About René Coignard Wolfen Political activist, human rights defender, and artist from Russia. Now in Germany, employed as a DevOps engineer. Fled Russia due to politically motivated persecution by the Russian government for my anti-war activism. Previously known as Mikhail Podivilov. My weblog is largely dedicated to my travels and the reflections I make along the way, or in the quiet spaces between them. Perhaps, you could even call it a kind of public journal. My email address for feedback can be found in the footer on any page of the weblog. .-------. _|~~ ~~ |_ =(_|_______|_)= |:::::::::| |:::::::[]| |o=======.| `"""""""""` Germany Bernburg 3 November 2024 I'm writing this brief note while on my way back from Bernburg, a quaint little town perched by the river Saale. I didn't have a chance to delve into its history this time, so I'll simply share my impressions from the visit. This isn't my first encounter with Bernburg; my first visit was on 24 February of this year, when I went to reunite with my friend Timofey after two long years apart. This time, I was exploring the town with him once again. I must mention that both of us are utterly charmed by the place, so much so that we plan to return again and again. In fact, we already have plans to revisit soon, with the intention of wandering through the neighbourhoods we haven't yet discovered. The town is notable for its tranquility during weekends; it almost always feels deserted. Today was no exception - I remember arriving at the station and stepping out into the square only to find it completely empty, except for Timofey, who turned up five minutes later. I'm particularly drawn to these small, often quiet towns; they remind me of a past life when I was just as fond of spontaneous trips to random places in Russia. Before I continue, I should mention how my day began: as I was making my way to the Jeßnitz railway platform near Wolfen-Nord, I found the entire town shrouded in a dense mist. It was truly magical. The last time we met, it wasn't at the Hauptbahnhof but at Bernburg- Roschwitz, the stop before the main station. This part of Bernburg is home to well-preserved apartment blocks from the DDR era, strikingly similar to those in Wolfen-Nord where I reside. My feelings about this area were mixed: on one hand, it was rather bleak and depressing; on the other, it felt familiar, comforting, almost like home. But that's probably all I want to say about Bernburg- Roschwitz. The old town, Altstadt, was unsurprisingly more charming, and it was a joy to learn that Bernburg wasn't heavily damaged during WWII, unlike nearby Magdeburg, for example. During today's meanderings, we didn't have a set itinerary and simply enjoyed the serendipitous discoveries that always delight us. For instance, we visited two Catholic churches; one was filled with an amazing silence and peace, while in the other, someone was rehearsing hymns in the background. We then made our way to the wonderfully preserved castle, which shares the town's name, and from its height, we spotted a solitary tower that we decided we must visit. It turned out to be the Keßlerturm observation tower, built relatively recently in 1913. On our way to the tower, we stumbled upon a local cemetery and decided to take a look. I had never visited a German cemetery before and was curious to see how it compared to those in Russia. Unlike the ones I knew, which were often cluttered with rusty fences and gates in disrepair, this cemetery was neat and well-maintained. I was impressed by the simplicity of some graves: just a plain stone with the deceased's name and dates carved neatly on it. No fences, just cleanliness and order, and the cemetery was essentially part of a park. Not far from the cemetery stood the observation tower, which we reached soon after a brief stop at a nearby café for some water. They charged us two euros for a bottle, which we drank before returning it. It's a bit frustrating that in Germany, especially in the east, it can be quite a challenge to find places open on weekends where you can buy water or use the loo. And that brings me to another point: public toilets are a real issue here. Despite the towns being well-kept and picturesque, finding such basic amenities can be a real challenge for travellers. With the clocks recently adjusted for wintertime, darkness descends an hour earlier in German towns, and anticipating this, we hurried back to the main station. On our way, we discovered Bernburg's narrow-gauge park railway, Parkeisenbahn Krumbholz, which has five stations including Tiergarten and Keßlerturm. We stumbled upon this discovery as we took a forest path and saw a tiny train chugging leisurely along. It was one of its last runs for the season, as the railway operates until four o'clock in the afternoon and its final day for the year was today, 3 November. After walking from the Tiergarten station to Rosenhag, we caught a glimpse of its last departure towards Paradies station, where it would head to the depot until March next year. Interestingly, this is one of the few trains in Germany that doesn't run late: when we got back to Bernburg's main station, I found my return train via Dessau was delayed by half an hour. So, Timofey and I decided to head to Calbe to catch a connection to Halle, and from there, I would make my way back to my station. Surprisingly, the train from Calbe was also late, and upon reaching Halle, I had to sprint to catch my transfer. But the walk was undeniably wonderful, and Bernburg still holds many more discoveries for Timofey and me. People In Memory of My Father 29 October 2024 This year could have been your sixty-third birthday. However, ten years ago you passed away after a painful battle with cancer. I have missed you so much, and I still miss you dearly. I'm endlessly sorry that we never truly had the chance to get to know each other properly. The world has turned out to be extremely harsh and unjust, and it treated you no less unfairly. Rest in peace. Germany Goslar 26 October 2024 Autumn's arrival in Germany is a true event, rivaled perhaps only by the anticipation of Christmas - though even that comparison may feel unfair, as these two times of year seem almost incomparable. Inspired by an old dream, I decided to visit the Harz Mountains, beginning my adventure with the choice of where to approach the range. Although I had planned to explore the mountains themselves later in the winter (and hopefully to take a steam train ride from Wernigerode), I chose instead to start in Goslar, a charming town only a few stops by train from Wernigerode, where I had been before. Goslar is a small town with a population of only about fifty thousand people. Like Wernigerode, it's famous for its impressive collection of well-preserved half-timbered houses, giving the place an air of historical authenticity. Goslar's origins trace back to 922, and from 1081 to 1802, it even held the status of an imperial city (Reichsstadt) within the Holy Roman Empire. This meant the citizens (Bürgerschaft) paid taxes directly to the emperor rather than to local dukes or princes. I don't think I'll ever cease to be amazed at how well the Germans have managed to preserve the authenticity of these small towns. Getting to Goslar from Wolfen was surprisingly straightforward: from Jeßnitz, I caught the S-Bahn to Halle, where a direct RE4 train then took me to Goslar. The journey was lengthy - 33 minutes to Halle, a 43-minute transfer, and another two hours to Goslar - so I prepared by packing a thermos of hot tea and charging my travel laptop. I spent the time studying German, and later, on the return journey, I took the opportunity to draft this weblog entry. Deutsche Bahn proved impressively punctual, and the view from the window was a steady parade of autumn landscapes settling into hibernation. Upon arriving at Goslar's Bahnhof, I was taken aback by the lively streets, bustling with people, an unusual sight for a town of this size. Yet, only a short walk from the station, I found myself in near solitude, the streets quiet and peaceful. I allowed myself to wander without a specific route, happily losing myself amidst the endless rows of timber-framed buildings. I had already glanced at the map earlier, so I had a general sense of direction and didn't feel the need to check it again. It's refreshing, isn't it, when you leave a strict itinerary behind and let yourself stumble into new, unexpected corners? While exploring the Altstadt, I came across a small park with a lake. There, an elderly man with a striking white beard sat on a bench, observing the leaves falling gently onto the water, sending ripples across the surface. Not far from there, I found yet another park, rich with trees turned gold and crimson. Parks seemed to be everywhere, each with its own charm, and when I found one that was almost empty, I decided to stop for a tea break. I'd picked up some tiny pretzels at REWE on the way, which made the perfect pairing. Then, something unexpected happened - a true autumn leaf fall! I was captivated, watching the leaves cascade down like a gentle rain. It dawned on me that, despite being an adult, I'd never truly observed such a spectacle before. Perhaps I had simply been too focused on other things, or perhaps I'd always walked through the wrong places at the wrong times. Surely, I must have seen something like this as a child, though most of my childhood memories have been carefully tucked away by my mind. While this might protect me from painful memories, it also means some of the good ones are lost as well. This walk somehow rekindled a sense of life within me, restoring a desire to keep going after some challenging weeks. Not just for moments like these, of course, but for them too. Something clicked within me, a sudden understanding that, despite the trials I've faced, I'm ready to keep fighting. And, truly, there are things worth fighting for. While I'm not ready to share all the details just yet, the walk helped me articulate why I want to keep being here. Perhaps, one day, I'll share those thoughts with you too. But for now, they remain private. On the way back home to Wolfen - yes, I'm beginning to call it "home" now - I found myself surrounded by two young Germans on the train. They looked on with interest when they noticed the variety of stickers covering my laptop, nudging each other and pointing out how cool it looked. Though they aren't my own stickers, they come with their own story, one I've shared in another entry called "The Team Lead's Legacy." Now, as night has fully fallen outside the window and the train carries me back towards Halle, it feels like the end of a beautiful film. The screen has faded to black, the audience has left, and the lights have yet to come back on. Germany Berlin Südkreuz 19 October 2024 Today, I was in Berlin attending the Vintage Computing Festival Berlin. The name speaks for itself: a festival for retro computing enthusiasts and those who appreciate the nostalgia. One of my friends showcased his collection of dumbphones and PDAs, and it was especially delightful to see a working Palm III. It was quite an experience to interact with this device in person. Another friend exhibited his Soviet-era computer, the BK-0010, running a program designed to teach students about computer logic and how its components interact. It featured simple graphics, basic animations, and that characteristic beeping sound. I also saw several ZX Spectrums on display. All in all, it was a great experience. Later, I took advantage of an opportunity to catch up with a friend from Russia, or rather, from Bavaria now. He also fled the country due to political persecution. We wandered around the city and walked right across the former Berlin-Tempelhof Airport field, which is now just an open space. It's wonderful that they chose not to build over it and instead left it for the people to enjoy. Many were barbecuing, and quite a few were flying kites. People seemed blissfully happy! As for us, we entertained ourselves with a leisurely stroll across the endless field. Not bad at all. Autumn in Berlin is vibrant, with plenty of golden and red trees. I ended up right where I started - at Berlin Südkreuz station. A splendid day with a pleasant hint of exhaustion. Germany "Shall I Wrap It for You?" 18 October 2024 Today, I was wandering around Wolfen, already draped in a blanket of darkness, while chatting on the phone during my walk. I passed through a park that was completely unlit, which made for quite an interesting experience. I wasn't scared - I'm not afraid of the dark - but the sensations were strange. In that particular part of town, even though it was pitch black, I didn't feel frightened. Yet, I found myself pondering how my future in this country would turn out, and that did make me feel a bit uneasy. But I digress, as I often do. On my way back, I decided to pop into the local McDonald's to grab something to eat after wrapping up another busy work week. At the counter, they forgot to put all my food into a bag, and as I stood there trying to figure out how to politely explain the mistake, a girl about my age behind the counter suddenly asked, in Russian, "Shall I wrap it for you?" I was absolutely taken aback! And then I couldn't help but break into a big smile. Yes, please wrap it up! Germany Autumn in Wolfen 15 October 2024 I first saw Wolfen in its winter coat earlier this year. As I write this, I'm looking through photos I took right after moving. One of the first shows an empty white room with a closed door and light streaming through the windows on the right. On the morning of January 17th, at nine o'clock, I woke up to find myself lying in bed somewhere in Germany, or at least that's how it felt. I barely knew Wolfen at the time, or even Germany. The bed felt like a small island lost in an unknown sea, and getting up meant accepting my new reality. Back then, I lived on Erich-Weinert-Ring. In another picture, I see the building opposite mine and the field between us. The scene is dark; the camera managed to capture just a few distant lit windows, only nine in total. A blue light glows in the stairwell, switched on by a resident who had just gone in. The windows in these photos remind me of the perforations on a film reel or photographic film. Given Wolfen's history in producing film and cameras at the Agfa factory, the comparison feels fitting. Another photo shows a panel of doorbells with the residents' names: Schmidt, Herrmann, Krämer, and me, Podivilov. Above, there are mailboxes, one of which bears the label "Podivilov Mikhail" next to a bright "Stop" sign with a bold "Keine Werbung!" warning. It was effective at keeping spam out of my mailbox. My name on the doorbell looks almost photoshopped, as the fresh, bright white label stands out against the old, yellowed ones around it. In yet another photo, a traffic light displays different signals. One is red with a left arrow, another is amber, also with an arrow, and in the middle, the little green Ost-Ampelmännchen is lit up, inviting me to cross the road. This photo stirs something emotional in me, perhaps because I associate it with my recent move. The glowing green figure seems so alive, almost as if he's about to jump out from beneath the traffic light and join me on my journey. But no, as soon as I cross, he disappears, and I must continue on, searching for another. Interestingly, all the photos I took back then share the same theme: they are devoid of people, filled with solitude. Whether I did this intentionally or whether it reflected my emotional state at the time, I'm not sure. But there are no people in the dark streets of Wolfen, where a giant field lies to the right and a road with the amusing name Verbindungsstraße (literally "Connecting Street") stretches ahead, linking the northern and southern parts of the town. There are no people in another photo, where I'm standing on the platform at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. And there's no one at Wolfen(Bitterfeld) station either, cold and soaked in rain. One of my favourite activities back then was taking evening walks after sunset, when all the town's residents had returned home and the streets were deserted. I loved strolling along Verbindungsstraße, where there were neither people nor cars, just an endless road illuminated by streetlights. I would stand in the middle of the road, taking atmospheric photos. That's how the picture I'm describing now was taken. I have a few such photos of empty streets in Wolfen, and while writing this, I've counted four. They were taken in different places but all convey the same mood. "Nächste Station auf Gleis 2: Wolfen(Bitterfeld). Ausstieg in Fahrtrichtung rechts." The clock on the display ticks towards midnight, meaning I'll soon see the empty streets of my current town again. Though, of course, that's all in the past now, as I get off at Jeßnitz, closer to Wolfen-Nord, where I now live. But the situation remains the same. The streets in this part of Wolfen seem even emptier, especially on the walk from the station to the town centre. Near my house is a DDR museum, though I've never been inside. It already feels like I'm living in a museum. At least I'm not an exhibit. So, we've walked through winter in Wolfen, let's return to autumn. Coming back from Cyprus, I immediately felt the difference, and the best word to describe it is bittersweet. On the one hand, it's cold, empty, and lonely. On the other, I'm standing in front of a small open kitchen window, looking down. The sky has a soft gradient, turning from blue to white as it nears the horizon. I see pieces of rooftops, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, and just below, a tree with its upper branches bathed in sunlight, while the lower part is enveloped in the shadow of my building. I see a cyclist passing by. Yesterday, while walking to the grocery store, I passed by a long building where only a few of the entrances are occupied, and in one, just a single resident. In moments like these, I imagine living in a post-apocalyptic world, and somehow, it makes things easier. I don't know why I romanticise this feeling. It's not that I particularly like this town, but it fits the autumn melancholy I've come to know in other similar towns. In Russia, it was Ryazan, Stupino, Zaraysk, and my hometown of Ozyory. Maybe I'm just used to it. This ambivalent mix of longing and quiet satisfaction means a great deal to me. If you could play autumn in Wolfen on a piano, it would sound like any other autumn I've experienced in these kinds of towns, except perhaps for Kutaisi, where autumn was entirely different. Here, it would sound like the adagio from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. And though I sometimes feel a little too isolated here, it's not so bad. I've grown accustomed to it over the years. Wolfen, like other towns of its kind, is a place where there's nothing to do but create, invent, surprise others, and surprise yourself. And as I finish writing this, the town has already gone to sleep. I suppose it's time for me to do the same. Goodnight, Wolfen. Projects One a Month 14 October 2024 You can now support me, my creative work, and my projects - including the development of Weblog - by setting up a monthly donation of just 1 € at ko-fi.com/coignard. For a long time, I've toyed with the idea of adding donations to my weblog, but I was hesitant, worrying that no one would be interested. Still, it feels like imposter syndrome creeping in again: the stats clearly show that plenty of people read my weblog, including via RSS and Telegram. What changed my mind was an idea by Manuel Moreale, which was backed by Jarrod Blundy, the creator of the "One a Month Club," which I've recently joined. A single euro often ends up forgotten on my desk, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Every euro will support content creation for my weblog, development of the open-source engine behind it, and covering domain and hosting costs. You can also support other members of the club at oneamonth.club. Philosophy A Time for Compassion 14 October 2024 Humankind suffers. Delve a little into a person's troubled mind, and you will inevitably uncover the root causes: exhaustion, pain, and death. No, humanity does not live in a global prison, as some thinkers suggest. It may, at worst, be a prison of one's thoughts and perceptions. But life on this planet, for those capable of reason, is more akin to existence in a hospice. To me, birth seems like the final stage of a terminal illness, inevitably followed by death. Birth, the trial of life, and death - this path is the same for each of us. The more optimistic minds might argue that life is not solely composed of suffering, that it also holds moments filled with joy. Moments indeed - but what lies between them? Life, by its very nature, has been designed this way. The world simply is. And a human simply is. People inherit their sense of existence from the world, but the world is just there. It has no grand purpose; it simply exists. One cannot derive meaning from something in which meaning never inherently resided. What humans can do is create smaller, fleeting meanings within moments - and it is in those moments that they feel happiness. And that, for a time, is enough. The Earth, and the universe at large, is not a prison, if only because no one is sent here to serve out a punishment. Life emerges spontaneously, typically without malicious intent but also without consent. We are placed here, not by choice, but neither as punishment. Life opens its doors to each new arrival much as the doors of a hospital open to terminally ill patients, who cry out the moment they first open their eyes. There is no cure for this illness, nor is one possible. Humanity might one day invent immortality, stop the aging of cells, or transfer consciousness into a machine. Perhaps the brain could even be rewired to experience eternal joy and celebration. I would rather die than live such a life. Eternal stimulation holds no appeal for me; I would rather leave and embrace eternal oblivion, even if I will not be able to feel it. I do not need it. What I crave is silence. Though this view may seem pessimistic, it is not without optimism. Yes, each person will die, and eventually, so will humanity. But for now, there is you, there is me, and while we live in this hospice and continue to receive new terminally ill patients, while we live among these fellow patients and, crucially, understand that we are part of this community of the doomed, we can reduce the suffering - both our own and that of others. It doesn't matter whether those around us understand this. There is no need to force anyone to accept this view. Yet, once you grasp and accept this concept yourself, life becomes far simpler and more comprehensible. From this perspective, social standing, achievements, and legacy no longer hold importance: whether you are wealthy or poor, intellectual or simple-minded, a freedom fighter or a servant of a long-entrenched tyrant, your roles are equal. All of us are patients in this hospice. I look through the window at the hospital courtyard and see humanity playing there. From this vantage point, it is tempting to forget all grievances, all the evil, all the foolish and impulsive actions committed by others. When you realise that the common thread binding everyone is exhaustion from life, pain from past experiences, and inevitable death, all you want to do is embrace them and offer what little comfort you can. Of course, I do not condone violence in any form. But I do believe that the greatest act of violence is bringing new people into the world without their consent. These people were never asked if they wanted to live, yet they are condemned to existence. There is no justification for those who maim or take lives, for that only amplifies suffering: both in the act of killing and in the aftermath for those left behind. We, humanity, seldom question the creation of new life because we assume that if it aligns with nature, it must be right and good. One might label nature as an embodiment of cruelty, but it is not so. Nature is indifferent to our suffering. It creates us and sets us on our path without malice. It is simply fulfilling its function. Only recently have people emerged from their caves and begun to find more suitable ways of living. Still, out of habit, we obey nature's old commands and continue to create new lives - not out of malice, but usually out of ignorance or inertia. To cease overcomplicating life and to accept it as it