Лесная газета

Issue № 9
September 2017

The father, driving a work machine, says: — All the wheat is in corn bugs, time to treat it.

Weirdly bright and high sun. The yellow ears of wheat in the fields. Grains are eaten by ruinous corn bugs. They are a firm grip over the heavy field; so many of them that it can be seen from a galloping vehicle.

The turquoise flash on the gray horizon.

Worms on wet sand: unbearable, pungent, agitated, love smell.

What makes a certain being a tree.

The blackness of its burning, the speed of its smoldering. How brightly the water burns, how the air smolders inside the fibrous lash.

The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire, as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame.

Dark green. When earlier I was drawing a towering military antenna neatly fastened to the ground, men in nice work uniforms sat next to me. I didn't hear what they were talking about. They smoked and left.

Does not make a certain being a tree.

Friends arranged a nursery and a market for gorgeous organisms on their estate. They have nocturnal, sensitive, thoughtful plants that I adore now. Smooth, moist, careless animals with trembling throats, which I adored earlier.

But I only look at the bird. She has a pointy mercury plumage, a proportional yellow beak, yellow rims around the eyes, and a neat black crest on the head. I really want this bird. I'm trying to figure out paperwork to take her with me, but I'm stuck with Australian English.

I leave distressed. By the hot road, loam colors allure me. Soon I don't want the mercury bird at all.

The quiet twilight street opens to the water on both ends. The two boys silently carry large loudspeakers. Maybe they want a party.

There won't be anything better. We will never move faster. We will never see clearer. We will never know closer.

Two girls walk along the water's edge, they say: "Good evening." They have short haircuts, discuss a popular philosopher and try the water temperature. Slippery clay and sharp stones are at the bottom.

All day, from morning to evening, mild wind and smooth water. By dawn, the calm is complete. You can hear the car of a passing cruiser.

I fiddled with the bumblebees, but in the dark, they quit their job. The ants remained, but in the dark, my machines quit their job.

There are many copies.

At the top of the hill is radar equipment. Below is a dungeon, a hideout. The door is hung with red cloth, behind it is a yellow light, dance music, loud voices.

Two crows chase away a flock of young gulls.

Waves, ripples, sharp glares, heavy opacity — for water. Elastic weightless skin. For humans, this is language. At night sailors fight near the liquor store. A cozy round dent in the thick glass. Glass like an eggshell. My little chickens. Blood on limestone. They disabled infinite ocean shadow.

There are green horsetail and rose petals in the dry reed litter. Two black eyes — two black spiders, flexible, silky, with straight, acute limbs. For a long, not the slightest movement, then a rapid cascade of shiny eyes, breasts, abdomens, paws. Shutdown, body calculation, cascade, shutdown. A mouse peeks out of a wild rose bush. Consciousness may be completely different, but the device will be similar.

Buzzing like a swarm of motorcycles, I will be carried, body after flying body, lifted up under these beautiful and loose elytra we will hold behind our backs. In the end, I will also glow, like a purple ground beetle under a stone. When I took her out of the net and spread her majestic wings, my heart began to beat, blood rushed to my head, I was closer to fainting than in moments when I was threatened with death. All that day, I had a headache: so great was the excitement aroused by this.

Black flames in the night sky. The alder grove rises up in long tongues. Rotten leaves, muddy water, mushroom hives rise as a cry. A seagull without a wing hides behind a stone. Around everything gently sleeps, the island is rotten and crawling high. Hard black tongues, boneless hands, in the night sky moving above the trees. Muffled blows are added to the multi-body cry. A unit of three heavy military helicopters flies through delicate arms. The cloud breaks up, immediately collects its lashes. You can't be around, skin is eaten, gather things and run away. Then devours for a month more.

The Forest Journal is initiated and supported by Ilya Dolgov More details at the front page.

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