Translated material
The return of Saturn
"All Magic Comes with a Price!"
"Once upon a time"
"Fear your desires, they can come true."
"Fantasy Island"
I.
I had long felt that something was wrong. Sometimes an inexplicable longing rolled suddenly. She showed somewhere in the backyards of consciousness, like a pre-heating cloud-deaf, lilac, distant, and it seemed to me that I felt the time flowing through me. In moments of strong happiness, a terrible thought suddenly appeared that happiness is certainly going on right now. Passes, leaves, disappears.
“Saturn is returning,” the osteopath told me in one of the sessions when I told her about my condition.
- Where is it returning?
- Returning to you. This usually happens at 28-30 years, but this is a conditional framework. The planet returns to the position that she occupied at the time of your birth.
- And what will happen when he will return?
- Change. Liberation from all superfluous and unnecessary.
I was very alarmed, but immediately reminded myself that astrology is a dubious science. However, returning from an osteopath home and complaining of some small troubles, I suddenly heard from a neighbor-a serious young scientist who could not suspect the hobbies of the starry sky:
“This is all Makara crocodile.”
- Who?
-Today is the 23rd lunar day. Its symbol is Makara crocodile. Almost everyone does not work out on this day - my neighbor answered everyday and even somewhat melancholy and went to draw up a pointer to Pushkin’s works.
Opening the Internet, I read that the 23rd lunar day was a day of a rampant of vampires and bloodsuckers, and finally became convinced that it was so when, after a couple of hours, a woman in the store said in a telephone tube, that the mother-in-law now drank all the blood from her.
“Makara crocodile. And Saturn is returning. Lord, where are you? " I thought before going to bed.
Soon, the neighbor said that she was moving away. I rushed to look for new housing, quite quickly found a good option, but its price was great for me. My man said that I should not worry about anything and he would take additional expenses, then he helped me transport things and the next day disappeared from my life forever.
All what happened struck me so that I went in a daze for a week, and then got down with a terrible sore throat. After another week, finally realizing himself in an unfamiliar area, in an uninhabited apartment, without a neighbor behind the wall, without a loved one in my life, almost without money and without a voice, I realized that Saturn had returned, and MacAara crocodile seemed to swallow the sun. My life was in the power of evil forces.
II.
At first, I stubbornly struggled with otherworldly influence by traditional methods: I strengthened the immunity, cooked, meditated, and in the evenings I read how the stubborn captain Mc Vir made my way through the typhoon. But as soon as I cured the sore throat, as the tracheitis began, and it was worth curing the tracheitis, how to lay my ears. Hair was cut in a fit of despair.
When the disease finally retreated, my best friend Latvka came from Riga for several days and the first thing with her inherent straightforwardness said about a new haircut:
- I do not want to say that this hairstyle does not suit you, but you definitely became less feminine.
I mentally added the loss of femininity to all my misfortunes and, leaving Latvya back to Riga, again fell off with a temperature.
I lay in bed for a month and during this time I finally convinced that I couldn’t cope with Saturn on my own-new methods were needed, some secret knowledge. Therefore, having strengthened a little, I turned for help. I asked the advice of beautiful, rich and smart people in my environment - how they lived their hard times. “Successful people should know something,” I thought. And it turned out to be right.
First of all, it turned out that almost all of them go to psychologists, psychotherapists and psychiatrists and half of them are sitting on antidepressants. Those who do not go to specialists go to fortunetellers and repeat saving spells before going to bed.
“I still cooked needles in the saucepan until the prosecutor broke my leg,” a acquaintance-appropriately informed me.
A friend from Germany said that in order to restore strength, it is necessary to “collect waste energy”, and advised in Moscow a guru that could teach this. Yoga, meditation, exotic massages, herbal decoctions, kabbalah, acupuncture, personal growth trainings and even current therapy - all these practices recommended me as effective ways of resisting evil fate. I began to bring and send books about the magic of home space, the spell of good luck and gratitude, the magical art of managing financial flows. I agreed to try everything that would not require money, and first of all I decided to take off my damage. I was convinced of the need for such a measure by the most serious people in my environment - accountants and lawyers. I was told to pray and daily write in a notebook requests for forgiveness to everyone I could annoy. The list turned out to be impressive - in gloom it seemed to me that the world hates me.
“I still cooked needles in the saucepan until the prosecutor broke my leg,” a acquaintance-appropriately informed me.
“Forgive me, an evil grandmother from below, which complains to my air conditioning,” I diligently brought on a piece of paper.