has always been - meaningless, painful, finite - is one of the greatest achievements a person can accomplish. But equally great is accepting responsibility for the lives of our fellow terminal patients. For one day, this hospice will be empty, and the suffering will end. But while we are here, we have the freedom to lessen the suffering of both ourselves and others. We can show compassion toward each other and understanding of the situation in which we have all found ourselves, through no fault of our own. Germany Lutherstadt Wittenberg 12 October 2024 Cyprus will always stay in my memory for its cloudless skies and exceptionally warm, welcoming weather. I parted from my beloved team with a touch of melancholy and now know for certain that I want to live there. I've already planned my move to Cyprus for the beginning of next year. I must admit that I returned to Germany in quite a pessimistic frame of mind: when I think back to my move here in January, all that comes to mind, unfortunately, are the long, gloomy evenings and the empty streets of Wolfen. However, I'm glad I was wrong in some ways. In certain places, the German autumn can be remarkably charming. Not far from where I live is the town of Lutherstadt Wittenberg, which I had intended to visit several times but never managed to do until today. Perhaps that's how it was meant to be, as an early autumn visit turned out to be perfect timing. It's a cosy, small, and thus rather quiet town, with narrow European streets, vintage-style lampposts, and all the usual charming features you'd expect. After having a coffee, I immediately set out in search of postcards: one to send to my colleagues and another, following my usual habit, to myself. A few more were sent off to friends, but that's a different story. Although Wittenberg looked lovely in the daylight, the evening brought an entirely different atmosphere - it was like stepping into the pages of an old fairy tale. Throughout my walk, I was accompanied by the warm glow of lanterns, peeking out unexpectedly from arches, dark corners, as well as their light reflecting off the windows of houses. Truly magical. This town has now earned a place on my list of open-air museum cities, which also includes Quedlinburg, Wernigerode, Wörlitz and Görlitz - all places I highly recommend visiting. Today's stroll provided an extraordinary amount of aesthetic pleasure, largely because the Altstadt has retained its historical character. I even stumbled upon a Gothic church just as its bells were signalling the approaching dusk. I envy cities where such scenes are part of everyday life. On the way back home, I noted something quite uncharacteristic of Deutsche Bahn: an impressive punctuality. All the trains I took to and from Wittenberg today were right on time, not a minute late. That was quite refreshing, especially since just yesterday, I, along with a crowd of other passengers, was left shivering at Brandenburg Hbf after several trains were cancelled, all due to government intervention - a sudden state visit by Zelensky to Berlin. Oh well, it happens, I suppose. At least it added a little adventure to the day! As I prepare to leave Germany, I know I'll miss these autumn trips to small, cosy, and quiet German towns. It's too early to dwell on that, though, as the most magical time of year is yet to come: Christmas. I'm eagerly anticipating the transformation of countless towns into something truly extraordinary for my eyes to behold. And, to my surprise, during today's walk, I already noticed shop windows starting to fill with Christmas decorations, instantly switching me into holiday mode. Germany Kaputtchino 12 October 2024 Today, I'm travelling by train from Dessau to Lutherstadt Wittenberg. A German family is sitting nearby, chatting away. I happened to overhear part of their conversation and learned what a broken German coffee machine makes. The mother of the family was lamenting their broken coffee machine and explaining to her child that instead of producing cappuccino, it now makes kaputtchino. Cyprus Harmo-o-onica! 10 October 2024 I had a rather amusing experience at the airport just now. The customs officers spotted something suspicious in my luggage and decided to rummage through it like they were digging for gold. The cause of their sudden interest? My harmonica. The officers, in their uniforms, kept asking me, both verbally and through gestures, if I was blowing something, implying drug use, and even mimicked sniffing cocaine before finally pulling out the harmonica. One of the officers, clearly enjoying herself, smirked and asked, "Cocaine?" Keeping a straight face, I replied, "Harmonica." She repeated mockingly, "Harmo-o-onica!" before finally moving on. A similar ordeal had occurred when I was leaving Berlin, where I was searched for forgetting to take my laptop out of my suitcase. The whole experience just deepened my dislike for governments and their endless, demeaning inspections. Notes How Come 8 October 2024 Where I stand now, and the state I'm in, is the direct result of my own choices and actions. They weren't always successful, nor always as well thought through as they should have been, but they were mine. And I don't hold that against myself. Still, I'm utterly spent, with no sense of where to summon the resolve. How come I find myself here, of all places, remains the greater mystery. Everything had seemed fine, or at least manageable. But now, here I am. Cyprus Hiking in the Troodos Mountains 1 October 2024 Today in Cyprus, it's a public holiday as the Cypriots celebrate their independence from Britain. To mark the occasion, some colleagues and I decided to go for a hike in the Troodos Mountains, doing a bit of wandering around Mount Olympus. Four of us were game for the adventure, including me: Maxim, the initiator of the idea and our driver for the day, and George and Anton. We set out around ten o'clock after Maxim picked us all up from our homes. We stocked up on food and water at the nearest shop, loaded everything into the car, and our journey began. Maxim only recently got his driving licence, so this was one of his first significant trips. We were aware of this, so we kept a close eye on the route and the turns. Nonetheless, at some point, we got so engrossed in our conversations that we missed a turn, resulting in a considerable detour. No big deal: along the way, we enjoyed the quirky views of Cyprus' flora. A bit later, we found our way back to the correct route and continued towards the mountains. We had over fifty minutes of driving left to reach Troodos, but despite the mishap with the route, we remained full of enthusiasm. Upon arriving in Troodos, we checked our route on the maps and set off. Organic Maps surprisingly does a great job of showing trails even in Cyprus, making it an essential tool for our outing. Nevertheless, sometimes we had to guess where to turn, because, for example, at one fork, we had to choose between a narrow, well-trodden path and a wide road strewn with large stones. The spirit of adventure led us to choose the second option, which we did. We continued our hike, observing the picturesque landscapes that unfolded before us. We could even spot Limassol in the distance, dotted with stone buildings and the sea beside it. Our gaze would glide over the endless forest before alighting on the city. Then we stumbled upon a colossal black pine tree: a nearby sign indicated that the tree was over five hundred years old. The bark, however, was marred by someone's vandalism in the form of a heart and an inscription. My friends and I were awestruck by the tree's height, its age, and the fresh mountain air filled with the scent of pine needles. The tree stood precisely at a crossroads: we could either turn right to stay on our route or turn left towards some abandoned mines. George and I were very curious about exploring the mines, although it required a significant detour and then a return to the regular path. The others didn't object, so it was decided: we would head to the mines. The trek took us about 15-20 minutes, and soon we arrived. Or almost arrived: the main mine was still about five minutes away, but we encountered another, unmarked on the map. The entrance was open. Of course, George and I were immediately eager to go inside, especially since there were no warning signs in sight. As we got closer, we saw an authentic abandoned mine with its characteristic attributes: scattered stones and a wooden support structure that unsuccessfully tried to convince us it was safe. We didn't have a specialised torch, so we used our phones to light up the tunnel. However, they proved insufficient as we ventured further from the entrance. Two of our friends stayed behind to watch the entrance while we explored the mine. In our first attempt, we didn't go very far, thinking that the main mine marked on the map would be more interesting: perhaps it had more than just one straight tunnel, with branches or something else. Therefore, we decided to go back and continue towards the main mine. Unfortunately, the marked mine was fenced off, and upon sneaking in, we discovered it had collapsed and was no longer accessible. There was also a sign reading "Hadjipavlou Chromite Mines. No Elves Allowed" translated into Elvish. Though a bit disappointed by the turn of events, we didn't lose heart: we decided to take a break, have a snack, and return to explore the earlier mine. Observation: it's quite engrossing to throw stones down a steep slope and watch others join in the cascade. Upon returning to the previous mine, George and I resolved to reach its furthest end, leaving our two comrades to keep watch at the entrance again. The mine proved not to be very large: we found two branch-offs to the left and right, but ahead, everything was blocked. The same was true for the branches, and the right one ended in unprocessed rock. Just a dead end. Upon returning, we discovered a mysterious upward climb in one of the walls, resembling steps, and decided to invite our friends to check it out. Assuring them the mine was safe and nothing was about to collapse on us, the four of us, now armed with torchlights, delved deeper into this dark place. Upon reaching the steps, we actively debated whether to climb them. The rotten wooden structure supporting the ceiling seemed too flimsy, so we decided to leave the mine. George reluctantly agreed, admitting it was best not to take any risks. Upon exiting the mine, our bodies generously rewarded us with dopamine for the wise decision and the well-demonstrated survival skills. Feeling very satisfied with the adventure, we continued our ascent. I took out my harmonica and played it throughout our hike, and everyone enjoyed the musical accompaniment. As I played "Don't Worry, Be Happy," we suddenly encountered more of our colleagues who had been hiking behind us. What a surprise! It was quite unusual to bump into them so spontaneously. I played them another tune on my harmonica. They then continued on their way, and we bid them farewell. I won't elaborate on every detail of our adventure: there were many, but they will remain in the shared memory of my friends and me. We had a wonderful time and walked nearly twenty thousand steps, covering fifteen kilometres. At the end of the hike, we had a hearty meal at a random café in Troodos, where the evening air was becoming quite cool. It was time to end our little adventure and head home. On the way back, we made another stop to admire the sunset, whose splendour is hard to put into words. Maxim dropped us off at our homes, and as I now type these lines, I feel grateful for the experience and joyful about our small shared adventure. This definitely needs to be repeated. Cyprus Night Walks in Limassol 30 September 2024 What I enjoy most about Cyprus right now is wandering through the drowsy streets of Limassol in the late evening, when the traffic has subsided, and people either hurry home or, drawn like moths to a flame, make their way to the sea. These walks bring me a great sense of solace, as they remind me of the time I lived in Kutaisi. The same air of mystery and uncertainty lingers; I don't yet know this city well, and so each walk down to the sea, along randomly chosen streets, feels like a small adventure. On these walks, I always take my harmonica with me. If I happen to reach the sea - which I often do - I pull it out and play a little tune for myself. Last time, it was "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Oh Lord, there's that strange concept of "home" again! The sound of my playing is swallowed by the waves crashing against the shore, so passersby rarely pay attention to me. And I'm grateful for that: it allows me to fully enjoy the music. It's as good as any meditation for me. Yesterday, during one of my night walks, around 23:00, I decided to visit the pier, which is about a fifteen-minute walk from where I'm staying. The city at this time, in this place, was surprisingly empty and quiet, and once I found myself on the pier, I eagerly embraced the still and bittersweet darkness that enveloped me in an instant. In the distance, ships stood with their decks illuminated by yellow lamps, casting shimmering golden paths across the sea, stretching all the way to my pier. And then, there was one path of moonlight. After a long period of social isolation, I still find it difficult to fully engage with the world around me, so these moments of solitude are precious. Half an hour of listening to the whispers of the sea is enough to restore the energy I've spent working hard all day, and to calm my restless mind, even if only slightly. Each time I look out at the sea, I remember the vastness and unimaginable diversity of the world, and for a while, I stop feeling homesick. In those moments, I briefly believe that home can be anywhere. Cyprus Two Years Later 24 September 2024 Exactly two years ago, I left my home in Ozyory due to persecution by the Russian police. Since then, I have lived in various cities and countries. It all began in a tiny village in Russia, where I hid from the police for six months. I also spent a week at a friend's house just before fleeing, to buy a phone with cash and get a SIM card registered under someone else's name. All of this was done in the interest of secrecy, as I was already wanted at the time and needed to ensure the police did not know my exact whereabouts. Afterwards, I moved to Georgia, where I spent six months in Tbilisi and another six months in Kutaisi. From Georgia, I relocated to Germany, living in the southern part of Wolfen for half a year, and the northern part for another half. Currently, I'm on a business trip in Cyprus and will likely move here to live and work at the start of next year. Yes, I no longer have a "home" - the very concept of it has been lost to me forever. Yet with every move, I am getting closer to understanding where I enjoy living the most. Cyprus The Team Lead's Legacy 19 September 2024 What often amuses and astonishes me is how swiftly and unexpectedly life can change. Just a year and a half ago, I started working as a DevOps engineer at my current company. I vividly remember my interview: having just fled Russia for Georgia, I decided to visit a good friend in Armenia who was also hiding from state persecution. While strolling around the outskirts of Gyumri, I realised I wouldn't make it back in time for one of my many scheduled interviews. So, I stopped in a park and spoke with my future team lead over the phone. It felt surreal - a bit awkward and somewhat daunting - but I was ready to embrace the challenge. Back in Tbilisi, after wrapping up all my interviews, I had to choose between three offers. I opted for the company I'd interviewed with while in Armenia. My team lead, Alexey, onboarded me during those initial days. After six months of dodging the authorities and fleeing Russia, my mental state was quite fragile. The beginning wasn't easy, but thanks to Alexey's support, I soon started handling tasks worthy of an engineer. Only now do I realise how much effort he put in to help me find my feet so quickly. Time passed, and I grew professionally. Eventually, the time came to meet my team in person. It happened under rather unusual circumstances: the lads found cheap flights from Cyprus to Kutaisi and decided to visit me for the weekend. That's when I first met Alexey, Evgeny, and Georgy. I remember that while Evgeny, Georgy, and I were sipping beer and chatting, Alexey was occupied with more pressing matters - fending off DDoS attacks hitting our production environment and keeping an eye on our colleague Roman, who stayed in Cyprus to revive a downed data centre. It was then I first saw Alexey's corporate laptop, completely covered in stickers - even around the touchpad and underneath. This year, I travelled to Cyprus on a business trip for the first time. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see Alexey or some of my other esteemed DevOps colleagues at work. However, Alexey had "bequeathed" his corporate laptop to me. On my first day in the office at my new workstation, I found that very laptop adorned with all sorts of stickers - the one that belonged to my former team lead. And it's so ironic and surreal: I'm now working on the same laptop Alexey once used - for interviewing me, onboarding me, reviewing my commits, attending meetings, and so much more. At first glance, it might seem trivial, but such things have always meant a lot to me. I'd rather have a laptop worn by time and rich with stories than a new one without any unique past. I recall sitting in a meeting room with this laptop, seeing myself on the live camera feed just as I once saw my colleagues. It's strange to be on the other side of the screen and feel that familiar sense of unreality. The journey from my first day at the company to this business trip has been immense, and none of it would have happened without Alexey, who was a remarkable mentor throughout. And if it weren't for that park in Armenia. And that very laptop. Cyprus Limassol 14 September 2024 At the start of this week, I flew to Limassol for a business trip to catch up with the team and work together. Remote work has always reminded me of being an astronaut, communicating with Earth, but only from afar. After three years of remote work, I started to feel like I was losing my marbles, which shouldn't come as a surprise. Total social isolation takes a serious toll on mental health, especially when you live in an almost deserted town in eastern Germany. Hence, it wasn't long before I had a rather unpleasant run-in with burnout. Upon landing, I was immediately hit with the same feeling I experienced when I moved to Georgia, and later to Germany. It was as if I were in a dream, where none of this was real, and any moment I might wake up in my flat in Wolfen. My ride from the airport was a Georgian driver who spoke Russian, and, as he told me, has been living in Cyprus for over twenty years. I arrived late, and by the time I cleared passport control, the sun had already set. Stepping out of the airport, I was greeted by a warm and pleasant breeze. I only fully accepted that I was in Cyprus when I saw the sign reading "exodos" (with "exit" underneath) in the airport. It felt somewhat surreal to encounter so many signs with familiar Greek words, which I seemed to understand purely on instinct. This only added to the overall dreamlike sensation of being here. Especially considering that, in my youth, I had desperately wanted to visit Greece, or at least somewhere nearby. What felt odd was that the cars drive on the opposite side of the road, and the sockets are British, not European. Luckily, I had a travel adapter, though it still took a moment to get used to seeing this. And of course, the ever-present air conditioning, something you'd be hard-pressed to find in Germany, even with the scorching heatwaves this summer. Here, though, while the temperature is absurdly high everywhere, at least every place is cooled by air conditioning. The GPS here tends to glitch now and then, and overall, it doesn't work as well as it does in Europe, likely due to the nearby British military base, which occasionally jams the signal. The other day, I opened my maps and found myself located somewhere in Beirut (or at least nearby). I had to navigate the old-fashioned way, by the North Star. Of course, I'm just kidding, but as the saying goes, there's a grain of joke in every joke. That said, I've only needed the maps once so far, to find my way home for the first time. The weather in Limassol is always sunny, and clouds are a rare sight. The sky is usually just an endless blue canvas with a blazing sun. When I left Wolfen, it was drizzling, with that miserable kind of rain that makes you wish you were anywhere else. It's fascinating how this contrasts with what I'm experiencing now. Having spent a year in Georgia, I'm fairly used to the heat, so adjusting wasn't too difficult. Plus, as I mentioned, there's air conditioning everywhere. What feels strange to me is that absolutely everyone speaks English. Unlike in Germany, there's no need to ask if they do. What's even more surprising is how much Russian I hear spoken around me, it's quite common. In Germany, I would hear Russian now and then, but it was mostly spoken by Ukrainians, and I could count the number of Russians I met on one hand. It's neither good nor bad, just an interesting observation. You even see Russian on signs in some places. The locals here seem to be in a constant state of semi-relaxation, a way of life they call "siga-siga." It seems this mentality doesn't just apply to the residents but even rubs off on visitors, even those here briefly. I soon felt it myself, there's simply no need to rush. The sea is always accessible, you can grab a bite whenever you want, lounge under the sun at the beach, or just collapse under the air conditioning and have a nap. "Siga-siga" feels like part of the local culture, even the traffic lights blink their yellow eye at you lazily for a good ten seconds. It's honestly a lovely place. Although at first glance Limassol might feel like a big village, it has undeniable advantages over many towns in Germany, particularly in the East. There are plenty of people here, they seem content, they're friendly, and they're simply enjoying life. Oh, and there's a warm sea. For example, it's just a fifteen-minute walk from my flat to the beach, which, unsurprisingly, has a positive effect on my mood and overall well-being. It's brilliant. And who knows, perhaps one day, I might just move here for good. Politics European Court of Human Rights 12 September 2024 Today, the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) delivered its judgment on my case, No. 55603/22 (Podivilov v. Russia), which related to my unlawful detention on 24 February 2022, the day Russia began its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. On that day, I was holding a sign that read "Putin, stop the war with Ukraine" outside the Presidential Administration building in Moscow. I submitted my application to the ECHR two years ago in October, as my rights were violated. I was unlawfully detained and taken to a police station, fined 15,000 roubles under Article 20.2, part 5 of the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation, and during the appeal hearing in court, there was no prosecuting party, which meant I was denied my right to a fair trial. The ECHR found that my detention on the day of the protest was carried out solely for the purpose of drawing up an administrative offence record, which breaches Article 5, paragraph 1 of the ECHR. The Convention protects the right to liberty and security of person, and my detention was declared unlawful. The ECHR also ruled that the absence of a prosecuting party in the Russian administrative proceedings violated Article 6, paragraph 1 of the Convention, which guarantees the right to a fair trial. In court, both the prosecution and defence should be present to allow both sides to present their arguments, evidence, and challenge each other's positions. The court ordered Russia to pay me 4,000 euros in compensation for moral damages and legal costs. Although Russia is required to make this payment within three months of the judgment, it is unlikely to comply, as Russia no longer recognises the ECHR's jurisdiction and does not follow its rulings. Poland Zgorzelec 9 September 2024 On the same day I was wandering around Görlitz, I decided to cross over to the neighboring city of Zgorzelec, which lies just on the other side of the River Neiße. I only learned by chance, while planning my trip, that Görlitz is right on the Polish border, and that to get to another country, all I had to do was cross the river. It had been over six months since I arrived in Germany, and I still hadn't visited any other European countries, so it would have been strange not to take advantage of this opportunity to stroll into Poland. And so I did. I have to admit, it was a very surreal experience to simply walk into another country without any border control or bureaucratic procedures. Quite astonishing, really. To my surprise, the streets of Zgorzelec were full of people (or at least, there were far more than in Görlitz), and the cafés scattered around the city were packed. