... I got out of the car on the main town square and immediately someone greeted me. Are you the guy from the “Melting pot” pub? - I asked. - Yes. - Do you know Sean? Sean O'Neill? - I do, yes. Where are you coming from? - I just came from Clara hitchhiking. I'm Katya. - Oh, hello Katya. Sean told me a lot about you. Feels like a real melting pot... And I've only been here for a month! Gerry Jago - сгусток ураганной положительной энергии, смеха, счастья. Живет настоящим, и каждый момент с ним живой и настоящий. Такой ирландский буддист :)

Hitchhiking from Clara to Clonmacnoise Today the three of us, an English man, a Chinese girl and a Russian immigrant from Israel, hitched along a dead empty country road from Clara to Clonmacnoise. I honestly thought we'd never move from that spot. But... after fifteen minutes a car stopped. It was an old lady who said she didn't like to drive people but we seemed to be too nice to be left stranded. She was going only ten kilometres down the road to see her daughter, a hair-dresser and a wife of a local detective. When we actually arrived at her daughter's house, a young lady greeted us and offered us a lift all the way to Clonmacnoise. So we just got out of her mother's car and got into hers. Clonmacnoise, an ancient monastic site and a cemetery, turned out to be a horrible place with a new tourist bus arriving every thirty minutes and an entrance fee of seven euros. But since I'd already spent one month in Ireland hiking mostly on private farm lands, it was just ...

Ирландская пустыня изумрудно-серая. Дно древнего моря - трещины, промоины, впадины. Белая лошадь. Поющий ветер. Как в кадре Тарковского...