The written one had to be burned on the street and dispelled in the wind. But I did not dare to breed a fire in the yard, under the windows of the local ATS, and carefully burned pieces of paper in a saucepan in the kitchen. Then I slipped onto the balcony, but at the same time the neighbor started washing windows. It’s not that my intentions to dispel the magical ashes exceeded in their madness to wash the outer windows on the 12th floor in a bike, fluttering robe, but for some reason I felt embarrassed. I put a saucepan with ash in the kitchen and decided to wait for a deserted hour. But the next few attempts were unsuccessful - the ATS officers ended endlessly in the courtyard. “Then go prove that I did not try to curse the police,” I thought dullly, sitting with a pot in the kitchen. I was not sure that in the administrative and criminal codes there is still no article for the scattering of witching dust over the departmental territories.
Finally almost at night, when the courtyard and balconies were empty, I emerged into the dark sky and hastily knocked over the saucepan. Witchcraft dust slowly settled on the white cladding of the balcony of the evil old woman from below. The next day, the district police officer came to me, and with household magic it was over.
In the hope that the sun will correct my health, I went on vacation, which greatly exacerbated the already difficult financial situation, so upon returning I set about the book on money management. This book, written by some meticulous German scum, called for clearly formulating financial goals, identifying the desired income, drawing up a plan for paying debts and, most importantly, change its attitude to money. With grief in half I painted some tables, following boring instructions. The author argued that as soon as I do all the exercises, ideas of increasing income will be sprouted in my head.
The next magic ritual failed me. The book demanded that I put a large bill in my wallet and never spend it. On the way to the ATM, the idea of writing the book “Not Consha where it itching” for allergies and creating an “untouchable eclair” originated in me.
The bill lived with me for a week until I burst into a household with a firm intention to buy a thermometer for measuring the temperature of meat, a mold for square eggs and a piece that cut out the core in tomatoes. Pizza knife! “A bath cap or death! - shouted my inner voice while I rushed around the store. - Anything! "
The bill was spent, I brought home towels with a cherry and an ugly yellow vessel. Putting the vessel on the table, I burst into tears. The book did not work, and the feeling of loneliness and disorder in the destroyed Saturn life intensified.
In a panic, I grabbed the leadership of a Japanese woman who filled the Internet with videos on how to fold t -shirts and clean in the closet. In the book, she argued that cleaning should be done once in a lifetime, and also convincingly proved that order in the house would certainly follow the order in life. “Your things are the past,” the Japanese woman wrote, “and, having dealt with them, you will feel relief.” Most of all I was struck by the advice to fold socks so as not to cause them suffering. Judging by their appearance, my socks definitely suffered.
“Then go prove that I did not try to curse the police,” I thought dullly. I was not sure that in the administrative and criminal codes there is still no article for the scattering of witching dust over the departmental territories.
Thanks to this book, I threw out dried mushrooms, from which I was going to cook soup in winter for four years, a book on financial flow management, no one needs men's t -shirts, blackened pots for burning witchcraft papers, bed linen, a yellow vessel and a bunch of clothes that I could not buy in a right mind. Having produced all the manipulations with clothes, I squeezed out over and over again into the dressing room along a huge, colorful, folded fourfold and intercepted by the tape of the mattress. At some point, it dawned on me that it was necessary to throw him away, but the mattress was heavy, and I decided to take it out the next day. The book warned that the thing left for later can play a fatal role, but I dismissed this thought. “The main thing is that socks do not suffer now,” I thought, lovingly looking around neat rouletics in neat boxes.
When it was time to go to bed, I found that I threw out all the bedding that I had, and the latter before the salary went to the towels with the cherry. The new apartment - beautiful, clean, stylish - suddenly seemed to me naked, cold, faceless. I went out into the dressing room, took off the tape from the mattress and stretched out on it right there. The back straightened on the familiar surface, and I plunged into a heavy and sad dream about life, which ended and will never return. About life where someone loved me and someone lived with me. In which socks suffered and Saturn had not yet hung over my head.
III.