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me. Either way, there were definitely more people. I was reminded that I was no longer in Germany but in Poland when someone passing by asked if I had any "groszy" (small change). Until 1945, this city was part of Germany, and it was the eastern part of Görlitz. The Soviet army handed control of the city over to the Polish authorities, and the remaining German population was deported to the Soviet occupation zone of Germany. Initially, it wasn't clear whether the eastern side of the city would permanently become part of Poland, so in the first months and years after 1945, only a few Poles settled here. Instead, in 1949, the city became home to around 15,000 refugees from Greece, fleeing their country's civil war. An interesting fact: Zgorzelec's winter time matches perfectly with Central European Time, as the city lies directly on the 15th meridian, which defines this time zone. Another fun fact: Zgorzelec is essentially the Polish version of the name Görlitz, which itself comes from the word "Goreliz" (to burn). However, despite its name, the city didn't burn during World War II and has been very well preserved. I didn't have much time to explore the town: I made it to the nearest McDonald's, grabbed a quick bite, and then headed back to the Hauptbahnhof. Deutsche Bahn canceled one of the trains again, so I had to return earlier than planned via a different route. Germany Görlitz 8 September 2024 Yesterday, I finally had the chance to visit the city of Görlitz. This place is particularly notable as it was one of the filming locations for the fictional city of Lutz in "The Grand Budapest Hotel." As my train pulled into Görlitz station, the soundtrack "Daylight Express to Lutz" was playing in my headphones. Görlitz is located on the border with Poland. According to the Potsdam Agreement, the city was divided into two parts: the German side and the Polish side, which is called Zgorzelec. It's a small town, home to about fifty thousand people, though I must admit, it felt even quieter during my stroll. The city was spared from destruction during the war, which is a blessing. After my recent visit to Magdeburg, this small town felt like a breath of fresh air. There's hardly any visible trace of the GDR here, except maybe in the tram adverts and the Hauptbahnhof building, which is not in the best condition. However, to be fair, it is undergoing renovation, and the progress is quite encouraging. What's great is that you immediately find yourself in the Altstadt (the historical part of the city) right after exiting the station. It's incredibly charming here. You can also find the building where they filmed the interior shots for "The Grand Budapest Hotel." It's the Kaufhaus Görlitz ("Zum Strauss"), built in 1912-1913 by the merchant Louis Friedländer, inspired by Berlin's Wertheim department store. In the 1920s, it was considered one of the most beautiful department stores in Europe. During the film's production, the creators of "The Grand Budapest Hotel" transformed the interior twice: once for the 1960s, with a more modern, yellow-orange palette, and once for the 1930s, with a vintage, pink-red aesthetic. All in all, my impressions of the city are overwhelmingly positive, and I highly recommend visiting if you get the chance to enjoy its wonderful architecture. On my way back, I popped into a souvenir shop, as I often do, and picked up five or six postcards, which I've already sent off to friends. I think I'll be visiting this city again - particularly around Christmas. While I was there, I filmed some footage and put together a short video, which I'd be happy to share if you drop me an email. Germany Burning Out 6 September 2024 Firstly, thank you guys for helping me call an ambulance a couple of weeks ago when things became truly unbearable. Now, having been discharged from the hospital, I feel the urge to jot down a few notes before my emotions decayed. I write these lines in the hope that someone might find my experience useful and avoid finding themselves in a similar situation someday. For the reader's convenience, this note is divided into several parts, some of which are necessary to understand the context. I won't delve too deeply into details, as I'm not writing memoirs just yet; I'll try to balance the factual and emotional content. However, this will mostly be a stream of consciousness, since I lack the energy for any more sober material after the events of the past few weeks. Part 1: War Nowadays I am twenty-four years old, originally from the small town of Ozyory near Moscow. Two years ago, I fled my home due to police persecution over my anti-war stance. You see, I simply do not like it when one person kills another. Because by killing, a person primarily kills the humanity within themselves. My philosophy holds that the highest virtue a person can achieve is the reduction of suffering. Make people's lives less unbearable; first your own, then others. Clearly, my views were entirely incompatible with those of the police. The criminal investigation department hauled my dear mother in for questioning, which caused me considerable distress. I had grown somewhat accustomed to such treatment, but when it happens to your loved ones, it feels exponentially worse. I suppose it's because of the sense of helplessness and not knowing how to protect someone close to you. During my mother's interrogation, the officers issued some vague summons for my own questioning. A completely insignificant piece of paper, with even the article number of the Criminal Procedure Code seemingly pulled out of thin air. Perhaps it was just a random form lying around on the major's desk. But so be it. In their conversation, the police also let slip that I was listed as wanted: this information was far more valuable than the unclear summons they issued in my name. As a result, I went into hiding for six months in a small village, lost and forgotten somewhere amidst the forests of the Moscow region. I chopped wood, stoked the stove, and carved wooden horses. I built my own radio network of seven stations, hosted daily broadcasts, and even managed to set up a rudimentary telegraph system with myself as the only telegraph operator. In March 2023, the police resumed their search and involved the director of the college where I had studied. I learned about this from a former classmate and a staff member of the educational institution. It turned out that the director had leaked the phone numbers of my classmates, which the officers from the "E" center (the counter-extremism center; in other words, the police department responsible for political persecution of dissenters) used to clumsily call everyone, posing as new teachers and asking, "Where's Misha?" Eventually, the volunteers, whose identities I won't disclose for security reasons, decided that my situation was dire enough to warrant getting me out of Russia. I can't reveal the details of my evacuation for safety reasons (so that others persecuted for political reasons might use the same method, for instance). Perhaps, when the time comes, I'll share more in my memoirs. Two weeks after my relocation, I found a new job at a Cypriot IT company (highload) and moved my mother to Sakartvelo. The day before her evacuation, the police visited her again, this time threatening to plant drugs and open a case. They were looking for me: they searched the cellar, the garden, and even under the bed (!), but found no signs of my presence at home. They were furious. I then lived in Kutaisi for another six months, during which I received the news that Germany had carefully reviewed my case and the German Federal Foreign Office had approved a humanitarian visa for me under Paragraph 22 Satz 2 AufenthG. Understanding that staying in Sakartvelo was unsafe (as the country is occupied by Russia and the Russian side sometimes kidnaps political refugees), I decided to move on. On the bright side: in Sakartvelo, shortly after I arrived and was overwhelmed by the sadness that had overtaken me, I found a pen pal - I was actively learning French at the time and needed someone to practice with. We communicated through handwritten letters and emails. Eventually, we even started dating, and Charlotte came to visit me for a couple of weeks (we had a wonderful vacation together in the mountains of Svaneti). But, unfortunately, our paths diverged thereafter. The news of my official invitation to Germany came exactly two weeks after our romantic chapter concluded. There was something amusing about it: as if the world was telling me not to grieve over what had happened and to try to move on, to see what would come next. One chapter was over, why not write another? And so I decided to continue. Part 2: Wolfen All those arriving under Paragraph 22 Satz 2 AufenthG cannot choose their initial place of allocation independently - it is determined using the Königsteiner Schlüssel. I was allocated to the state of Saxony-Anhalt. After arriving in Germany, I received a letter in a yellow envelope from the district that had taken responsibility for me, which was Anhalt-Bitterfeld. I did not arrive at the most opportune time: January in Bitterfeld- Wolfen was very slushy and dreary. Nevertheless, I gathered all my strength and tried not to despair. Although, I confess, at times, the loneliness and overwhelming sadness made me want to howl and climb the walls. A couple of months later, I managed to complete the evacuation of my family from Russia: my brother was the last one, who for personal reasons did not want to leave. I did not judge him for his choice but was very worried. Through prolonged negotiations that lasted more than six months, I finally managed to find a compromise and carry out another rescue operation. I felt a tremendous sense of relief when I finally managed to get my brother out. At that moment, it felt like the completion of a very large project. And indeed, it was a very large project. I just hadn't fully realized it nor the importance of it. In any case, I continued to support my family financially for a couple more months, as long as I could. I felt responsible for what was happening to my family because, by actively participating in the political life of my country, I understood the potential consequences. I had mentally prepared myself in advance for both the possibility of imprisonment and for emigration. And that in this emigration, I would have to take my family members with me. Part 3: Wolfen-Nord With my family relocated, it was time to sort myself out. The temporary apartment provided by the state could be occupied for no more than three months, so I was hastily searching for a new one. Through negotiations with the local housing cooperative, I found an affordable apartment for 405 Euro Warmmiete in a slightly more remote area of Wolfen: Wolfen-Nord. I lived there, but I was accumulating mental issues due to social isolation. I tried to seek treatment, actively visited a psychotherapist, and also found a psychiatrist. I kept going. For some reason, I kept going. I was trying to manage. It seemed I was managing, albeit barely. I kept myself occupied. I tried to continue composing music and learned how to drive the russian VL82 train in a simulator. But in Wolfen-Nord, it was very grey and unbearably lonely. And I started drinking. A bottle or two of wine at a time. The workload increased significantly because the CTO and team lead left the company. And a couple of senior devopses as well. Two mid-level devopses in a DevOps team on a project with a load of approximately 1 million RPS, of course, a very intriguing setup. So, I began to drink much more than I had allowed myself before. And the dog of loneliness tore at my throat with the dull fangs of drunken melancholy. And there were debts, too. A lot of debts. Just when you think you've sorted out one, you get hit with an 800 Euro bill from the AOK, for example. And the sick leave ran out. And the vacation days. And I ran out. Part 4: Venez m'aider Just a few rotations of the Earth before day X, while walking to Kaufland for groceries, I came across a multi-storey building with a partially dismantled roof. I wrote a note about it in my weblog, which you can find and read. I stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at this piece of art. A house without a roof. Just imagine! And is it even a house when the roof is the blue sky? The sight and the accompanying thoughts made me exceptionally melancholic, and I successfully drowned that melancholy in drink once again. On day X, when I woke up and realized I could no longer work - not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't - I thought, I thought, "Uh-oh! We've just hit the end of the line." It was terrifying to admit to myself that I was burnt out. After all, I thought that fate wouldn't befall me - or at least not so soon. I took sick leave and tried to figure out what to do about all this. I came up with nothing. Of course, it wasn't the first time I had pondered such things. It would've been strange if anything sensible had come to mind in that state. Nothing did, alas. I drank. And then another. Meanwhile, unknown individuals were making demolition sounds from various parts of the building. I don't know why or for what reason - maybe renovations. I watched this from the window of my apartment as they took out the bathtub, the sink, the tiles, and all of that. And this sight made me even sadder than the house without a roof. I don't know why. The apartment was being scraped out piece by piece. After two hours, something in my head finally broke, and I went into a tilt. I no longer wanted to live at all. However, due to my commitment to my family, I couldn't allow myself the luxury of not living, and even now, that remains an unaffordable luxury for me. So, I decided, as the song "Five Miles Out" by Mike Oldfield goes, to utter the fateful words: "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Calling all stations! In great difficulty, over." Even though I knew I'd end up in a mental hospital, and I didn't want that at all. And it was scary. But it had to be done. The situation was becoming critical, but I couldn't handle it on my own anymore. My poor brain, in that moment and state, could come up with nothing better than to spam all available communication channels. But perhaps it was for the best. Approximately 20-30 people, including colleagues and sympathizers from various chats, called the ambulance simultaneously. I opened the front door to the apartment, prepared all the necessary documents, and sat on the floor waiting for the paramedics. When they arrived, all I could do was respond to questions with "Ich spreche kein Deutsch." Surprisingly, when they took me to the ambulance, they didn't take my phone away. My brain decided to seize the moment and take a photo for memory. In it, I am utterly out of it, almost unconscious, trying to smile and giving a thumbs-up. Part 5: Hard Reset The moment when the paramedics were escorting me out of my home and taking me in the ambulance, I remember only in fragmented memories and the photos I took in the vehicle. I don't remember arriving at the hospital either, but I do vaguely recall struggling against the medical staff and trying to escape the hospital. In short, I was acting out. A nurse later informed me that I was temporarily not allowed to leave the hospital building or go outside. It's not permitted for those who are combative. He also told me that I was kept under haloperidol for the entire weekend. It was Friday evening, and on weekends, patients like me are not given much attention. The doctors didn't know what to do with me and, as I later learned, suspected that I was on drugs. So, they resorted to the old, harsh method of haloperidol. For the entire weekend, as there was no one to examine me on a weekend. And this weekend, no matter how hard I try to remember, I can't. I can only describe the beginning of the following week when they stopped the haloperidol and I started to regain some clarity. Firstly, all weekend, - I apologize for the explicit detail, - it was very difficult for me to go to the toilet. The activity took anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour of excruciating pain. It felt as if my muscles were constantly contracted, and there was nothing I could do about it. This frightened me, and overall, I was in a state of heightened anxiety. However, I couldn't fully grasp what was happening at the time. All I could do was repeatedly mutter my magical phrase, "Ich spreche kein Deutsch," to everyone I could see. On Monday, I still didn't know that I had spent the entire weekend under haloperidol. However, I began to suspect something when an intense, inexplicable anxiety hit me in the morning, which then turned into a neck spasm in the afternoon, causing my head to tilt sharply to the side and tremble. It was terrifying and confusing. I tried to explain something to the doctors and repeatedly called the on-duty nurse to my room, but all I was given was a heating pad. And later, finally, some tablets, which made me sleep deeply and for a long time. By Tuesday, I could vaguely recall what had happened to me over the weekend. But only that I felt as if I were dying but couldn't die. A very unpleasant feeling. Brrr, even thinking about it is unpleasant. They also abruptly (very, very abruptly) discontinued Zoloft, which I had been on for the past two years, and it was really painful. The first week of withdrawal syndrome felt like electric shocks to the brain whenever I turned my head or changed my focus. Very unpleasant. Sometimes it seemed that I was about to faint at any moment. Luckily, that didn't happen. Today, the withdrawal syndrome has almost passed, and I am continuing treatment with another medication as prescribed by my treating psychiatrist. Part 6: Dona Nobis Pacem Starting from Tuesday, I began to slowly come to my senses and finally managed to start eating properly. Before that, I remember being taken to the dining hall, but even a single bun would take me half an hour or an hour to chew, and I didn't always finish it. The fact that I could now eat normally alongside my fellow sufferers was a positive relief. Upon arrival at the hospital, I was given a rather pathetic sheet of paper with the daily schedule, but in my vegetative state, I was not ready to perceive the string of letters as anything coherent. I just stared at it out of boredom. However, I didn't ever need to understand the contents of that sheet: on Monday, I was transferred from the Station St. Johannes von Gott to the Station St. Norbert, and the schedule changed. The first station takes patients in acute conditions, as was the case with me. No wonder: I had tried to escape from the paramedics' grasp and run to freedom! The Station St. Norbert treats patients with addictions, and I was placed there because they suspected I had a drug addiction. Indeed, they interrogated me several times about whether I had taken anything unusual. I denied it, but they didn't believe me. After a blood test, they stopped bothering me. Nevertheless, they kept me in this station because I dutifully admitted that I did suffer from alcohol addiction. And, importantly, it was in this station that I began to recover and obtained a new schedule of my appointments. They gave me my phone so I could communicate with the medical staff using a translator, but it soon ran out of battery, and I had to spend a couple of days in social and informational isolation. During this time, my favorite activity became wandering the hospital corridors with a cup in hand, going to the water cooler and back (I will never forgive the Germans for calling sparkling mineral water "Classic" and regular still water "Fresh"). Unfortunately, one of the patients, observing my frequent visits to the cooler, reported it to the paramedics, who politely provided me with a personal pitcher. Thus, I lost my favorite pastime at the time, and the frequency of my visits to the water source reduced by about tenfold. Fortunately, with the help of my friends, I managed to get a charger for my phone, and I regained access to the Internet. Magical. The first thing I did when I got my phone back was to listen to music. The first track I stumbled upon in my collection was "Five Miles Out" by Mike Oldfield. And it turned out to be perfectly fitting for the moment. Incidentally, from Tuesday, I was instructed to attend all the events listed on my appointment sheet. Unfortunately, due to my poor knowledge of German, I could only attend sports activities and ergotherapy. The latter involved group sessions where people would sculpt clay, work with wood and stone, and so on. It turned out to be a very effective activity to help get myself mentally back on track. Unscheduled meetings were announced in advance by handing out plastic cards with information to the patients, which had to be returned after attending the event. Because I was bored and had little else to occupy myself with, I transferred all the appointments to my phone calendar. My stay at the clinic was marked by a strict daily routine: waking up at 6:30, measuring blood pressure, taking pills, breakfast at 7:00, sports, pills, and lunch at 12:00, afternoon snack at 14:30, pills and dinner at 17:30, blood pressure measurement and pills at 21:50, lights out at 22:00. This was good, as it disciplined me and allowed me to plan my activities within the hospital. For example, upon being transferred to the Station St. Norbert, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital building and go outside, so I could visit various interesting places like the cafeteria, gym, and so on. The schedule was very helpful to ensure I didn't miss any planned activities or meals. The food here was simply excellent, even better than some German restaurants I had tried. My favorite was the lunches: every day, they served new dishes, and they never repeated during my entire stay at the hospital. Amazing. On the day of my discharge, I even asked to stay a little longer to have a hearty lunch before leaving the hospital. A pleasant bonus was that my stay coincided with the Sommerfest: a summer festival with music, non-alcoholic drinks, and delicious food. All participants (read: patients) were given several food vouchers that they could use throughout the day for drinks and food of their choice. I exchanged my vouchers for fruit lemonade and a magnificent German sausage. Overall, my time at the hospital had a very positive impact on my mental well-being. I felt like a human being for the first time in a long while, honestly. After all, I was suddenly needed by so many people. And I realized that even more people cared about me. I'm referring to the moment when numerous strangers or acquaintances of mine were calling the ambulance to help me. As soon as I started feeling better, I ordered various things through Amazon: clothes, shoes, a Garmin watch (I needed to compensate for my moral suffering somehow), a harmonica, and so on. I didn't think delivery to a psychiatric hospital would work, but the staff brought the items directly to my room. A magical country. On the hospital grounds, there is a special therapeutic staff member named Mr. Cat (a real ginger cat), who resides on the first floor and occasionally looks outside. When I was brought in for treatment and assigned to the first floor, Mr. Cat kept a close watch on the proceedings. Part 7: The Lesson The discharge process didn't go as smoothly as I had expected: I was evicted from my room right after lunch and spent an hour wandering aimlessly in limbo. A little later, I asked the medical staff when I would finally get my documents back and be able to go home, which led to me being taken to a doctor who asked why I thought I was supposed to go home. The question threw me off. I said, "I was told so." "Who told you?" - and things went on from there. Ultimately, they sorted it out among themselves and eventually released me to the long-awaited freedom. Amusingly, I also had an experience in a Russian psychiatric hospital where there was a similar mix-up with my discharge. Back then, however, I wasn't there because of burnout but because of depression that came into my life after losing my father to cancer. I was fourteen years old at the time. So, what did I learn? 