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.





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Psychology          Restless Passengers of My Train     20 November 2024


   All my life I have been, and I confess still remain, quite an anxious
   person, and I've had to challenge my affliction dozens of times.  I
   first managed to ease my burden at nineteen, after four years of
   intense and unrelenting anxiety that had gradually led me to
   depression and treatment in a psychiatric hospital.  However, neither
   the psychiatrist, nor the hospital, nor the pills, nor anything else
   helped me rise from the depths of that swamp into which I had sunk
   myself: what helped me then was a very simple exercise that I
   discovered on my own, quite by accident.  Its essence was very simple
   - not trying to get rid of the troubling thoughts in my head, but
   rather allowing them to coexist with me, making no attempts to drive
   them away.  Letting them simply run their course.  At first, I
   thought this would only worsen my condition, but a week of
   experimenting passed, then another, then a month: finally, I
   cautiously admitted to myself, as if trying not to slip back into
   that state, that I had indeed felt much better, and not only had the
   anxiety retreated - my exceptionally depressed state had also
   gradually faded away.

   For perhaps the last two years, and especially this past year, I've
   been facing and fighting debilitating anxiety attacks day after day,
   and at times it turns into something utterly inappropriate, as
   there's no other word to describe it.  If I treated a friend the way
   I treat myself in such moments, that friend would be deeply offended,
   or might even tell me to go to hell for such behaviour.  In short,
   I've gone extremely far in this anxiety, showing myself no mercy.
   Lately, perhaps in the last couple of months, I've been regularly
   trying to make sense of this phantasmagoria, but until today, my
   attempts hadn't brought much success and, on the contrary, these
   reflections only worsened my already troubled state.  Although, of
   course, sometimes I marvel at myself - could one sink even deeper
   into this anxiety, could one continue to be so unsparing with oneself
   and suffer day after day?  As a grown adult responsible for myself, I
   understood that this couldn't go on forever and I needed to challenge
   this trial once again, to finally end it and stop this unnecessary
   suffering.  And it seems that during tonight's evening walk, I came
   one step closer to understanding how to overcome my anxiety or, if
   not eliminate it, at least make it less severe.

   Here in Germany, it often happens that public transport either runs
   terribly, sometimes shamefully late, or in exceptional cases doesn't
   come at all.  So I found myself at a bus stop waiting for a bus that
   never came.  It was drizzling.  I was cold and decided to occupy
   myself while waiting for the next bus by thinking about what to do
   with myself.  And, as usually happens, a most curious thought visited
   my head, and very timely at that.  Firstly, it occurred to me that my
   worries sometimes prove groundless and I'm just wasting my energy on
   them, and secondly, it couldn't be that this situation would remain
   without a solution.  So, both human and humanity suffer.  What
   usually causes this suffering?  I suppose it's primarily two
   components: sadness and anxiety.  While sadness originates from the
   past, anxiety usually lives in the future; both sadness and anxiety
   are usually closely connected, as prolonged anxiety inevitably leads
   to sadness, and an excess of sadness can form the basis for anxiety.
   That's at least what I thought most of the time when I reflected on
   these two components.  However, now I'm less certain that anxiety is
   only connected with the future.

   Before continuing, I want to add an interesting detail about my
   anxiety.  Even when I recently managed to break free from the pit of
   hopelessness, I inevitably found that I couldn't fully experience
   pleasure in the moment because I would give in to worry and
   imaginings that some of the things causing me anxiety might
   materialise in my life - in other words, the essence of my worries
   would transfer from the realm of the hypothetical or expected into
   the realm of reality.  Would come true.  And then things would
   definitely go badly.  These illogical but inevitable overthinking
   episodes robbed me of the ability to feel joy from any positive
   event, and therefore life became increasingly unbearable.  Now I'll
   continue.  Currently, I disagree with my previous assumption that
   anxiety can be exclusively represented as worry about something that
   should happen in the future: on the contrary, it must be part of
   something that remained in the past, something that each time serves
   as an self-winding mechanism, like in watches, for renewing worries.
   Every anxiety has a root cause, even if sometimes it might seem that
   the anxiety is completely groundless and unconditioned.

   In any case, anxiety is one of the evolutionary mechanisms to which
   humans as a species owe their survival in this difficult world.
   That's how I tried to justify to myself my tendency toward constant
   worries that wore me down and ate away at me from within almost every
   day.  And today, I came to a most interesting conclusion: I worry
   again and again about my past actions as if I could immediately
   return to the moment when a certain action was set in motion and
   change it.  My anxiety has always lived in two places: both in the
   future and in the past.  I always imagined how in the future I would
   be overtaken by the possible burden of choices, actions that I had
   already taken in the past.  Moreover, I always insisted to myself on
   only one possible course of events: my actions wouldn't bring minor
   troubles, it would definitely be a full-scale catastrophe; all
   threats would inevitably become reality.  That's why I constantly
   worried about what would happen now, and how I could prepare for this
   inevitable catastrophe.  Of course, while preparing for the
   "catastrophe" I have no right to enjoy life and all that; at least, I
   forced myself to believe this on a subconscious level, and the
   forcing worked quite well.