Some success of the leadership of the Japanese woman initially inspired me, but I still could not force myself to return to sleep to the room - the old mattress in the dressing room pulled me to me every night. I lay on it, recalling everything that had lost, cried until the morning and then almost could not work. The action of Japanese magic soon completely weakened: dishes accumulated in the kitchen, and all socks migrated into a basket with dirty linen. I realized that I needed a new means of protection from the destructive influence of Saturn, and turned to another book - the bestseller of an American who promised to attract prosperity, love and harmony into my life. This book suggested a 28-day program during which it was necessary to perform magical exercises. The word “magic” after everything experienced strongly embarrassed me, but I decided not to stop, especially since the book was permeated truly a Christian feeling - magic meant gratitude, which should be tested for fate and people for everything that you have. The more grateful you will be for what you already have, the more you will receive in the future, the book said. I was bitterly realized that I was not grateful to fate for everything that I had before.
Some magical exercises had to be performed daily, others only once. Among the regular tasks were to draw up a morning list of ten points “for which I am grateful today”, as well as an evening ritual before going to bed, when, holding a pebble in his hand, a person should remember the best event of the day and say thanks for it.
Most of all I was struck by the advice to fold socks so as not to cause them suffering. Judging by their appearance, my socks definitely suffered.
Of course, there was no stones after cleaning from a Japanese woman in my house, so I went to the sandbox in the yard. The earth was unpleasant after the rain, and, having picked up the first hard com that came across, I quickly returned to the apartment and went to wash the stone in the bathroom.
But it was not a stone.
The next hour I felt everything that a person who went into the courtyard for a magic mineral, designed to change his life, should feel, and brought a hardened piece of litter to the house.
Before going out into the sandbox again, I drank half a bottle of wine and growled well. The next find was definitely a stone. “What a terrible one,” I thought, looking at him in the entrance. It was the most ordinary uneven stone that no one would ever keep in his house, do not possess it really wonderful properties.
I put a terrible stone next to the bed and from this day I began to perform rituals.
Some exercises required training. So, in one of them it was necessary to thank fate literally for everything that surrounds you. I went out onto the balcony, looked at the police department, sighed and returned to the kitchen. The next day, I again went out onto the balcony, looked at the police department again and uncertainly thought: “But at night it’s not scary to return home.” On the third day, I raised my head, looked into the distance and saw the blue huge business center - beautiful and sparkling, like a city of the sun.
But the most difficult is the exercise for me, in which it was necessary to clearly formulate my dreams and desires. I suddenly realized that my aspirations are too abstract and it is difficult for me to answer questions about which in my life there are not enough people and things, how much money I need for happiness and what I want from work. I was unsteady wrote that I want a new bathroom rug and some extra money. And for some reason she added: "Responsible to a man." For some reason, at that moment it seemed to me that all previous men in my life were terribly irresponsible.
The book claimed that desires would begin to be fulfilled literally right away.
So it happened: I suddenly turned up an excellent part -time job, and my friend offered to introduce me to the most responsible person she only knew - firefighters.
"Works!" - I was amazed.
Inspired, I installed an application for dating on the phone and enthusiastically began to experience fate daily. In the morning I wrote in a special magic notebook that I want to talk about books, and already in the evening I went for a walk in the park with a ruined Bukinist from New York. “Beautiful”, “kind”, “with me on the same wavelength,” I listed in search of the ideal, but soon I was surprised to find that for some reason only one epithet took into account the magic of life, and not all together.
“I really like female legs,” the interlocutor explained. “I would put your foot in my mouth.” “How does a person thinks for himself? - I wrote irritably to my friend that evening. “I have 39th size.”
At some point, magic showed its opposite side.
“It is necessary that I have to wear it in your arms and be at your feet,” my mother once prompted me, and I, not without irony, wrote her into a notebook. Two days later, with whom I enthusiastically corresponded all evening, suddenly said:
- Only I have one oddity.
"Ha! I thought, pushing the terrible stone and fitting on the mattress in the closet. - Only one! "
“I really like female legs,” the interlocutor explained.
“Not so bad,” I answered.
“I would put your foot in my mouth.”
For a moment, this picture stood in front of my eyes, after which I deleted the conversation.
“How does a person thinks for himself? - I wrote irritably to my friend that evening. “I have 39th size.”
IV.
For some time I continued to entertain myself with dates, but each new meeting was more heavier. People seemed stupid, boring, strange to me. The ominous grandmother Anya, who acted in her traditional role, seriously influenced the situation: she has always been in our family the person who knocks from below when you lie at the bottom. Grandma called my mother and said:
“Well, you won’t get your grandchildren anymore.”
From these words, everything shuddered, and three generations of women yelled and hated each other for a week. Furious to the limits, I grabbed the book, promising a meeting with, forgive the Lord, "Mr. Perfection."