1. I finally started running in the mornings. I had long struggled to force myself to do it, but here, I didn't have to force myself: it just happened. Today, like yesterday, like the day before yesterday, and so on, I ran about a kilometer in the morning before having breakfast. 2. A new framework for my daily schedule. Over a couple of weeks, I got used to waking up at the same time and eating four times a day. Before this, I would fall asleep and wake up at all sorts of odd times and barely ate. Sometimes only once a day instead of four. 3. The hospital literally reset my brain, and now I have the strength again to tackle my problems with my psychotherapist and move forward. 4. I realized - which turned out to be very important in the context of harsh social isolation - that I am not alone. There are many caring people around me, always ready to help. And that is amazing. The main thing is that I no longer intend to drink. Upon returning home, I found an open but unfinished bottle of wine, and it hit me hard. Now, it seems I have developed a strong aversion to alcohol, as I can't even think about it without feeling nauseous. Although this isn't the most rational reaction, - alas! - it's what I have. Thank you all for the support - both material and mental! Big hugs to everyone! On to the next chapter. Notes Fixing the Incorrect Keyboard 3 September 2024 Layout at macOS Login A couple of months ago, I encountered a seemingly minor but quite annoying issue on my MacBook. I encrypt the hard drives on all my laptops, which means I always need to enter a password when rebooting. The problem was that after restarting, my MacBook would always default to the wrong keyboard layout, forcing me to manually change it through the layout selection menu. Unfortunately, there were many resources online discussing similar issues, but none of them worked when it came to adjusting settings with disk encryption enabled. As it turned out, the issue was related to the fact that the input language settings were stored in NVRAM, not on the MacBook's hard drive, so tinkering with plist files didn't help. The solution was simple: you need to run the command nvram prev-lang:kbd="en:252" under the root user, which will set the keyboard layout to ABC. Enjoy! Germany House Without a Roof 20 August 2024 This evening, on my way to the grocery store, I noticed a high-rise building with a partially dismantled roof. What a sight: a house without a roof! I was so captivated by this sudden spectacle that I stopped for a minute or two to take it all in. After all, people once lived there, right? And now it's just a few thin walls of a box with nothing but sky above. I live in a similar box right now. And one day, the same fate will befall the box I call home. Of course, I won't be there when it happens. A house without a roof. Just think about it. In that moment, it felt so strange, mainly because from a distance, the walls really did seem thin, like layers of plywood. It looked as if a light breeze could topple this ridiculous structure. For some reason, I suddenly felt a strong urge to be inside that building... or rather, outside it, right? On what is now the roof, though you can't really call the floor of an apartment a roof, can you? But if there's no ceiling? Ah, who knows. And can you even call that part of the building a house if it has no roof? It's all just metaphors! I think this struck a chord with me because it resonated so well with my current state of mind. Over the past few years, I've changed countries several times, and who knows what's next; I've completely lost the feeling of having a home. No matter how much I want it back, it's gone. Even my emotional connection to the house in my hometown of Ozyory is fading over time. I fear that one day, when I can finally return there, I'll be horrified to find that it no longer feels like home. There is no home anymore. Nowhere. That's why the image of a house without a roof struck such a deep chord with me. What's most curious is that I still can't explain to myself why home is so important to me. Why do I still long to return to this phantom, non-existent place? Or perhaps that place never existed at all and it's just my imagination? After all, I don't want to return to the house in Ozyory right now. I want to find a place where I'll feel at peace. A place without the anxieties that surround me now. A place where I can finally rest. There is no such place right now. There never was. But there will be. There absolutely will be. Philosophy How Is All This Even Possible? 17 August 2024 Today, as is customary after yet another challenging work week, I visited the landscape park in Wörlitz, near Dessau, once again. In this park, some time ago, I discovered something akin to miniature catacombs - a system of narrow corridors connecting artificial underground chambers with small outdoor enclaves. I dubbed this place "The Sanctuary." It's a perfect spot for some solitude and contemplation. Hardly anyone visits this area, likely because tourists tend to overlook it, perhaps due to its somewhat inconvenient location in the park. Today, I decided to take a break there and mull over the thoughts that have occupied me for the past fortnight. For as long as I can remember, since my youth, three questions have intrigued me the most: what is the meaning of life, where does human phenomenal experience come from, and how is it even possible for the universe to exist? I found an answer to the first question relatively quickly, and it still satisfies me: there is no meaning to life, nor does one need it. We pay this price for the freedom we possess. It's crucial to remember that the universe itself has no purpose; it simply exists. The Earth has no purpose, and neither does life on Earth. It's just a rock floating in space, somewhat covered in mould due to a lack of proper care. And humans - they just exist too. We cannot inherit from the world what it does not have. And I find that remarkable. The question of how phenomenal experience is possible, where this "selfhood" comes from, why I am me and not someone else, intrigued me far more. However, to my great regret, I was born too early, and scientists still don't have an answer as to why humans can experience qualia. I once even encountered a hypothesis suggesting that consciousness could be a fundamental mechanism of our world, akin to gravity or the speed of light. Occam's Razor at work. The problem now is that each of us knows qualia because we experience it, yet no one can explain why this experience is possible. That's the way things stand. For this reason, I often jokingly refer to people as walking clumps of the universe's consciousness. Now, to the main point. How is it even possible for the world to exist? Why is it here? Okay, the Big Bang and all that. Let's assume that's the answer to "how." But why did it happen? In my childhood, my parents tried to instil religious beliefs in me, but the theological approach doesn't change the picture; in that case, we simply say, "Well, the world exists because God created it." But who, then, created God? Or rather, why is His existence possible? Essentially, we return to the starting point, merely replacing "world" with "God." God becomes an unnecessary entity here, so once again, we'll use Occam's Razor and leave the question as it is: "Why is the existence of the world possible?" Arthur Schopenhauer once said, "Those who don't wonder about the contingency of their existence, and the contingency of the world's existence, are mentally deficient." Dietrich Bonhoeffer, whom I've written about before, echoes this sentiment, politely reminding us that if we dare to imagine the number of fools surrounding us, we would be off by an order of magnitude. Considering the statements of these two esteemed gentlemen, the picture becomes rather bleak. Every time, I am deeply struck by the thought, which randomly comes to me during a walk, of why the existence of the world is even possible, why it is here. And every time, I am saddened by the likelihood that humanity will never be able to provide a definitive answer to this question. People Merci Charlotte 15 August 2024 Chère Charlotte, A year without you has flown by so quickly, though it wasn't easy at first. Each day then felt like a year, but what of it now. I dare to assume that no one has it easy in such situations, and you didn't either, having gone through it before me. After all, it is one of the most painful experiences in a person's life, just like the death of loved ones, although comparing them now seems inappropriate. However, I have experienced both the death of dear ones and their voluntary withdrawal from my life, and thus I feel entitled to speak on this matter. I promised not to write letters to you anymore, although I broke that promise once, maybe twice. Am I breaking it now? I don't know, since I won't be sending this letter to you. It will simply wait for you here, and perhaps in a moment of sorrow, you might remember me when you find yourself here, reading the lines of this letter, which I would never dare to send to you. What right do I have now? And I bear some guilt for what happened, or rather, how it happened. In hindsight, I realize that in our farewell, I behaved poorly in some respects, but please forgive him, he was hurt. And forgive me, who still tries to take responsibility for his actions. I now live in a world without you. In a year, I have grown accustomed to this world and, more importantly, accepted it as a new reality. You are now just part of my past, a bright memory. You are not in this world anymore. In a sense, you have died for me. Died because René and Charlotte have been obliterated by the present; they are now represented by an essence. And maybe it's for the best. I will remember this as one of the most memorable and vivid periods of my life. And, damn it, I sincerely regret that I didn't accept the end of this era with dignity, succumbing to my emotions. I am human. I sincerely regret it, but I no longer blame myself. On behalf of my past self, however, I apologize because my present self fully bears responsibility for my past self. I don't know why you're reading these lines now. Perhaps many people will read them, but not you. That is possible. However, if you are reading, surely you are having a hard time now as well. Life is arranged in such a way that anything can happen at any time. All of it can be endured. I have endured a lot and will endure more, so perhaps my words and my experience can ease your fate a little. Lately, I have thought a lot about the nature of human suffering and now find it fundamental, without which human existence as a species would not be possible. We are simply not designed to be constantly happy. Evolution is almost indifferent to happiness. We cannot live without ever suffering. It is part of our nature. The picture is bleak, and it becomes even darker considering that few people allow themselves such reflections, because these thoughts are terrifying. They can cause considerable pain on their own. However, by indulging in them, I finally understood how to live. Not why, I draw your specific attention to that, because it is easy to answer the question "why": human life has no inherent attribute like meaning; it is not endowed with it from birth. Kurt Vonnegut seemed to best describe humans in his books, portraying them as walking chemical flasks in which various reactions occur from time to time. That's all of us. But there is no meaning in it. That is the price we had to pay for freedom. There is no meaning. And there cannot be any universal meaning; that would greatly limit a person. However, there can be meanings. There may be many small meanings. Writing a weblog entry, editing a video, composing a new piece of music, travelling to Görlitz. None of these components are self-sufficient; for instance, I cannot say that a trip to a particular city or video editing alone can be the meaning of my life. Of course not. It would be strange if the meaning of my life was a trip to a specifically designated city. However, not individually, but collectively, the meanings have meaning. One cannot construct a Big Meaning from them, but they make our lives a bit more bearable. So, I say that it is easy to answer the question "why", because the answer is simple: "for nothing". It is more important for a person to answer the question "how", because our lives are mainly built around this question, not around the question "why." Why? Because whatever we do, we mostly do it to make life more bearable. To reduce the amount of suffering. And that is all life! Hence, it would be strange to ask, "why." Why does a person not want to suffer? This question seems as complex as, for example, why the Universe exists. How is its existence even possible? Why is it there? I do not know. But there are many interesting things in it. And we do something with them. And we ask "what to do with them" and "how," not "why." Most of the time. Why do we not want to suffer? Suffering is hard. It is really hard. It is unpleasant. Every person finds their own way to cope with this hardship, and I too found consolation for myself in the last year. My life becomes much more bearable when I help someone. Help, making another person's life a bit more bearable too. It doesn't matter how exactly it happens: for instance, I relocated my family from Russia. They were terrorized there, my brother and mother lived in fear. Perhaps I do not fully realize the importance of what I did, and maybe I never will, but it made my life easier. My life became a little less unbearable when I helped my family. Or, say, a friend who found themselves in trouble and needed support. This happened more than once in my memory, and it was never easy. It was hard, just as it is hard to experience another person's pain yourself. But every time after such instances, my life became a little less unbearable. I felt involved and felt that, even though I found myself in this world involuntarily, I could help other people who also found themselves here not by their own choice. I always found it terribly unfair: a person does not have the option to veto their parents' decision when they are born into the world. They do not even choose their name at the beginning of their journey. I hold an unpopular point of view; I am an antinatalist. I consider the creation of new lives a great crime against humanity because by creating them, we inadvertently multiply suffering. It is the greatest act of violence a person is capable of. I would never conceive a child. If I had my way, I would only adopt someone to make their suffering less. But this also involves many challenging nuances, and for now, I need to sort myself out. It seems a paradox because making others' lives a bit more bearable is both the least and, at the same time, the greatest thing we can do. And you, like all people, bear the mark of the life we live. A mark that obliges suffering. I don't want you to suffer. And the only effective way not to entirely rid yourself of suffering but to make this life a little less unbearable is to make other people's lives less unbearable. To kill the anger towards the unjust and harsh, cruel structure of the world and accept the fact that we are all its unwilling captives, deprived of even a hint of finding the meaning of existence on this giant cold rock, lost somewhere in the backwater of the Universe. Accept this fact and help other sufferers who need help. All of us and each of us. Even if it seems that there is no strength left for it. Germany Faxing Leipzig 14 August 2024 I've been suffering from some sort of weird illness for the past couple of weeks. Finally, I decided to bite the bullet and book an appointment with an ENT specialist, as I could no longer tolerate the annoying, nagging pain. Wanting to rid myself of this exhausting condition as soon as possible, I began searching for a suitable doctor. I found some options in Leipzig and Magdeburg. I managed to get their fax numbers and sent them inquiries, asking if I could get an appointment soon, as this ordeal was driving me mad. The first fax I sent received a response this morning, offering me an appointment for next week. However, something more intriguing happened in the afternoon. Someone called me from Leipzig, and I immediately guessed it was the clinic. When I answered, I realised it wasn't a person but a fax machine on the other end; its periodic beeps tempted me to beep back at the same frequency. A few minutes after this amusing misunderstanding, a real person called me back, and I was booked for an appointment scheduled for tomorrow. People Dasha 1 August 2024 One day, you told me that you wished for all of this to be over and for me to be alright. You wished that in the new year, it wouldn't even be a question. You hoped for a day when you wouldn't have to ask me if I was alright. You wanted that day to arrive when you could joyfully declare that I was alright. That I was finally alright. You wished for it so dearly. Now, I wish for everything to be alright with you. And, specifically, with us. Germany To Frankfurt and Back 25 July 2024 This week started with a minor and somewhat annoying mishap, which, however, led to a small adventure. On Monday, right after visiting the grocery store and returning home to take out the trash, I hurried and left my apartment without my keys. I closed the door exactly at the moment I realized I had left the keys inside. Unfortunately, it was too late: without the key, there was no way to open the door. Oh well, that's life. But no big deal, I've handled worse: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. First, I tried calling the emergency number of the housing cooperative from which I rent this apartment. Unfortunately, I couldn't get through, and I didn't want to call a locksmith who could regain access to my apartment through a small surgical operation on the door, as that would have cost me quite a bit. Then I remembered that I had given a duplicate of my keys to my friend from Frankfurt a little while ago. I immediately called her, explained my predicament, and asked if I could come to retrieve the keys. I could. Excellent! Off to Frankfurt, then. I immediately informed my colleagues at work about the incident and, leaving the house, I first threw out the trash and then went to the store to buy something to eat on the way. Fifteen minutes later, I reached the nearest train station and mapped out a route from Wolfen to Frankfurt with transfers in Bitterfeld, Halle, and Kassel. Deutsche Bahn did not disappoint: the first train, as it often happens in such situations, was half an hour late, but fortunately, I had plenty of time for the transfer in Bitterfeld. While waiting for the train, two regional express trains to Leipzig sped past my station. I arrived at Frankfurt's main train station at half-past eight in the evening. My dear friend met me and handed over the keys. We wandered around the city a bit, and now all that was left was to complete my journey by returning home. I had planned the return trip while on my way to Frankfurt. It turned out that I could get to Leipzig from there by bus, which departed at half-past midnight and arrived at five in the morning. I checked if there were any trains running from Leipzig to Wolfen at that early hour, and having confirmed that there were, I bought a ticket for the bus. Boarding the bus was quick and convenient; the driver checked passengers onto the bus using their electronic tickets presented as QR codes. One fellow, however, was not allowed on the bus because it turned out the date on his ticket did not match. It happens. The driver spent about fifteen minutes trying to sort out his situation and even offered to sell him a ticket on the spot. During the trip, I managed to get some sleep, although sleeping in a sitting position was quite uncomfortable. We arrived in Leipzig on schedule, and I felt very strange when the driver, who was from Ukraine, announced the arrival station in Russian. So unusual. Within five minutes, I was at the train station. All that was left was to get to Wolfen by train and from there to Wolfen-Nord by local bus. The train departed from platform 18a, which turned out to be outside the station building. Thanks to this, I had the chance to witness a beautiful sunrise and the endless railway tracks, with the curves of the rails gleaming in the morning sun. Reaching Wolfen, I transferred to the bus and got to my neighborhood. The journey was nearing its end; I just needed to get home and use the keys. On my way home, I stopped by the store to buy some food for breakfast. And now, here I am, writing these lines for another note. One of my colleagues sympathized with my predicament, but I found nothing in this small adventure to be pitied. I'm not a big fan of Mondays, and this trip was an excellent opportunity to perk up and get energized for the rest of the week. I love such spontaneous, unplanned trips, and this little circumnavigation was just what I needed. Calling a boring locksmith and boringly watching him boringly cut open a boring door to boringly get into a boring apartment - boring. Germany The Deutschland Chapter 16 July 2024 Nothing in life fascinates me quite like the passage of time. At present, it is my favourite phenomenon in the Universe. The flow of time reminds me most of a river's current. Both can accelerate and decelerate. Some periods on our life timeline rush by with incredible speed, while others drag on unimaginably long. For instance, the last six months of my life in Russia felt like several years, whereas a year and a half in emigration passed quickly and unnoticed. And so, exactly six months ago, I concluded another chapter of my life to continue my journey on the pages of a new chapter called Deutschland. I arrived in Germany on a humanitarian visa (§ 22 Abs. 2 AufenthG), which was granted to me by the German Foreign Ministry due to political persecution by the Russian authorities for my anti-war activities. Many people mistakenly confuse this with asylum, but this visa has nothing to do with asylum: it is issued outside the EU, whereas to obtain refugee status one must be on the territory of one of the union's countries. I learned about my humanitarian visa approval at the beginning of October last year. Amusingly, this happened just a couple of weeks after ending a romantic relationship with my former beloved. This Universe has a funny sense of humour. Upon arriving in Germany, I settled in a small town called Bitterfeld-Wolfen, more precisely in Wolfen, in the Krondorf district. I spent four and a half months in a temporary flat while searching for a permanent one until I found an apartment in another area, Wolfen-Nord, where I am currently writing this post. Wolfen has a population of about 15,000 people, with 6,000 residing in my district. What struck me most upon moving here was how deserted the streets can be on winter evenings: it seemed that several times, walking across town from home to the station, I didn't encounter a single soul. I must admit that sometimes I feel melancholic and lonely due to the surrounding emptiness, but for as long as I can remember, I have spent most of my life in such conditions, so I can't say I'm overly saddened by it. On the contrary, there is something quite enchanting about it. Some of my friends and acquaintances scared me with stories about bureaucratic tribulations, the trials that all newcomers must face here, but I can't say that German bureaucracy has caused me much trouble. Yes, sometimes it can be challenging to respond to five or six letters at once, but this doesn't happen very often. After all, I have always wanted to be in a country where the state apparatus could be used as a tool to meet my needs: for instance, I discovered that you can buy various insurances here, ranging from legal protection insurance to personal liability insurance, to avoid paying for, say, accidentally scratching someone else's car or flooding the downstairs neighbours. Wolfen is part of the former GDR, and this is very evident in the behaviour of the people living here and in the local architecture. Honestly, I am not particularly thrilled about living in a place once touched by the Soviet state, and where the remnants of that state still linger. However, I find a small consolation in this: at least something familiar, even if sometimes aesthetically unappealing. This inconvenience is more than compensated by the fact that there used to be a factory producing film for cameras here, which I have already managed to acquire as a souvenir. It's quite an unusual feeling to think that I am now living in a flat where someone involved in the creation of this film might have lived. Wolfen-Nord is abandoned and forgotten, and apart from a rather dull park, there are no entertainments here. For this reason, I often head to the other end of town, to the Bitterfeld district, to relax. Bitterfeld has a wonderful lake called Großer Goitzschesee, and it is not called "big" for nothing: it is indeed very large. In photos, it sometimes even looks like the sea; at least some of my friends have asked which sea I finally managed to visit. It's a very calm, quiet, and peaceful place. I love arriving at this lake in the evening, climbing the observation tower, and watching the sunset from there. It's truly magnificent. The lake also has a small sandy beach and a promenade where you can constantly see teenagers diving into the water. This is especially relevant in the current weather, indeed. Although I still don't know what this new chapter of my life will bring, and despite not being sure whether I will stay here or move to Canada or Cyprus, I am very glad to have settled here in Germany. I continue to face new challenges and trials due to this latest emigration, but isn't that wonderful? It's an excellent game mechanic if we view our life as a game. Difficult, sometimes unbearably so, but always interesting and exciting, even if existential dread occasionally takes over. To hell with it, honestly. As long as friends are around. And mine are wonderful. Politics Ohmatdyt 10 July 2024 This is the name of the largest children's hospital in Ukraine, which was ruthlessly bombed by Russia two days ago. At the time of the attack, 627 children were in the hospital building. Honestly, I neglected these news the day before yesterday: after two years of constant gloom, you get used to the continuous stream of bad news and begin to ignore even the most tragic events. I am writing this to emphasize that we must continue to speak out about the crimes of the Russian regime and under no circumstances remain silent. Not for a second. Even if it seems like no one will hear this cry. What is happening now is horrific and, of course, it should not be happening, because it should never happen under any circumstances. People should not suffer and die for no reason just because some bastard like Putin and his gang of henchmen had a mad whim and decided to take revenge for the failure of their "Blitzkrieg" in February 2022. What worries me more is the indifferent tone with which some of my acquaintances in Russia, whose minds are swayed by propaganda, speak about this terrible tragedy. - I wonder if you can continue to support Putin after Ohmatdyt? - I ask one of my acquaintances, to which she retorts: - Yes. I wonder how long you will keep asking such questions? Two years ago, at the very beginning of Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, right after I was detained by the police after my anti- war protest at the building of the presidential administration of Russia in Moscow, I called my uncle and asked him a simple question: - Tell me, are you for or against the war with Ukraine? His answer was as affirmative and simple as possible: - I am, of course, for it. I still cannot put into words all the devastation I feel now. I am increasingly alarmed by the speed with which Russian society, driven by the voices of propaganda, is plunging into the abyss. I am increasingly frightened by how quickly everything human within a person fades away and how quickly and easily they cling to evil. But this does not mean that all is lost. We are witnessing a tragedy of incredible scale, but we must remember that there are incomparably more of us who are against this cruelty and violence than that bunch of deranged killers and their sympathisers. I donated some money from my personal savings to the Ohmatdyt Foundation, and I personally wish the criminals of Putin's regime and Putin himself to burn in hell. Magna est veritas, et praevalebit. Germany Bitterfeld 26 June 2024 Bitterfeld is a district in the town of Bitterfeld-Wolfen, where I currently live. Like Wolfen, Bitterfeld was an independent town until 1st July 2007. The first documented mention of Bitterfeld dates back to 1224, and therefore, this year, the town is celebrating its 800th anniversary. Starting tomorrow and running through to Sunday, various festive events will be held in the town to mark this memorable date. Although I now live in Wolfen, I have one very important memory associated with Bitterfeld: it was to this town that I arrived on an ICE high-speed train from Berlin the day after my birthday. It turned out to be a birthday present just the way I like it - a fast train and a beautiful town. However, I must admit, in January, Bitterfeld looked quite gloomy, especially considering the fact that no matter where you looked, the streets were empty. Germany Wörlitz 24 June 2024 Today, I had the day off because I work remotely for a Cypriot company, and it's a public holiday over there. On such days, I usually try to get out of my flat and visit a place I haven't been to before. Today, I decided to be spontaneous and just took a train to Dessau to see where I could go from there. I spotted an amusingly tiny train carriage on the first platform, heading to a town called Wörlitz. Without much thought, I decided to hop on. The journey started delightfully. There wasn't a conductor; instead, the driver performed that role. He merely asked if I had a Deutschland-Ticket, and my "Ja" was enough for him. He then retreated to his tiny driver's cabin, which is quite compact. This allowed space on its left side for passengers to stand and look straight ahead as the train moved. Unusual and beautiful. The train moved slowly, almost like a guided tour, through dense green forests and golden fields, occasionally passing through small villages. The trip from Dessau to Wörlitz took just half an hour. During the journey, I managed to look up interesting places in Wörlitz: it turns out there's a beautiful landscape park, and it's only a 15-20 minute leisurely walk from the railway station. Despite the town's relatively small size, I found a grocery shop and bought some ice cream. It was scorching hot today, so the ice cream was a much- needed treat. The town seemed as deserted as the one I currently live in. On my way from the train station to the park, I encountered just one person, apart from those who walked with me from the station. Finally, I felt I'd arrived. After walking down a narrow street towards a nearby field, I found a path leading to the heart of the park. I didn't continue right away; for the first time in ages, I felt the genuine aroma of nature's grasses and heard the whispers of the wind nearby. Not the usual noisy gusts but actual whispers. It's hard to describe in words, but at that moment, I was utterly captivated. For the first time in a long while, I felt truly alive. A long-forgotten and unfamiliar sensation. The wind seemed to invite me to continue, so I followed the path. To my right was a golden field full of ears of grain, and to my left were small trees that were clearly planted not too long ago. Ahead, I found a few steps leading down to a lake with ducks swimming in it. A bit further, I discovered a rise that led to yet another golden field. The beauty was indescribable. I then wandered into a forest, where I found a small wooden cabin, perfect for cooling off and recovering from the sun. After that, I continued my journey. The park turned out to be remarkable, possibly one of the most beautiful places I've ever been to, if not the most beautiful. For the first time in ages, I wasn't in a hurry. I wandered leisurely along various paths, stumbling upon clearings, old buildings, and lakeshores. It felt like one could wander in this park forever and never get bored. Surprisingly, there weren't many people around. That's a good thing. Altogether, an extraordinary place, and I highly recommend visiting it. I will certainly return, probably more than once, and I'll bring friends along. Feel free to email me if you'd like to see photos from my walk. Updates My New Postal Address 23 June 2024 If you would like to send me a postcard or correspond with me by regular mail, I hope you will find my new postal address useful. | René Coignard | Postfach 11 03 | 06754 Wolfen | Deutschland Germany Deutsche Post 17 June 2024 The longer you live in Germany and the more you integrate into the local community, the quicker you understand why everyone here is literally obsessed with letters. Before moving to Germany, I was often warned about the local bureaucracy, to which I just shrugged it off - seen it all before. Back in Russia, I would send heaps of written correspondence to the local govs to solve problems, as well as during court cases, like after elections. These are just a couple of examples; in reality, I encountered paperwork much more frequently in Russia. Though perhaps less often than most people, because our bureaucracy was considered one of the seven deadly sins. I want to continue the thought from the beginning of previous paragraph here. Bureaucracy in Germany is closely tied to the fact that the postal system works well here. It works really well. You're unlikely to hear from a German that they've had a situation where the post lost their letter. This is extremely rare here. Letters from one part of Germany to another arrive in astonishing times: one or two days. Moreover, all this can be tracked in an app. When a letter arrives at the sorting centre, it is photographed automatically during sorting, enters the system, and the user can see which letters are on their way to their mailbox. An unexpected benefit of Germany's developed bureaucratic system can be found by people who don't yet speak German as well as, say, English or their native language and have to use a translator. Yes, many issues can be resolved through postal correspondence, almost without resorting to other communication methods. For example, I found my flat by contacting a housing co-op via email, we arranged a viewing through email, and all the other correspondence was also handled there. Sometimes, of course, letters came in paper form, but that didn't stop me from replying via email. Yes, there's this funny thing here when you write an email to some office, and they reply in a paper envelope. The thing is, an email cannot definitively establish the sender's identity upon receipt and guarantee that the letter reaches the intended recipient. At least from a legal standpoint, an email means nothing here and obligates no one, whereas a regular, paper letter has legal force. This is tied to one important feature of the local postal service. For a letter to reach its recipient, the latter's name must be displayed on their mailbox. Otherwise, the postman won't put the letter in the mailbox as they won't know where to place it, especially if it's an apartment building. Of course, you can opt for a Postfach Extra, but that's another story. Placing someone else's name on your mailbox is not allowed: it should only have the names of those who live in the house or flat. Thanks to this, the letter (almost) guaranteedly reaches only the intended recipient, and the sender can be sure that the recipient goes by the name they have the right to use. Another convenient feature of the postal service is that when you move, you can temporarily forward your mail from your old address to your new one. That's what I did, and in just a few days, I received my first forwarded letter at my mailbox at the new address. This service costs about 30 € for six months. It's enough time to update your address everywhere and receive the remaining letters that might have been mistakenly sent to the old address. Thanks to the Germans' particularly careful attitude towards postal services, I notice another important feature. If an email address is listed on a website, in most cases, you will get a response. Tested many times. Sometimes, you even get a prompt reply: there were occasions when they replied within a couple of hours. Today, by the way, I sent about ten letters to various offices. Quite a fun task, really. It happens rarely with me, usually when I'm too lazy to respond to a letter on the day I receive it. In the near future, I'll feel like Harry Potter again, with owls seriously spamming my mailbox. Germany Integration the Hard Way 14 June 2024 So, I live in Wolfen, and I need to integrate here somehow. Renting a flat and paying taxes don't count. I've decided to tackle the problem more creatively: not only am I currently living in a flat where employees of the film factory used to live, but colour film was also invented here in Wolfen. Therefore, without hesitation, I bought some "Original Wolfen" colour and black-and-white film. Next month, I'll get hold of an analogue camera and wander around Wolfen, capturing its surroundings on 35mm film. Of course, it would be great to try to get not just any camera, but one also made locally. For example, an Agfa Isola II, which is available in the local museum. Although I'm not sure that will be easy, who said I'm going to give up? If I'm going to integrate, I'm going all in. Germany Schließzylinder Kaputt 11 June 2024 I've just had a rather amusing incident which I feel compelled to share immediately. After moving into a new flat, I noted how tricky it was to enter the building: the first time, it took me a good minute or two to figure out how to open the front door. A neighbour, whom I hadn't yet met, noticed me struggling at the entrance and helped me get inside. "The lock is broken," he chuckled at the time. Eventually, I mastered the art of unlocking it in a flash, but initially, it was a challenge. Today, after finishing my workday (I should mention I work remotely), I decided to stroll to Penny, just a minute's walk from home, to pick up some meat for dinner. Upon returning, I was greeted by a surprise: a freshly printed notice on the front door which practically screamed at me: "Achtung! In Ihrer Haustür wurde im Auftrag der WBG ein neuer Schließzylinder eingebaut." Below was a small handwritten addition in Ukrainian, presumably from my neighbour, assuming I'm from Ukraine. I didn't pay much attention to this "Achtung!" except for a couple of simple thoughts that crossed my mind about the note added that "new keys are in your mailbox." Absorbed in my thoughts, I reached into my pocket, took out a key, and tried the door. It wouldn't open. Thinking, "Blast, wrong key," I tried another. That's when the penny dropped: the right key no longer fit the lock. It then dawned on me what had happened. The management company had changed the lock on the main door and left new keys for the residents in their mailboxes. The solution was quite outlandish: the new key lay inside the mailbox, but to retrieve it, I needed to get inside the building. Quite the puzzle! Fortunately, by a stroke of luck, I had recently made the acquaintance of a neighbour living one floor down, so I simply called her flat, and she opened the building door for me. After that, I successfully retrieved my keys from my mailbox, which, by the way, were not immediately visible as they had gotten stuck halfway down. Just another day full of adventures. Germany Wolfen-Nord 10 June 2024 The feeling of home. Such a strange and long-forgotten sensation! Could it be that I can finally afford such a luxury in this ever- changing world as returning home? Yes, now I can. Now, finally, I can. At the beginning of the month, I finally completed my move from a temporary to a permanent flat. My seventh move in the past two years. I'm still living in Wolfen, only the neighbourhood has changed. It was Krondorf, now it's Nord. The very same Nord I wrote about in my previous note about Wolfen. In the last century, factory workers who produced photographic film lived here. Colour photographic film, by the way, was invented here in Wolfen. I even bought myself some colour and black-and-white film as a souvenir, which, I admit, is quite difficult to come by these days. It's a rare commodity, indeed. It feels unusual to live in a flat with such history and to realise that there's a small chance the person who lived here before may have been involved in creating the film I bought. Actually, I think if you get a film camera and load it with "Original Wolfen" film, then take a walk around the city, take photos, and develop them, an unprepared viewer might not immediately guess the year they were taken. Of course, this requires making sure that various shops like Penny, EDEKA, and the like don't sneak into the frame. It turned out to be such a spontaneous and unplanned journey into the past. And it's great. Et c'est follement romantique. Since I wrote the last note about Wolfen, quite a few interesting and significant events have occurred, but the most important one, I believe, is the successful evacuation of my brother from Russia. Yes, after a long time, I finally managed to get him out of Russia to Sakartvelo, where he now lives with my mum, whom I moved there last year. He has taken a liking to Tbilisi. Naturally. His visit to the capital coincided with the protests, so he got a taste of some tear gas. But that's so much fun! In reality, I am very glad that I managed to get my entire family out of Russia because ever since I managed to escape last year, I couldn't shake the feeling that the state might take my family members hostage. At the very least, I was very worried about the constant police visits to my mum. It's possible that after her departure, these guys might have started to harass my brother, which I certainly didn't want. Now I can breathe a sigh of relief and fully focus on myself and my life. My move was quick and swift, but more importantly, completely unexpected. This, of course, hit my financial situation hard, once again plunging me into debt, but I regret nothing, honestly! Even though I have to sleep on a mattress on the floor for now. And my only furniture is a table and four chairs. The table, by the way, was dragged with a friend (thanks, Timofey!) for almost a kilometre and a half in a heavy downpour, and then we heroically hauled it up to the fifth floor. Or fourth, if you count from zero, as is customary in Germany. All this does not sadden me in the least; on the contrary, it makes me happy, invigorates and inspires me. Yes, I don't have a bed, but I have managed to buy flowers for my home, which I can now take care of, just as I once took care of the flowers in my garden, from which the Russian Federation separated me. The temporary lack of comfort is easily compensated by the feeling of home. Perhaps one day I will have the happy opportunity to visit my home in Ozyory again as the war ends, and the government falls. Perhaps. But now my home is here, in Wolfen-Nord, not in Ozyory. And finding this home opens a new chapter in my life. A chapter yet to be written. Notes Facebook & Instagram No More 1 June 2024 Today, I deleted all my Facebook and Instagram accounts (the old ones under the name Mikhail Podivilov, and the new ones under my new name). I haven't used Facebook for a long time as it was no longer of any benefit to me, and Instagram frustrates me with its content formats. I dislike stories, reels, and the way the photo feed looks. I will continue sharing photos from my life with my friends in private messages, but I have realized several times that posting photos for public viewing brings me more discomfort than joy. It certainly brings no benefit, only harm in the form of cheap dopamine and the like. I tried to manage this by restricting access to my account, allowing only my followers to see the photos, but that wasn't enough. So, I decided to delete my account altogether. That's all folks! Writing I'll Read It 26 May 2024 I have been blogging almost continuously since my youth (well, at least I try not to abandon it - as you can see, I'm doing quite well so far), and since then, I have adhered to a principle I devised myself. The principle is simple and goes as follows: "If you don't write, you don't think." Manuel Moreale believes that the most common reasons people are afraid to start a personal blog are "I don't know what to write about" and "what if no one will read it?" If you are still afraid to start your blog for these reasons, I can be your first reader. Just send me a link to your note at the address listed in the footer of this page. Philosophy Theories of Stupidity 26 May 2024 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian and philosopher, claimed that "stupidity is a more dangerous enemy of the good than malice." These words were dedicated to the ten-year "anniversary" of Hitler's rise to power. Two years after this statement, following a period of imprisonment in a concentration camp, Bonhoeffer was executed. He believed that evil could be fought, exposed, and even defeated. Evil has a destructive impact on human society, yet it can be overcome through legal or forceful means. In contrast, against stupidity, we are utterly powerless: | Neither protests nor the use of force accomplish anything here; | reasons fall on deaf ears; facts that contradict one's | prejudgment simply need not be believed - in such moments the | stupid person even becomes critical - and when facts are | irrefutable, they are just pushed aside as inconsequential, as | incidental. In all this the stupid person, in contrast to the | malicious one, is utterly self-satisfied and, being easily | irritated, becomes dangerous by going on the attack. | | Dietrich Bonhoeffer Bonhoeffer asserted that stupidity is neither a psychological nor an intellectual issue - its nature is purely social. Stupidity is inseparable from human nature and is reproduced by the simple mechanics of social upbringing since prehistoric times. Unfortunately, each of us is, to some extent, susceptible to stupidity because, yes, we live in a society of stupid ones. However, according to Bonhoeffer, people who are more isolated from society (especially if by their own choice) are less prone to stupidity. Such individuals are more inclined to reflect and, logically, are less susceptible to propaganda. They manage to rid themselves of the social defect of stupidity, which is largely caused by dependence on public opinion. Echoing Bonhoeffer, Professor of Economic History at the University of California, Berkeley, Carlo Cipolla, published an essay in 1976 titled "The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity," in which he was even more radical than Bonhoeffer and viewed stupidity as an existential threat to humanity. According to Cipolla, stupid people have several distinctive traits: * They are abundant; * They are irrational; * They cause problems for others without apparent benefit to themselves, thereby lowering society's total well-being. Thus, it turns out Bonhoeffer was right: human stupidity itself is an evil that is very difficult to combat. Stupidity is indeed a more dangerous enemy than evil itself. Cipolla believes that people always underestimate the number of fools around them. No matter how many idiots we suspect in our surroundings, according to Cipolla, our inner optimist always underestimates their total number. Yes, living in a world where, everywhere you look, there's a fool, is not very comfortable. The percentage of stupid people in different groups of society remains constant. Every category one can imagine - gender, race, nationality, education level, income - possesses a fixed percentage of stupid people. Stupid people exist in every country on Earth. In every society. In every government. At every workplace. Everywhere. According to Cipolla, a stupid person is someone who causes losses to another person or a group of people while deriving no gain and possibly even incurring losses themselves. He calls this the "golden law of stupidity." This law implies the existence of three other types of people besides fools. First, there