This was the last book that I was handed to fight Saturn. And I did not want to take on her at all. Firstly, past relations were still making themselves felt, because of which I suddenly began to sob in the most inappropriate places. Secondly, once I already started it on the advice of friends, but I threw it almost right there, because in the first chapter the authors said: if you do not like your nose, you need to do plastic surgery. I did not like my nose, but I considered myself a modern young woman who understands the conventionality of beauty and the value of natural health. In addition, the authors claimed that the female should be a long -haired one, and I was still experiencing the loss of femininity due to hair loss.
- Beshley, I tell you, this dull book works. And she is not for a fool, - a friend from Germany insisted. As evidence, she cited her fate: just a year ago, we were eaten together with cheese in Milan, and now she is already in Bremen, with her husband and a screaming baby. Yes, and the fool to call an iron woman who worked on the market of domestic fuel oil for many years, the language, of course, did not turn.
The book was horrified to be boring and old -fashioned. Последнее признавали и сами авторы, но главный посыл их как раз в том и был — когда речь идет о замужестве, работают только старые методы: никогда не звонить первой, поменьше болтать, к сексу переходить минимум через два месяца после знакомства. Каждое новое правило вызывало у меня все более сильный протест. И авторы, словно чувствуя мой настрой, подливали масла в огонь. «Вы думаете, что эти правила подавляют ваш интеллект и яркую индивидуальность? — спрашивали они. — Вы опасаетесь, что перестанете быть собой? Но мужчинам это и нравится!»
Больше всего меня впечатлили советы «не хохочите, хлопая себя руками по коленям» и «ходите уверенно, словно знаете, куда идете».
Я выходила по утрам на балкон и смотрела на полустертые хрустальные башни вдали. Сатурн меня больше не пугал, я расслабилась в его гигантской тени и даже ощутила в ней что-то отцовское.
Не без труда дочитав до конца книгу и добросовестно уяснив основные правила, я вновь погрузилась в приложение для знакомств. Не оставила я в стороне и «магию четкой формулировки» — как описала я для себя принцип действия предыдущей книги. Мать моя всегда говорила, что муж должен быть хозяйственным, всю жизнь ругалась на отца за то, что он не был хозяйственным, а кроме того, в ванной у меня сломался механизм для подъема пробки. «Нужен хозяйственный», — записала я в свой магический блокнот, зачеркнув все предыдущие пожелания. Все равно всегда работало что-то одно.
Спустя неделю на свидание меня пригласил фермер Константин.
Я четко следовала правилам: была таинственна, немногословна, тонко плела интригу и за несколько дней совершенно задурила бедняге голову.
«Смотри, Бешлей, приедет чувак на тракторе», — хихикали подруги. В день свидания под окнами встал большой черный джип. Константин оказался невысоким крепким человеком с жилистой шеей и мужественным подбородком. Мне сразу понравились его руки — очень спокойные, с аккуратными круглыми ногтями. Он открыл передо мной дверь и помог забраться в машину.
— Люблю большие машины. Друзья надо мной смеются. Говорят, как на тракторе.
Я сдержанно улыбнулась.
В дороге мы обсуждали музыкальные предпочтения. Оказалось, Константин часто бывает в консерватории, чем я, к своему стыду, похвастаться не могла. Была затронута тема осенних выставок в музее им. Пушкина, и я достойно обошла все острые углы. Никто из моих прошлых мужчин на выставки меня не водил.
Константин выбрал недорогой, но очень приятный ресторан, уверенно прошелся по винной карте. Когда был сделан заказ, мы обсудили особенности декантеров (я не без труда вспомнила, что так называют графины для вина). Наконец вырулили на тему литературы, и я немного расслабилась.
Книга велела ни в коем случае не грузить человека своей работой, личными неурядицами, а также историями из жизни. Я сдержанно произносила одну фразу в три минуты, что было очень удобно, потому что у меня по-прежнему закладывало уши, и с большим достоинством кивала все остальное время. Константин нравился мне все больше, и к концу вечера я готова была поднять тему неисправности механизма ванной затычки у меня дома, но вовремя остановилась — книга не велела звать мужчину домой.
— Знаете, вы совсем не похожи на фермера, — сказала я, уже немного хмельная со второго бокала.
— А вы думаете, фермер — это такой мужик с мотыгой?
— Нет, но… не знаю даже. Я как-то была во Франции на ферме, где разводят коров. Как, кстати, называют таких фермеров? Так вот, хозяин был… ну реально такой дядька с вилами.
Константин пожал плечами.