is the intelligent person, whose actions benefit both themselves and others. Then, there is the bandit, who benefits themselves at others' expense. And lastly, there is the helpless person, whose actions enrich others at their own expense. Non-stupid people always underestimate the damaging power of stupid individuals. In particular, non-stupid people constantly forget that at all times and places and under any circumstances, dealing or associating with stupid people always turns out to be a costly mistake. We underestimate the stupid, and we do so at our own peril. | A stupid person is more dangerous than a bandit. | | Carlo Cipolla Unfortunately, we have no tool for combating stupid people. The difference between societies that crumble under the weight of their foolish citizens and those that prevail lies in the composition of non-stupid people. Those who progress despite the fools around them have a high percentage of people acting rationally, compensating for the losses caused by the stupid by bringing benefits to themselves and their peers. Societies in decline have the same percentage of stupid people as successful ones. However, they also have a high percentage of people who profit others while incurring losses themselves. And, as Cipolla writes, "an alarming proliferation of the bandits with overtones of stupidity." History confirms that countries typically progress when enough intelligent people are in power to restrain the active fools (hello, AfD) and prevent them from destroying what the intelligent have produced. In declining countries, the upper echelons are usually dominated by stupid bandits, while the populace consists largely of naive simpletons. And we know, unfortunately, where this usually leads. Notes Je suis René Coignard 1 May 2024 For as long as I can remember, I have emphasized the importance of one's name in shaping their identity. Exactly a year ago, I made one of the most significant changes to my life - I changed my name. It's quite remarkable to think that just over a year ago, most people addressed me as Mikhail, but today, almost everyone calls me René, except my colleagues and governmental agencies. Importantly, my family members have also respected my choice and call me as I wish to be addressed. Since my youth, I've found it profoundly unfair that we neither choose to enter this world nor select our own names. A name, after all, plays a crucial role in social interactions within society. It can reveal a lot about an individual, especially if it is a name they have chosen themselves. As I mentioned earlier, my colleagues and the state still use a different name from the one I have chosen for myself. This is a deliberate choice: I do not wish to change my name in official documents because I find it convenient to use two names - one for myself, friends, and acquaintances, and another for professional and governmental interactions. This allows me to swiftly switch contexts and understand who is addressing me and even under what circumstances we met. However, in the future, when I acquire German citizenship, I plan to include my chosen name on my ID card, as this is possible in Germany. Although I publicly announced my name change on the first of May last year, I had begun using the name much earlier. For instance, I registered the domain for my website at the end of November 2021, and upon arriving in Tbilisi last year, I immediately introduced myself by my new name. It is symbolic that I chose to start my new life with this name, particularly because René means "reborn." Life also has its ironies: last year, I had a romantic relationship with a charming French girl named Charlotte. We had a wonderful holiday together in the Svaneti mountains of Sakartvelo. I still hold the fondest memories of her and am glad she was a part of my life. Moreover, I had the wonderful opportunity to confess my love in French and, for the first time in my life, to say "Je t'aime." How wonderful that was! So, the foundation is laid, and to the question, "Is René your real name?" I have confidently replied "yes" from the very first day I adopted it. Interestingly, some friends and acquaintances were initially skeptical about my decision, but now, there isn't a single person in my circle who uses my old name when addressing me. Changing my name turned out to be less of a challenge than I had anticipated; nonetheless, I invested five years of creative effort into this decision. And I am infinitely pleased with the result - truly, I couldn't be happier. People Natasha 24 April 2024 A brief note about my dearest friend. Natasha and I met in Germany after I had moved here, and notably, we met twice: our communication began on the pages of a website called "Flymer," where people can exchange anonymous "notes" with each other. We lost touch after our first encounter, but fate had it that our correspondence resumed after some time. I must say, I am very pleased and truly cherish our friendship. It seems there has never been someone in my life whom I trust as much as I trust you. We met during a challenging period in our lives, and I am sincerely grateful to you for the support you have already provided and continue to offer. I am publishing this note on my weblog as an acknowledgment and thanks for everything you do for me. Projects Weblog 14 April 2024 This weekend caught me by surprise: usually, after a workweek, I dedicate my free time to hanging out with friends or taking trips to new cities in Germany via Deutsche Bahn trains. However, this time the weather turned sour for traveling, and my friends already had their own plans, so I decided to occupy myself with something interesting. I chose to work on a project I had been contemplating for a while - a plain text-based blog engine on PHP. As you might have guessed, I succeeded (after all, you are most likely reading this text rendered by my engine). I have long been a proponent of minimalism, and running a blog in such a style is thrilling for me because it requires neither a database, nor HTML, nor CSS - nothing! Everything is stored in text files, which are rendered in a special way when the site is visited. I was inspired by the RFC format, so the blog looks accordingly. Currently, the blog engine supports generating sitemap.xml, RSS, displaying posts by unique links, categories, and date. As a bonus, you can find a cat on the 404 page if you try hard enough (give it a shot). The blog engine's source code is available on GitHub. https://github.com/coignard/weblog Russia No More Russia 3 April 2024 Last year, the Russian state, embodied by police officers from Kolomna, stormed into my mother's home and, without any semblance of civility, threatened to plant drugs on her to fabricate a criminal case against her. This happened because I had managed to escape to Sakartvelo to avoid being chased by the police for speaking out against the war and defending human rights. Realising how serious this was, I acted swiftly to bring my mother to join me in Sakartvelo, where she remains to this day. Meanwhile, I've moved to Germany on a humanitarian visa for safety reasons. Since my brother was also in danger from the authorities, I've finally managed to move him from Russia to Sakartvelo as well. It happened just a few days ago, and I still can't quite believe that my whole family is now safe and sound out of the country. Now, as my family gets used to life in Sakartvelo, I can relax and move forward without worrying about their safety. Philosophy Why Be 29 March 2024 During my lunch break today, I visited McDonald's and on my way home, I heard the intriguing melodies composed by the wind as it conducted an orchestra of tree branches and leaves. It was then that a thought struck me: here exists a tree, allowing the wind to flow through its crown, rustling away. Just living, simply existing, untempted by the search for its own meaning of life. The little bugs crawling on the ground are equally unburdened by the quest for life's meaning. Whether birds might eat them tomorrow seems a matter of profound indifference to them. So what if they do, really? If the birds feast, they feast. Even the cat, poking its head through the fence bars and cautiously observing passersby, is blissfully unaware of the need to seek out life's purpose. Humans, however, believe they are distinctly different, and indeed, they are different in a curious way: while the meaning of any other creature's life has been merely to live and, if possible, reproduce, humans have craved something more, something much greater. Regardless of the magnitude of this artificially constructed "meaning," it seldom left them satisfied. Humans are haunted by loneliness and dissatisfaction with their lives. It seems as if the answer to "why am I here" could magically tune all the discordant strings of the soul and restore a sense of inner balance, as well as the once-lost tranquility, serenity, and ataraxia. Nature is more definitive in these matters: unlike humans, it doesn't hypothesize, it knows that there is no special meaning to life intended for us; as with animals, the purpose of human existence is merely to be alive and try to reproduce, so that all previous iterations of existence were not in vain. So what to do in the absence of meaning? Let the wind flow through the crown of your hair and rustle. Peek your head through the fence bars and cautiously watch the world go by. Will you die tomorrow? To hell with death, truly. If it comes, it comes. A person will stop searching for the meaning of life, and for the first time, with wonder, see this world through the eyes of their inner child, once cornered by their own doing. They'll start to live and, having taken a hundred steps across the endless fields the color of the sun, they'll pause. They'll pause and, spreading their arms, will run with all their might... simply because they can run. Because they are alive and they exist. They'll run not with a predetermined and meticulously calculated purpose, but just because. And they shall make merry and laugh. And they shall be happy. In that instant, a part of their former "self" that demanded meaning on this senseless planet will die. In that instant, they may finally understand all the living beings that surrounded them before. Perhaps they'll even begin to treat nature more gently, feeling once again a part of it. Perhaps. Who knows. Yet there will be no more searching for meaning, nor the desire to embark on that quest again. And thus, life begins. Germany Wolfen 25 March 2024 On the 16th of January this year, precisely a day after my birthday, I left Sakartvelo and surrendered myself to the brisk embrace of Germany. By that time, not even a year had passed since my departure from Russia, yet I had already changed two countries. Sakartvelo, in any case, was never perceived as a country I wanted to stay in for long, despite the fact that Kutaisi and my battered apartment there had become dear to me: the authorities of Sakartvelo with enviable regularity deny entry to political activists with Russian citizenship after a "visa run," which had already happened to at least two of my friends. Two years after the onset of Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine and the accompanying adventures tied to my political persecution by Russian authorities for my anti-war statements and human rights activities, I yearned to finally take a breath and settle in a peaceful place where I could soberly contemplate my future plan of action for the "Life of René Coignard" project. Due to the war, my planning horizon had been reduced to a mere week, sometimes even just a few days or hours. However, after moving to Germany, the planning horizon expanded to five years: precisely the time required to live here to obtain citizenship. Yes, I want to acquire German citizenship. Initially, I planned to emigrate to France, but the local authorities dragged their feet for too long processing my application for a humanitarian visa (issued to citizens of the Russian Federation who are persecuted in their home country on political grounds; legally not considered and in no way connected to asylum). In contrast, the German Federal Foreign Office (Auswärtiges Amt) processed my application much more swiftly. In just six months, indeed. Honestly, I had all but forgotten about the humanitarian visa when I received a message from the German Federal Foreign Office stating that it had finally been approved. This happened just a couple of weeks after I parted ways with my beloved, and to this day, the situation seems to carry a certain comedic twist: just as I began to recover from the sudden blow, the Universe seemed to pat me on the shoulder and say, "Well, things happen. Here, take this humanitarian visa and go to Germany, cheer up." As if offering candy to a crying child, just to alleviate their sorrow. I immediately filled out the visa application and took it to the German consulate in Tbilisi. A month of waiting, a couple more appointments (or "Termin" as the Germans call it) and voilà: a consulate officer hands me my passport, now adorned with a shiny new Type "D" multi-visa valid for three months. Around the same time, I learned that I had been allocated to the town of Bitterfeld-Wolfen in the state of Saxony-Anhalt, using the "Königstein key." The "Königstein key" is a method for distributing refugees across Germany, ensuring an even spread across the federal states based on tax revenue and population size, which is quite logical. Incidentally, my chance of being allocated to Saxony-Anhalt was a mere 2.75%, and it was far more likely for me to end up in North Rhine-Westphalia, where 21 out of 100 are allocated. But of course, that makes sense: it's the western part of Germany, with a correspondingly larger budget. At the time of writing this note, I have already navigated all the bureaucracy due upon my arrival in Germany: I've registered my residence, arranged health insurance, opened a bank account, and even secured a residence permit for three years. Despite many warnings about the voluminous paperwork here, I didn't feel a high entry barrier into German bureaucracy, particularly because, back in Russia, I had dealt with even greater volumes of bureaucratic tasks. On the contrary, in a burst of enthusiasm, I even sent a few letters to the local archive to learn more about the history of the city where I had settled. The archival staff were delighted by my sudden interest and responded in detail to my queries. Let's talk about that. First and foremost, I was curious about the meaning and origin of the word "Anhalt" in the names "Sachsen-Anhalt" and "Anhalt-Bitterfeld." It turns out that the name "Anhalt" traces back to a namesake ancestral castle of the Ascanians, located near Harzgerode. Initially, I assumed that "Anhalt" could be literally translated as "stop," which in a historical context would be synonymous with "encampment." This turned out to be the case: Anhalt is derived from the late Middle High German anhalt "stopping point" - a topographic name for someone living near a slope "an" (at) + "halt" (hillside). As for Bitterfeld-Wolfen, the city where I settled, things are not so straightforward either: initially, I thought that "Bitterfeld" literally meant "bitter land," but no: Bitterfeld is a Flemish settlement (i.e., Dutch), and the first syllable in the city's name could be a Dutch male name: "Piet". Thus, the historical location could refer to Pieters Feld (German: Peters Feld/Acker). It might also be a nod to the nearby villages of Petersroda and Petersberg. Moreover, the prefix "Bitter" could derive from the Dutch word "better" (I think there is no need and even possibility to translate this word, its meaning is obvious). Thus, Betterfeld (Besserfeld) could have been a fertile area that existed here in times past. Regarding Wolfen, this name relates to the surname of its founder. Until 2007, Wolfen was an independent town, but later it was annexed to Bitterfeld (along with the communities of Greppin, Holzweißig, and Thalheim) and became its district, with the city being renamed Bitterfeld-Wolfen. Wolfen is first mentioned in the writing Wulffen in a feudal charter around 1400. Archaeological findings date the founding of Wolfen to the mid-12th century, thus to the main period of German conquest. It is assumed that the founder of Wolfen bore a personal name starting with Wolf. According to the Saxon dialect of the Low German language spoken in the region at the time, it should have started with Wulff. An interesting fact: Wolfen has a twin town in Russia - Dzerzhinsk. There's also one in France: Villefontaine. The current population of Wolfen is a mere 15,000 people, which is quite noticeable: after moving here, I often found myself wandering the city for several hours without seeing a soul on its streets. I can't say that this depresses me; on the contrary: I rather enjoy it. Only occasionally do I feel a bit forlorn when I'm in the Wolfen-Nord area: there, the DDR atmosphere is well preserved with its countless concrete high- rises, which often trigger flashbacks of life in Russia. Incidentally, all these high-rises were mainly constructed for the workers of the "Wolfen" film factory, built by Agfa in 1909 and manufacturing photographic film. Interestingly, colour film was invented right here in Wolfen, in 1936, but then the patent was confiscated by American forces in 1945 and handed over to the American company Kodak. After the war, film production continued and in 1953 was handed over to the DDR as the VEB Film- und Chemiefaserwerk Agfa Wolfen. In 1964, the brand name was changed from Agfa to ORWO (Original Wolfen). In 1994, the entire factory was liquidated. The Wolfen-Nord district is typical of so-called satellite towns in Eastern Germany, characterized by prefabricated buildings and, since 1990, suffering from unemployment, high levels of vacant housing, and emigration. Wolfen-Nord was built between the 1960s and 1980s primarily for the working population of all classes from the Wolfen film factory, the Bitterfeld chemical complex, the Bitterfeld pipe factory, and other industrial and educational sectors. From about 33,000 residents (in 1993), by the end of 2008, just over 11,000 remained. Vacant housing became the district's biggest issue as people moved to more attractive areas. This is precisely why I encountered no problems finding accommodation here. Although some of my friends do not share my peculiar affection for this city, the chapter of my life titled "Germany" opened for me on the pages of this city called Wolfen, and I am very glad that by the structure of the moment, I ended up precisely in this corner of the infinite Universe. Music Charlotte 20 October 2023 Throughout our journey with Charlotte, I was inspired to compose delicate musical pieces for her. Recently, I've gathered them into a compilation, titled "Charlotte." Just like music, life has its crescendos and decrescendos, its moments of harmony and dissonance. Though our romantic chapter has concluded, I take solace in viewing it as a brief, yet unforgettable musical piece. https://coignard.bandcamp.com/track/charlotte Georgia Crossing Boundaries 24 September 2023 On 21 September of last year, I held my final anti-war picket in Russia. Just three days later, I was forced to leave my hometown due to police persecution, temporarily placing my fate in the hands of The Unknown. As you might guess, I'm writing this note for a reason: today marks exactly one year since I left Ozyory. At the moment I was leaving my hometown, I was unaware that the police were looking for me; I only found out a few days later. Another two weeks passed before I found out that my mother had been taken in for questioning by criminal investigators, and that I was wanted. It's heartening to realise that, as of now, my life is not under any immediate threat. Even more gratifying is the fact that, thanks to my "escape", I was also able to evacuate my mother from the clutches of the Russian Federation, where her continued stay promised nothing good. This vast journey, which began exactly one year ago, continues to this day. In this year, many events have occurred: good and bad, joyous and sad, happy and tragic. I find it rather amusing that I left Ozyory as Mikhail Podivilov, but arrived in Sakartvelo as René Coignard. Despite facing numerous challenges along the way, and being fully aware that I'll still have to face and overcome many burdens and adversities in the future, I recognise that I'm always moving forward. A bright future awaits me, and I'm the only one who can author it. I will surely create this bright future. I am creating it right now. Music Un automne à Koutaïssi 23 September 2023 Over the past few weeks, I've been going through a rather difficult period in my life and, as is my habit, thanks to the hardships I've endured, I've composed a short musical piece for piano and violin which I've named "Un automne à Koutaïssi". It's curious that a large portion of my musical compositions were written during times when I felt particularly down and depressed. I wrote this new piece to the backdrop of the autumn sets in in my city, which so unmistakably heralds the approach of the end. https://coignard.bandcamp.com/track/un-automne-kouta-ssi Politics Mobilisation in Russia 21 September 2023 Exactly a year ago, on 21 September 2022, as Russia continued its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the Kremlin declared a "partial" mobilisation. This initial phase, which endured through the autumn of 2022, witnessed the summoning of an estimated 300,000 individuals. This strategic step was taken by Russia to bolster its units that had incurred significant losses during the initial phases of the aggression and to establish over 75 new "territorial" regiments, which are now operative on the frontline. Russian officials have stated that they will persist in their fight with the aid of volunteers and that they have an objective to recruit 420,000 contract soldiers in 2023. However, this target appears ambitious, and the Kremlin's assertions of success are greeted with doubt. From September to December 2022, a mere 20,000 volunteers were enlisted, and it remains ambiguous if this figure has risen appreciably since then. Concurrently, Russian forces persist in enduring heavy losses. By the close of May 2023, the Russian Armed Forces and the Wagner Group had suffered an estimated 47,000 men killed in action. From May to September, another 15,000 soldiers are believed to have been lost. Furthermore, about 50,000 contracts of pardoned prisoners who had previously served in the Wagner Group were ended in 2023. As per the Russian Defence Ministry's strategy, the army is set to augment by half a million individuals. Two new armies and an army corps were on the agenda to be founded in 2023. Yet, even if the initiative to recruit new contract soldiers is fruitful, the ambition to enhance the army's dimensions is at risk. Moreover, a rotation of the 2022 mobilisation cohort may soon be imperative. Compelling them to combat until the Ukraine campaign's conclusive end could prove dear for the Russian command. Absent a change of personnel, units might witness a decline in their combat efficacy. The sole uncertainty is pinpointing when the second phase of mobilisation will commence. Nevertheless, the protraction of the conflict in Ukraine makes this occurrence increasingly probable and imminent. Crypto ProtonMail + WKD = <3 14 September 2023 Today, I unexpectedly discovered that ProtonMail can automatically encrypt emails for recipients who have WKD (which stands for "Web Key Directory") set up. This feature allows email clients to automatically retrieve copies of PGP public keys over the HTTPS protocol. In other words, if someone uses ProtonMail and wants to send me an email, ProtonMail will recognise that I have a PGP key, retrieve its public portion using WKD, and encrypt the email before sending it. Consequently, I'd receive an email encrypted specifically for me. Politics Voice of Election Hotline 13 September 2023 For the first time in a long while, I was unable to observe the Russian elections firsthand. I am currently in Sakartvelo, and until Putin's regime falls, it seems I won't be returning to my homeland. Nevertheless, even though I couldn't be physically present at the elections, I managed to participate in them. This year, for the first time, I volunteered at the election observers' support hotline. For security reasons, I cannot share the internal workings of the hotline, such as the number of participants, the specifics of an operator's duties, or the details of calls received. However, I can say that it was an immensely rewarding and enlightening experience. It allowed me to assist numerous individuals, including voters and observers, and deepen my understanding of electoral law. I was pleasantly surprised when an voter, well-versed in electoral law, contacted the hotline to report a violation at his polling station. I guided him on how to draft and submit a complaint to the local election commission. He reached out to me several times for clarification on the complaint submission process, and, in the end, he successfully reported the election violation. I also fielded calls from observers asking about the mechanics of the remote e-voting system. This platform allows voters to cast their votes remotely without visiting their polling stations. Unfortunately, this system has some serious flaws that, I believe, enable the Russian government to tamper with the voting outcomes. During these elections, numerous reports emerged of voters being pressured to engage in e-voting. Beyond my hotline duties, I also had the honor of contacting past election observers to invite them to monitor the current elections. While I was able to recruit only a handful of individuals, I am thrilled to have had this chance to support the strengthening of Russia's civil society. I am hopeful that once the political situation stabilizes, I'll have another opportunity to participate in the elections as an independent observer. Contrary to what one might expect, working as a hotline operator was not stressful. In fact, after my shift, I felt invigorated and full of life. I cherish interacting with people and, more significantly, value being a part of a team that aids in protecting the rights and freedoms of my fellow citizens. Until I can return to Russia, I intend to continue serving in future elections as a hotline operator. The experience was truly fulfilling. Georgia The Sakartvelo Chapter 12 September 2023 Exactly six months ago, at five in the morning, I passed through border control in Sakartvelo and found myself at Tbilisi International Airport. Thus concluded my escape from the Russian police, who had been persecuting me for my anti-war stance. This journey had started in September of the previous year and only concluded in March of this year. These have probably been the most productive six months of my life. An incredible number of events have occurred during this period, and I'll likely never have the opportunity to tell the full story of them all. Although, perhaps if I write my memoirs one day, I will certainly strive to remember every detail. Today, however, I want to focus on the most significant ones. My first night after arriving in Sakartvelo was spent at Ivan Drobotov's flat, and I'd like to extend my thanks to him once again. Following that, I spent two weeks living in a shelter. After my time there, I moved to a different shelter for a brief period. Finally, I settled into a rented room in a house near the Marjanishvili metro station. There, I met Maxim Ivantsov and many other equally fascinating people. Thanks to Maxim, I conducted a lecture series called "Privacy Day" in the educational space "Frame." Importantly for me, I also organized my first CryptoParty. During this event, participants exchanged PGP keys and went a step further by signing them for each other. In addition, I held a lecture on personal productivity methodologies like "Getting Things Done" and goal management strategies such as "Agile Results." I was also fortunate to find remote work as a DevOps engineer at a Cypriot IT company, complete with a wonderful team and a competitive salary. This job allowed me to get my mother out of Russia, where she had been unfairly targeted by the police. They had visited her and threatened to fabricate drug charges against her in order to open a criminal case, all because of my anti-war stance. I didn't want to stay in Tbilisi, as it was too noisy and large for my liking, so I moved to Kutaisi. I settled near the railway station, which allowed me, for the first time in many years, to visit the sea via a direct train. Kutaisi seemed more peaceful, quiet, and clean compared to Tbilisi. In August, Charlotte, my beloved from France, came to visit me to spend our joint vacation together. We visited Tbilisi, Kutaisi, Tskhaltubo, the Prometheus Cave, Poti, and journeyed up to the mountains in Svaneti and Mestia. We had a wonderful time together and were fortunate to share many very special moments. It was an extraordinary and unique adventure. After our vacation with Charlotte, my close friend Ivan Aleksandrovich came to visit me. The last time we had met was in Russia in February of the previous year, just a couple of weeks before the onset of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. I was genuinely pleased to see my friend again and, if I get the opportunity in the future, hope to visit him in the Czech Republic, where he now resides. Importantly, I was also able to address many health issues that had been plaguing me since I began hiding from the police in Russia. I must admit it was quite stressful, and my body was thoroughly worn out over those six months. However, I now feel full of energy and ready for new achievements. I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this long journey: my wonderful mum, my amazing brother, my incredible friends, and my dear Charlotte. Thank you all for everything you've done for me. I really appreciate and love you. Be happy, my dear friends. These have been remarkable six months. Let's see what life has in store for me, my family, and my friends in the foreseeable future. Philosophy Relative Comparison 11 September 2023 Following up on my previous note, I'd like to make a few important additions. Our sense of happiness is strongly influenced by what is known as "relative comparison": this occurs when we feel uneasy about the gap between what we already have and the desired level we wish to attain. Moreover, our sense of happiness is also affected by our prior expectations: for instance, if we have had a very enjoyable vacation, it's likely that in the future we will measure our happiness against that previous successful experience, expecting that, at a minimum, we will once again have a similar experience and the same emotions. Generally speaking, we want our current situation to be as good as our previous positive experience. In such cases, to alleviate constant frustration and cognitive dissonance caused by the mismatch between our expectations and reality, it's sufficient to reasonably lower our expectations of the current moment and life in general. Obviously, this must be approached with full seriousness, as excessive lowering of expectations can lead to unhappiness. Lowering expectations allows us to break free from the chains of "deferred life syndrome," as learning to be content with little, but present, things - in the current moment - gives us the opportunity to let go of grand expectations that reside somewhere in a distant future that will never come; after all, the future doesn't exist, it's merely a figment of our imagination. We gain the opportunity to be content with what we have, rather than what we wish to have. As Roman Emperor and Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius said, "No man is happy until he thinks himself so." Indeed, expecting that we'll only be happy when we "reach some goal" or "attain a certain moment" deprives us of the opportunity to consider ourselves happy right now, as we will inevitably expect happiness to come only after certain life conditions are met. And we will never be happy in such a case. However, reasoning itself and, in principle, any philosophy are worthless if a person does not make conscious efforts to apply the acquired knowledge to their own life. Personally, I believe that one cannot become happy; one can only be happy, and be so right now: after all, we only have control over the current moment, and we have no influence over the future, which is entirely beyond our control. From this follows that to achieve happiness, it is enough to have the desire to be happy (surprise!) and then allow oneself to experience aesthetic pleasure in the context of one's own life: to find beauty in all manifestations of the current moment and everything that surrounds us right now. We should constantly ask ourselves where we are, and if the answer is "the future" or "the past," one must make conscious attempts to return to the present - the only destination where happiness is possible. Philosophy The Right to Be Happy 10 September 2023 I spent the whole last week contemplating why, despite the qualitative improvement in my quality of life, I still can't seem to derive enough satisfaction from it. Indeed, if I compare my current life with how it was a year ago, everything has radically changed for the better: I now live in a safe country (not Russia) and work in a job I like, I have found the love of my life, I've moved my mother to Sakartvelo and no longer worry about her safety, and have moved to a city that I wholeheartedly adore. So why can't I still find satisfaction in the life I have now? In psychology, there's a term called "negativity bias" - it's a feature of our brain's functioning that causes us to focus more on negative information than positive. From an evolutionary standpoint, this is entirely justified: our ancestors lived in conditions where resource scarcity and predators were daily realities, and quick, effective responses to negative stimuli could greatly increase chances of survival. The survival itself was the cost of failure every now and then, so only those with negativity bias used to survive: for example, those who heard a noise in the bushes and assumed it was a predator rather than just the wind. Nowadays, of course, it's unlikely that a predator will suddenly pounce on us from a bush, but this mechanism continues to operate as if we lived thousands of years ago. Here's an example: imagine you have achieved all the goals we set in your life. So, you've got your own home, your own car, a family, a job you love, and peace around you. But then, let's say, you develop a toothache, and now neither your own home, nor your car, nor your beloved job can fully compensate for the negative emotions you are overwhelmed with because of this ailment. In summary, we have built a civilization, but the firmware in our brains remains rather archaic. Moving on. There's also something called "hedonic adaptation": this is when we quickly get used to the good things. Roughly speaking, if you repeatedly perform a pleasant action, the intensity of the positive emotions derived from it is going to exponentially decrease over time. For example, upon entering a relationship, many feel like they are on cloud nine, but after living together for a while they fall into melancholy and sadness, often breaking the relationship because they feel that "the love has gone" and "everything has become monotonous." This, by the way, is one reason why I prefer Long-Distance Relationships - yes, people in such relationships see each other less often, but the experience gained from less frequent encounters is almost always more vivid than if these meetings happened on a regular basis. Hedonic adaptation is a good explanation for why people so often strive for "bigger and better," but rarely experience long-term happiness from their achievements. Again, from an evolutionary standpoint, the existence of hedonic adaptation makes sense: for example, in the distant past, people discovered how to make fire. This is much more pleasant than sitting and freezing at night without it. But eventually, they grew accustomed to the warmth from the bonfire - and it wasn't a big leap from there to skyscrapers with central heating. Essentially, many of the benefits of civilisation that we enjoy today are partly due to hedonic adaptation and a constant nagging feeling that "everything is stale," "there's not enough," and "to be happy, I want to have more than I have now." And because of negativity bias, we adapt far worse to bad things than to good things. Sic! Now, Monsieur Dopamine enters our (already rather sad) story. The good news is that it has absolutely nothing to do with happiness, although it is often erroneously referred to as the "happiness hormone." It is thanks to this hormone that any achievement turns into yet another disappointment, because - surprise! - dopamine is responsible not for happiness, but for motivation. In rough terms, dopamine is the hormone of anticipated happiness. You need it to keep going until you reach your goal, even if you don't yet see the results. An example: you save money from your salary for several months to buy a new iPhone and eagerly await the purchase, yet just a few days after buying it, you realise it's not that big of a deal. All because dopamine level starts to decrease. It's important to remember that we are the descendants of people who were most dissatisfied with their lives. Because if, in the ancient times, a person preferred to take a short nap in the shade instead of constantly striving to find food, they risked becoming prey themselves. The moment following the achievement of a goal is always less pleasant than the moment before achieving it. That's because when you're chasing a mammoth, you feel exhilarated and excited, but once the mammoth is killed, you realise you still have to butcher and cook it, and then eat it, and then hunt for a new mammoth... It's all a long chain of problems! You had a purpose just a moment ago, and now it's gone - taken away. Killed along with the mammoth. The constant pursuit for a better life, coupled with hedonic adaptation, makes you feel like happiness is just around the corner; you just have to wait a little longer or speed up. But days, months, and years pass, and there's no happiness - only dissatisfaction with life and constant self-deceit: "happiness will come, but only later." As a result, there is no happiness in the past, present, or future - nowhere. When we treat the present moment as the preparation for a future in which happiness will definitely come, we deceive ourselves: in this case, we risk ending up in a future that will inevitably turn into the present, and we are not accustomed to waiting for happiness in the present - and thus, a wonderful future turns into a dreary present. The conclusion is straightforward: if we're not living in the present moment, there's no point in planning for the future. Because when that future becomes the present, when "that long-awaited event" occurs, we'll rob ourselves of the chance to feel happy by being preoccupied with building up expectations for a new happy future. There's no happiness in the future, and it's no use to search for it there. In fact, it's pointless to search for happiness at all: happiness should not be an end in itself. In most cases, we experience anxiety and restlessness precisely because we can't live in the present moment. For some strange reason, it seems inadequate to us. This makes sense: no matter how good the present life is, our brain has the remarkable ability to envision an even more wonderful future and make us suffer from the mismatch between reality and expectations. We're constantly chasing happiness and end up unhappy in the present. Therefore, to become happy, we need to stop chasing an unattainable future and stay in the present, embracing it with all its pros and cons. We need to stop treating the present as something inadequate. We must see it as the only kind of reality accessible to us. We must understand that neither the past nor the future exist - they are merely constructs of our brain - and only the present moment truly exists. A simple formula: if we think we will be happy in the future, we automatically become unhappy in the present. And by denying ourselves happiness now, we deny ourselves happiness forever. Paradoxically, the only way to become happy is to stop striving for happiness; to give up on happiness as an end goal. Equally important, happiness shouldn't be dependent on another person or any material thing. True happiness is always unconditional and doesn't require the presence of anything or anyone. Here, I'll make a clarification about what I personally understand by happiness. Since I adhere to Stoic philosophy, the term that comes closest to describing happiness for me is "ataraxia." Ataraxia is a state of mental tranquility, equanimity, serenity, and complete absence of fear. Life is a game, and for some odd reason, its first rule is to consider it not a game but serious business. A greater mistake is to believe that life is a path or even an obstacle course. This concept has a significant flaw: every path must lead somewhere. A path is akin to a goal. But life can't have an ultimate goal; otherwise, at some point, we'd reach that goal and be deprived of the purpose of life. This is what makes life beautiful. We've always misunderstood life, thinking it's a path, but actually, it's a musical composition. Life has been a musical piece since the very first day of our existence, something aimless, the value of which is evenly distributed among all its parts, just as it is in music. From the first day of our lives, nothing has been required of us except to enjoy the present moment, to sing and dance while the record called "life" plays. Our aversion to the present moment and attempts to live in the future (which is impossible) are due to our outdated mental firmware. You can download a new version of the firmware either by reading this text, or, if that doesn't work, with the help of a therapist: essentially, that's what they do - update obsolete worldviews as perceived by our ancient brain, and replace them with more accurate and modern ones. Reviews Klaus 10 September 2023 "Klaus" is an animated film by Spanish director Sergio Pablos. What immediately struck me was the visual style of the animation: throughout the viewing, I savoured this deliberately vibrant and touching atmosphere with no less vibrant characters. Interestingly, the director of the film also contributed to the screenplay for "Despicable Me," yet in the styles of these two films, I could only identify one similarity - the way the external features of the characters are exaggerated in accordance with their personalities. So, this is a wonderful film that successfully combines beautiful visual animation style with an intriguing plot and profound themes. At the centre of the narrative is Jesper - an infantile young man whose father owns a postal company. One day, his father decides to put an end to his son's spoilt behaviour and sends him to mature at the northernmost town of Smeerensburg to organise a post office and process at least six thousand letters within a year. An interesting fact: the town's name is derived from the Dutch "Smeerenburg" - a former settlement on Amsterdam Island founded by Danish and Dutch whalers in 1614. Upon arriving on the island, Jesper discovers that the town is home to two clans that are in a state of constant feuding. Clearly, the townspeople are not interested in letters; their only concern is causing harm to each other. Jesper realises that he is not destined to process the required six thousand letters and falls into despair. However, one day he accidentally discovers a remote location on the map, where a mysterious grey-haired old man named Klaus lives. Klaus is a reclusive woodsman and carpenter who has his own woodworking shop and a multitude of toys made by his own hands. Jesper arrived on an island where senseless fighting between the two clans never ceased for even a day. Both clans had long forgotten what they were feuding for - their leaders claimed they were fighting each other because it was their "legacy," and all their past generations had also fought each other. (Thus, it seemed logical to them that they should continue feuding with each other.) The director uses allegory to mock the social stereotype that one must unquestionably accept their ancestors' legacy, even if it contains inherent flaws. For example, Russia comes to mind - its government is so obsessed with its historical past that, rather than advancing and aspiring towards a brighter, freer future, the country seems stuck in the last century, adopting all the most aggressive repressive practices from the times of the Soviet Union. In reality, the animated film doesn't have any hidden subtext: the entire film revolves around the phrase "A true selfless act always sparks another." Frankly, this is what captivated me about the film: it's simple, but for that reason, it felt incredibly authentic to me. As the plot unfolds, Jesper befriends Klaus and together they create and give toys to the children of the town of Smeerensburg, revitalising and transforming the town in the process. There is a stark contrast between the town as it was in the beginning and how it becomes after Jesper's arrival (though initially upon arriving in the city, Jesper had no intention of changing himself, let alone changing anything in the city.) To reinforce the phrase I mentioned in the previous paragraph, Jesper transforms from a childish young man into a self-sufficient, mature, and complete adult - all thanks to Klaus's kindness, which enabled Jesper to perform a good deed and witness the result. In the end, Jesper even takes a bold step: when his father comes to take him back, he refuses to return to his luxurious life - Jesper stays in Smeerensburg, with Klaus and his new love, Alva. The film also teaches empathy and demonstrates that there are no truly bad people in the world: the fates of all the characters transform throughout the film - both Jesper and members of the feuding clans. In the end, there isn't a single truly negative character left: each finds their place in life and shows their brighter side. The same holds true in the real world - there are no truly evil people, only those whose darker sides temporarily suppress the good. Darkness does not exist - there is only the absence of light. Most often, this is coupled with some sort of unhappiness, as a genuinely happy person would be unlikely to intentionally harm others. For the unhappy, one can only feel compassion; they're already suffering enough. Notes Cold Showers 8 September 2023 I recently stumbled upon the benefits of cold showers quite unexpectedly. It turns out this is one of the few ways to legally receive a dose of dopamine that lasts in your system for up to six hours. Surprisingly, it really works: now I start every morning with a cold shower and feel invigorated and full of energy all day long. I take a cold shower every morning, lasting anywhere from thirty seconds to one minute. The next stage is a contrast shower: this is when you stand under a warm shower for one to two minutes, followed by a cold shower for ten to twenty seconds. I highly recommend it to everyone. Projects Path to Acceptance 31 August 2023 I volunteer for an LGBTQ+ group called "Coming Out", which advocates for the rights of LGBTQ+ individuals in Russia. The aim of "Coming Out" is to secure equal rights for everyone at both the state and societal levels, irrespective of their sexual orientation and gender identity. The group has been operating since 2008. In June, upon "Coming Out's" request, I developed a Telegram- based chatbot named "Path to Acceptance." This chatbot is designed to facilitate discussions about LGBTQ+ topics with those who may not be knowledgeable in this area. The bot seeks to assist the LGBTQ+ community in conveying thoughts on equality, non- discrimination, and acceptance in a precise and scholarly manner. It relies on factual language and cites credible research and publications. The LGBTQ+ team at "Coming Out" has deconstructed stereotypes and myths about the queer community. For each homo-, bi- or transphobic argument, they have identified a counterargument and, where possible, added supplementary materials to help people better understand the subject. In the new version of the bot, which was published today, there are 25 new responses to queerphobic statements and a guide from a "Coming Out" psychologist on how to have a sensitive conversation with loved ones. In the next update, information about pan- and polyphobic arguments, asexuality, and polyamory will be added. Furthermore, existing categories will be expanded, and any issues or concerns raised by the bot's users will be addressed. https://t.me/queer_acceptance_bot Reviews My Life as a Courgette 