— Я люблю работать и сам, но сейчас больше занимаюсь обустройством дома. Пора думать о семье.
Книга велела ни в коем случае не поднимать тему семьи первой, и я про себя порадовалась. Константин рассказал, что в где-то в Подмосковье у него большой дом, который, впрочем, требует еще улучшений, и что нужно закончить обработку участка.
— Дом построил, дерево посадил, осталось вот…
Тут он как-то очень тепло на меня посмотрел, и я покраснела.
Я представила себе этот дом — большой, деревянный, теплый. Веранду. Porch. Вспомнила, как значительно говорил один мой знакомый большой писатель: «Сижу на даче, пишу роман». И тут же вообразила себе рабочее место. И яблоневый сад. И скамейку. И степенного Константина с какой-то тяпкой.
— …А я так, кажется, и не спросила: что производит ваша ферма? — пробормотала я, вынырнув из фантазий.
— О, я не сказал? У меня несколько производств, но сейчас я в основном занимаюсь разведением гусей. У меня есть гусиная ферма.
Господь свидетель, я не хотела дурного, но слово «гуси» почему-то ужасно меня рассмешило. Я вдруг представила, как встречаю своего прошлого мужчину и говорю ему, что живу теперь на гусиной ферме.
— То есть вы… гусевод? — спросила я, еле сдерживая смех.
Слово это — такое нелепое, глупое — прозвучало, мы уставились друг на друга и вдруг поняли, что дело кончено. Потому что он теперь гусевод, и это никак нельзя отменить.
— Простите, — сказала я почти с болью, тут же нарушив правило «не хохочите, хлопая себя по коленям».
Epilogue
Возвращаясь как-то на днях от психотерапевта, я заметила крохотный бар, у открытых дверей которого стояли люди. Из бара доносилась музыка — кто-то очень неплохо играл на гитаре и пел. Люди курили, выпивали, негромко разговаривали, и на мокрый темнеющий асфальт уютно ложился желтый свет.
Я свернула внутрь и взяла полпинты темного пива. Худой бородатый мужчина неразборчиво пел на английском — он сидел на высоком табурете в центре комнаты и самозабвенно бил по струнам. Публика была очень разной: были и люди в костюмах, и ребята в потрепанных джинсах. Недалеко от меня, поджимая губы, что-то тянула из стакана женщина с безумно дорогой сумкой. Я села за стойку между двумя мужчинами, один из которых был страшно пьян.
После неудачного свидания с гусеводом прошло уже много дней. Психотерапевт не ругала меня за духоподъемную литературу и даже сказала, что в ней встречаются ценные крупицы здравого смысла. Однако мой «метод четкой формулировки» она разнесла в пух и прах. «Что значит “ответственный”? She asked. — Что значит “хозяйственный”? Вы что сюда вкладываете?» Я вдруг поняла, что не знаю. И что все это просто слова, которые кто-то когда-то сказал. Я разуверилась в магии, перестала заглядывать в приложение на телефоне и выбросила матрас, но по-прежнему выходила по утрам на балкон и смотрела на полустертые хрустальные башни вдали, а перед сном по привычке зажимала в руке Страшенный камень. Сатурн меня больше не пугал, я расслабилась в его гигантской тени и даже ощутила в ней что-то отцовское. У меня перестало закладывать уши.
— Нужно привести казаха, — сказал вдруг пьяный человек рядом со мной. — Хочу выпить с казахом.
Тут он нетвердо встал на ноги.
— Женщина, посторожите салат. Я пойду за казахом.
И вышел куда-то в ночь.
Я пожала плечами и снова задумалась о своем. Мужчина вскоре вернулся. За ним и правда шел пузатый казах с очень растерянным лицом.
— Вы где его взяли? — поразилась я.
— Пошел к банкомату, обратно иду, вижу — казах, — охотно ответил мужчина. И заказал пиво себе и своему новому другу.
Я снова почувствовала, что магия вторгается в мою жизнь, и не смогла удержать вопроса:
— А вы… именно такого казаха хотели?
— А они разные, что ли, бывают? — мужик пьяно захохотал.
Мои полпинты закончились. Я вышла наружу. Бульвары колотил дождь. Вода лилась как в последний раз, как будто мы прокляты и оставлены.
Я вспомнила упрямого капитана Мак-Вира и его тайфун, раскрыла зонт — впрочем, совсем бесполезный — и смело шагнула в пучину.
Сделав вид, что знаю, куда иду.
Автор — заместитель главного редактора интернет-издания Rus2Web