29 August 2023 Today, I had the wonderful opportunity to get acquainted with the animated film "My Life as a Courgette" by Swiss director and animator Claude Barras. Being impressed after watching the film, I am eager to share my thoughts with you, which relate both to this remarkable work and to life in general. The main character of the film is a boy named Icare, the French version of Icarus, who asks to be called Courgette (which translates from French as "zucchini" in American English). Courgette grew up in a dysfunctional family and, due to an unfortunate accident, killed his alcoholic mother. Subsequently, Courgette ended up in an orphanage, which some other orphans unambiguously refer to as "prison." The plot of the film can be taken quite straightforwardly, without trying to look for any deeper meaning. However, I noticed an interesting thought that the director perhaps wanted to convey to the viewer: the orphanage serves as a sort of microcosm of our world, an allegory for the common misconception of seeing things in black and white. In this small world, there is no absolute evil; it exists somewhere far beyond its boundaries. If anything bad happens, it invariably stems from the larger outside world. Throughout my relatively short life, I've changed my opinion several times on one matter: I used to think there were no bad people. Later, I came to believe that there are indeed bad people. At present, I believe that there are neither good nor bad people. I understand that this idea may sound strange, so let me clarify. It would be a huge mistake to assume that the world can be divided into people who are categorically good or, conversely, categorically bad. Firstly, it is unclear which combination of factors makes a person categorically good or bad; secondly, people possess free will, meaning that any attempt to evaluate them and label them as "good" or "bad" stifles that freedom. At a specific moment in time, depending on the circumstances, we may indeed consider a person to be either bad or good. However, it would be more accurate to compare a person to a river: they are constantly in motion, flowing, and cannot be labelled as "bad" or "good". We say, "This person is bad!" Yet time passes, the person changes and becomes different. I do not believe that a person cannot change. Of course, they can. As a result, we have misled both ourselves and others: we labelled a person as bad, even though the individual is not inherently evil. Yes, there may be evil within them at a particular moment, but there is also good. Once, I had the opportunity to read the diary of Leo Tolstoy, and one of his sayings became a true revelation for me: "One of the most common misconceptions is to consider people good, evil, stupid, or intelligent. A person flows, and in them are all possibilities: was foolish, became wise; was wicked, became good, and vice versa. That is the greatness of human beings. And from that, you cannot judge a person. What? You judged, and they are already different. You can't even say: I don't love. You said it, but it's different now." Although this is an animated film about children, it raises some rather adult questions. For example, after landing in the orphanage, Courgette finds himself among little people who have experienced great misfortunes: he is surrounded by a victim of a paedophile, the son of a drug addict, the son of a thief, and a girl whose mother, an illegal immigrant, was deported. The mother of Courgette's girlfriend, whom he is in love with, was shot in front of her eyes by her father for infidelity, who then shot himself. Almost no one enters adulthood without some psychological traumas from childhood. Paradoxically, these often become the catalyst for either self-development or self-destruction. For instance, in 2014 my father passed away from stomach cancer: for a long time, this trauma brought me immense suffering. However, eventually, due to constant reflection and thoughts about my life path prompted by my suffering, I was able to grow up and take care of myself and my mother. I think if my father were alive, he would be proud of me. Interestingly, the film reminded me of my escape from Russia to Sakartvelo. For some time after the move, I had neither money nor a job nor desire, so I lived in "shelters" - special places for persecuted political activists where they can stay for a while, for example, until they find a job and new housing. People living in shelters are united by a common misfortune: life in exile and the impossibility of returning to their homeland. In the people who lived in the shelter, I primarily saw people. Living, feeling, suffering human beings. And these people are never unequivocally bad or good. Each of them possesses their own unique life context, which is impossible to evaluate without living someone else's life and experiencing everything the other person has experienced. This may seem obvious, but I catch myself thinking that I need to remind myself of this more often: each person contains both bad and good traits. And that's perfectly okay. C'est la vie. At one moment there will be more bad traits, and at another - more good ones. And this is why we should approach people with compassion rather than disdain. The theme of love is also easily traceable in the cartoon: stating the obvious, but it's easiest to be around people who have faced the same problems in the past as we have. Nothing brings us closer than the ability to endure hard times together. But, at the same time, it's equally important to experience happy moments together: this is exactly what the director of the cartoon is saying, hinting in no uncertain terms that the world isn't black and white, and it's impossible to live a full life considering people and the events connected with them as either black or white. Moreover, attempting such a categorical division into black and white deprives us of the opportunity to truly love people. For if we divide people into bad and good, then, obviously, we will only love the good ones and not love the bad ones. And in this case, our love will be full of falsehood: as I've already said, no one person embodies the quintessence of good or bad. No one can be definitively labelled as "good" or "bad". And if we consider someone unequivocally good and have the audacity to say that we love this person, there is no truth in that love. It's more appropriate to love both sides of a person: the good and the bad. For in this case, love becomes most similar to the love we should feel for ourselves: such love is unconditional, imbued with understanding and acceptance of the imperfections of this world. Understanding and accepting that the people we love have not only a bright but also a dark side, we become closer to them, as we free ourselves from the burden of idealization, which is always a deception. One of the manifestations of true love includes precisely the ability to accept a person without judgment for all their flaws, recognizing that we ourselves are not perfect. In this world, nothing is perfect. And it is precisely this that makes the world beautiful. Throughout my life, there have been people who at specific moments have irritated me or seemed bad, but now, looking back and analysing their motivations, I realise that they were mainly deeply unhappy individuals, scarred by fate. Can I judge them for living in this imperfect world among equally imperfect people, including myself? In reality, our world is one large, enormous refuge. In some sense, we are all orphans, and we all eagerly wait for someone who could share their love with us, who could take care of us and support us in difficult times, to appear in our lives. "If we hadn't ended up here, I wouldn't have met you," says the main character's girlfriend, whom he is in love with, at some point. And these words resonate in my heart in a special way because I can relate them to my own experience: for example, if it weren't for my anti-war stance and my protest, which led to the police pursuing me and subsequently forced me to flee the country - an peculiar form of misfortune - I would not have had the fortunate opportunity to meet Charlotte. And of course, this film reminds me how truly fortunate I am. I have a mum who I love and can call my friend. I love you, mum. I try to take care of you and will continue to do so for as long as I live. Thank you for everything. In summary: "My Life as a Courgette" is a wonderful animated film that captivates the viewer with its simplicity, sincerity, and friendly atmosphere. At the same time, it is imbued with pain contrasting with sporadic moments of genuine, heartfelt happiness. In general, it's a film about our lives. A film about how to be authentic. I definitely recommend watching it. Politics Laying Low 28 August 2023 An "Summer 2023" issue of the American magazine about Russian culture, "Russian Life," has been released, which details my political activism in Russia, how I evaded the authorities, and ultimately fled from Russia to Sakartvelo. By subscribing to the magazine or ordering a print version of the issue, you can read "Laying Low," an article about me and my political life in Russia, as well as support the publication. https://store.russianlife.com/summer-2023/ Georgia Vacation in Sakartvelo 26 August 2023 Over the past two weeks, I enjoyed my first vacation in Sakartvelo alongside my beloved Charlotte. The vacation was filled with a variety of events, and I'll do my best to share a selection of photos from our adventures soon. Throughout the vacation, I had been making a video of the most interesting events. See for yourselves what has come of it. https://youtu.be/Hj-j5_XyZK8 Russia The City Day of Ozyory 19 August 2023 Today, Ozyory, the town where I was born, is celebrating its 98th anniversary. Although I currently live in Kutaisi, my heart and soul remain in Ozyory. On the 24th of September last year, I had to leave Ozyory due to being pursued by the police for my anti-war statements which were related to Russia's full-scale military invasion of Ukraine. People Lottie 17 August 2023 Recently you told me that I can mention you in my blog. Originally, I wanted to dedicate a lengthy post to you, but you're already well aware of my feelings for you from my letters. So now I'll simply state three things you're already aware of, but it gives me pleasure to repeat them: I love you, you are beautiful, and I'm fortunate to have you in my life. Philosophy What is Bravery 15 August 2023 Today, someone very important to me told me that I am brave. This made me reflect upon what I understand by "bravery", the role it plays in a person's life, and whether I truly am brave. I believe that truly brave people are those who have the audacity to challenge the everyday and confront routine, daily chores, and all the other "ordinary" matters that make up our daily lives with dignity. I also think that the concept of bravery is closely intertwined with responsibility, which I discussed in the note about adulthood. To be brave means to have enough confidence in one's abilities and to have the capacity to take responsibility for one's life and the lives of one's loved ones. The ability to face any challenges life throws at you with dignity - that's what bravery is. So, can I call myself brave? Quite possibly. For a long time, I've been keenly aware of the limits of my responsibility and consistently brave decisions that are connected to my life and the lives of my loved ones. For instance, consider my political activities: I was aware that the police could target me for my statements and actions. After this actually happened, and I had to leave the country, I also ensured the safety of my mother. Another less obvious example is relationships. It takes a significant amount of bravery to accept a challenge from the universe and try to build healthy and happy relationships based on mutual respect, freedom, and love. I am capable of continuing to be brave for myself and for my dear ones. I will strive to remain brave in the future because bravery is intrinsically linked with responsibility, and I morally cannot afford to shirk the responsibility for my loved ones. Philosophy Being an Adult 12 August 2023 I have always been intrigued by the question of when a person transforms from "not adult" into "an adult". Personally, I still find it difficult to count myself among those cohorts of people who call themselves "adults", even though I possess a sufficient number of attributes that all adults typically have. Nevertheless, I believe that each person individually determines the criteria by which they will assess the "adulthood" of other people and themselves. Some consider themselves adults after receiving their first salary, others upon reaching the age of majority, and some think of themselves as adults after filing their first tax return. Personally, I began to consider myself an adult relatively recently, after moving to Sakartvelo. Not at the moment of moving, but after some time had passed, when I successfully evacuated my mum from Russia. When the police came to my home and began to terrorise my mum, I realised it was time to take responsibility not only for my life but for my mum's life as well. For this reason, within the framework of my worldview, I regard as adults those who have the courage to take responsibility not only for their own lives but also for the life of another person. In the absence of this "another person", a person may grow up by taking responsibility for humanity. Georgia The Heat 11 August 2023 In the last few days, unbearable heat has settled across the whole territory of Sakartvelo. Yesterday, for instance, it was around 43°C in the shade. I dread to think what the temperature was under direct sunlight, but after a trip to the dental clinic in such weather, and then a walk to the city centre and back, I had only one desire: to turn on the air conditioner and have a good sleep. It's very interesting to observe how the environment I live in changes over time. Just half a year ago, for example, I was chopping wood and stoking the stove so as not to freeze at -40°C, and now I'm hiding under the cold streams of the air conditioner's air, so as not to melt at +40°C. To be honest, hiding under three blankets and stoking the stove was more appealing to me than hiding from the heat. But, of course, the real hell is happening near the sea. Relatively recently, I had the chance to visit Kobuleti, where I stayed for a few days: the terrible heat combined with high humidity from the sea seemed to me such a bad combination that, clickin' heels, I fled on the night train to Tbilisi on the last night. Georgia Kutaisi's Dogs 10 August 2023 One of the major downsides of Kutaisi is the presence of a huge number of dogs on the city streets. This inconvenience is most keenly felt at night when the entire city is literally overwhelmed by the barking of dogs. I love dogs, but I still try to avoid strays after my friend and I were attacked by dogs. Mind you, that was in Russia. However, for some reason, in recent days the number of dogs on the streets of Kutaisi has noticeably diminished: either due to the constant heat or the local authorities have addressed the issue and started to round them up. I lean towards the former. And, truth be told, this evening upon returning from a walk, I found a dog hiding from the heat in my entrance hall right by the front door. By the way, there is no light in the entrance hall, so an unpleasant situation occurred: someone stepped on a dog's tail and it barked loudly. Fortunately, the sound insulation in the building is very good, so this didn't bother me much. Though I had time to think that it might have joined the evening barking of the other dogs: that would have been most inconvenient. My favourite breeds of dogs are the Belgian Malinois and the Cavalier Charles King Spaniel. I learned about the latter breed quite recently, but having delved into the subject a bit, I'm now sure that this is exactly what dogs should be like. If I were ever to get a dog, it would definitely be a Cavalier Charles King Spaniel. Crypto My PGP Public Key 8 August 2023 A copy of my public PGP key can be obtained using WKD or on the keys.openpgp.org website. The former method is more preferable. The fingerprint of my PGP public key: 193E 1834 8200 C45F C8A5 61EB 0802 BDCD 5265 6EE9. This is hard to spot with the naked eye, but the last two groups of hexadecimal numbers are an ISO-8859-1 character set sequence: 52 65 6E E9, which can be decoded as "René." Politics Russo-Georgian War 7 August 2023 Almost 15 years ago - on 7th August 2008 - the Russo-Georgian War began. During the war, 408 Georgian citizens died, including 170 servicemen, 14 police officers, and 224 civilians. Active combat lasted only five days, but the consequences of the conflict are still felt in Georgia: Russia has effectively annexed South Ossetia and occupied 20% of Georgian territory. As a result of ethnic cleansing carried out by Russia, more than 30,000 people were forced to leave their homes. The overwhelming majority of their homes were burned by the invaders so that the owners would never return. There are still no diplomatic relations between Georgia and Russia. Tbilisi severed them shortly after Moscow's recognition of the independence of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and also withdrew from the CIS. Georgia Kutaisi 7 August 2023 In the few months of living in Tbilisi, I managed to conduct several lectures on information security, develop a Telegram bot with information about the local municipal transport system's bus movement, and meet many interesting and wonderful people. However, the time has come to move on: firstly, some time ago, I moved my mother to Sakartvelo because the police were threatening to plant drugs on her. Secondly, there's a chance that my younger brother will agree to move to Sakartvelo soon. All this meant that it was time to look for new accommodation where I can house my family. Compared to Tbilisi, the town really feels more spacious: this effect is achieved mainly because not many people live in Kutaisi. Just what I needed. The air here is cleaner, and there's a pleasant warm breeze in the evenings. Kutaisi is not covered in graffiti, and it's almost impossible to find litter strewn around the streets, which can't be said for Tbilisi. In the morning and evening, I constantly see cleaners on the streets who conscientiously do their job: I was genuinely pleasantly surprised by how clean and tidy Kutaisi is. A bus fare costs only 0.6 GEL if you pay with a local transport card, which you can purchase at "Daily" supermarkets and TBC bank branches. The transport system is quite well-developed, so getting from one end of town to the other is usually not a problem if you know the layout of the bus stops and which routes intersect with each other. The bus fleet is completely updated, and the buses have air conditioning. Taxis around the town cost next to nothing: for example, you can get from one end of town to the other for 4-5 GEL. Unlike in Tbilisi, drivers here are more attentive on the roads and yield to pedestrians when they are crossing at pedestrian crossings. The city has existed for over 3,000 years, so strolling through it, one can easily discover layers from completely different eras. For example, the majestic Bagrati Cathedral is incongruously overlaid with modernity in the form of a lift, which was constructed during Saakashvili's reign (the cathedral was actually removed from UNESCO's list because of this). In the city centre, there's the Colchis Fountain, illustrating myths about ancient Colchis. An interesting observation: buses going to the centre from my street make two rounds around this fountain due to the positioning of the stops. Admiring the fountain from the bus window is priceless. I settled near the railway station because I love to travel. For instance, right after moving to Kutaisi, I found that trains run from this station to Batumi. I haven't checked yet how much a trip to Batumi costs, but I have been to the sea in Kobuleti: the train fare there was only 2 GEL. The only downside for those who don't like to wake up early: the train leaves early in the morning at 5:40. It returns to Kutaisi around 23:00. The journey to Kobuleti takes about three hours, which is ample time for a good rest. One of the places in Kutaisi that I've come to love is the embankment, where there are almost no people in the evening (because they gather on the bridge to admire the views from there). From the embankment, you can admire the flow of the Rioni River, one of the largest in the South Caucasus. I often come to the embankment in the evenings with a book, to read to the sound of the rapidly flowing river. One of the most significant visible drawbacks of this city for me has been the street lighting: due to some strange misunderstanding, the city administration has preferred white lamps to yellow ones, making it almost impossible to walk around the city at night without your eyes hurting. You actually get used to this quickly, but at first, it looks unusual. In Tbilisi, for example, there's none of this nonsense: at night, the whole city is lit with yellow, not white. Reviews Howl's Moving Castle 6 August 2023 Studio Ghibli's animations have always captivated me with their harmony. These miniature worlds lack evil as such; there are no unequivocally bad or good characters. It is precisely thanks to the blurring of this dichotomy that these animated films are perceived by the viewers as so lifelike. From the graphic component of the animations, I want to highlight two aspects that I particularly like: the first is that the drawing of the characters themselves is almost careless, without fussiness and excessive attention to detail, such as, for example, with the Russian artist Shilov. The second aspect is that, conversely, all the backgrounds are worked out in maximum detail. It seems that no other animation studio has managed to capture the structure of the moment so well and immerse the viewer in a majestic and yet quite grounded atmosphere. This harmony has always inspired me greatly. And, of course, the entire animation is permeated with the music of composer Joe Hisaishi. It's amazing how much it resembles some of the compositions by Yuji Nomi, another composer who also participated in the creation of other Studio Ghibli films. "Howl's Moving Castle" is an excellent anti-war film, exposing war in its cruelty, closely intertwined with senselessness. Though the film does not have clearly defined antagonists and protagonists, if we examine the confrontation between Suliman, the court witch, and her apprentice Howl, one can easily notice a reference to the clash between the state's repressive apparatus and a citizen defending his right to pacifism; a citizen who despises war and chooses personal life over the dictate of the collective (that is, military duty), despite the risk of losing magical power (state privilege). Alongside the anti-war theme, the theme of living, genuine, and all- encompassing love is developed, as a rightful alternative to war. Here we can find the close intertwining of the fates of Howl, a self- doubting romantic, and Sophie, a self-confident young woman capable of selflessly giving love. Unlike war, love does not take, it gives: war alienates and oppresses society, while thanks to Sophie's love, "Howl's Moving Castle" gains new life, experiences a renaissance, and is filled with new inhabitants with the most unusual destinies. Politics Podivilov v. Russia 6 August 2023 The European Court of Human Rights has communicated my complaint. This means that the complaint has met the eligibility criteria and that the court has agreed to examine the case on its merits. The ECHR has sent Russia a notification of my complaint. The complaint was communicated in a simplified manner and will be examined shortly according to established practice. On February 24th, the day Russia invaded Ukraine in an escalation of the Russo-Ukrainian War that began in 2014, I organised a solo picket in front of the Presidential Administration building in Moscow with a poster saying "Putin, stop the war with Ukraine." On March 31st, for this action, the Tverskoi district court in Moscow fined me 15,000 RUB, after which, on July 1st, the Moscow city court confirmed the fine. The organisation of solo pickets is not prohibited by law and does not require additional agreement with the authorities. Copyright (c) 2023-2024 contact@renecoignard.com Powered by Weblog v1.18.3