   Tonight I supposed that there's no possibility of completely ridding
   myself of anxiety while I'm alive, and only one reliable tool remains
   in fighting it: as they say, "if you can't beat them, join them".
   Getting wet at the bus stop while waiting for the next bus after the
   cancelled one, I was struck by the thought that my constant worry
   might stem from two things: firstly, I unconsciously seem to be
   afraid each time to admit to myself that I'm not coping well enough,
   making wrong choices; that I'm generally not good enough and
   unsuitable.  This is about pride.  The second thing needs to be
   explained in more detail: until today, it seems, I was simply afraid
   to take responsibility for choices made in the past.  I lived as if I
   could still influence them and adjust my flight trajectory in the
   past.  Of course, this position somewhat smacks of unhealthy
   infantilism, or at least part of it.  It takes a certain amount of
   courage to dare to accept actions taken in the past as part of life's
   journey already travelled.  To stop worrying excessively about what
   has already been done, and for which I now bear full responsibility.
   To not go forward as a coward who has been frightened by life, but to
   be honest with oneself and realise that what destroys a person is not
   their imperfection, but the fear of being imperfect.

   At the beginning of this note, I already mentioned that in the past I
   had managed to discover a fairly effective way of dealing with my
   anxiety.  Today I was surprised that until now I hadn't attempted to
   use this tool in fighting my worries: after all, if you look at the
   current situation, it doesn't differ one iota from the one that
   caused me suffering in the past.  I, like then, spend more time
   trying to do two things: firstly, remember all the reasons that make
   me worry and, secondly, try to get rid of these worries by building a
   strategy of behaviour for the future when any of my worries
   materialise (obviously, this simply doesn't work: it's impossible to
   think through everything with maximum detail in advance, especially
   far in advance; we can't even properly forecast weather beyond one
   day nowadays).  However, the desire to get rid of these worries of
   mine is the main problem: these worries in no way affect the reality
   surrounding me, they are not capable of solving the problems I worry
   about.  On the contrary, they only aggravate my mental state.  And
   what's the point, I ask myself, of all this?  Why should I worry
   about this, what good does it do?  It's nothing but pure harm.

   Accepting responsibility for all my past decisions might not be easy,
   and to solve this problem, I engage my imagination.  Let my life be a
   train, say, similar to the one that runs from Leipzig to Magdeburg,
   that is, RE13.  Each stop is some important decision I make in my
   life; the passengers are both ordinary thoughts and anxious worries.
   I'm driving the train.  "Next station - immigration to Germany, exit
   on the left in the direction of travel".  Passengers board, among
   whom one, easily recognisable by his appearance, turns out to be very
   worried about something: as soon as the conductor approaches him, he
   immediately starts sharing his concerns.  The conductor is my
   consciousness.  The passenger keeps lamenting: "Oh, you know, what if
   I don't find friends here?  Or I'll have problems learning the
   language?  Or won't be able to find a good job?", and the stream of
   thoughts doesn't stop.  The conductor just shrugs but continues to
   listen.  Meanwhile, the train continues its journey, despite the
   complaints of this emotional fellow.  Only the conductor is sick of
   listening to this fellow's ranting hour after hour.  And ultimately,
   after so much time, that is, today, the conductor punches this
   worried fellow-passenger's ticket and moves on to other thoughts.
   This worried fellow-passenger now just rides along and observes the
   events passing by the train window, and we don't return to him
   anymore.  His ticket has already been checked, let him ride - the
   train is indifferent to his presence or absence, it will continue its
   journey regardless.

   This mental representation allowed me to enormously ease my worries
   today.  Yes, sometimes my train stops at stations that I choose
   myself, and I bear full responsibility for where my train stops.
   Then various fellow-thoughts board it: ordinary thoughts, worried
   thoughts, joyful thoughts, sad thoughts.  My conductor approaches
   each of these thoughts and punches its ticket, after which he doesn't
   return to it, only occasionally meeting eyes when once again walking
   through the carriage in search of new passengers.  I'm responsible
   for where my train stops, but not responsible for what thoughts and
   worries fill its carriages along the way.  I only need to get
   acquainted with new passengers, check their tickets and not try to
   expel them from the train, because, firstly, this endeavour is
   counterproductive and will only bring more trouble, and secondly, my
   passengers have every right to be on this train, as they have
   tickets.  I checked.  Now only one thing remains for me: to observe
   the colourful composition of fellows who decided to take a ride on my
   train, remember that they have every right to be here, and
   periodically see how the composition of passengers changes
   dramatically when stopping at subsequent stations.  And it's
   completely normal that some worried passenger-thoughts will leave the
   train's body, and new worried passenger-thoughts will enter it.  Let
   them.  They come and go, but the train always continues its journey.
   A journey the length of a life, which is short, but which is the
   biggest project I will ever complete.





Politics             The First Thousand Days of War     19 November 2024


   For a thousand days now, Putin and his band of bloody henchmen have
   been waging war against Ukraine.  I deliberately avoid saying that
   Russia is at war with Ukraine, because a country is, first and
   foremost, its people, and many Russian citizens do not support their
   leadership's actions.  It's particularly important to note that the
   country's leadership has been usurped and does not represent the
   interests of Russian citizens, but rather only those of a small group
   close to Putin.

   Both before and after the war began, I did everything in my power to
   - I want to say prevent it - but no, at least to avoid participating
   in this crime: I exposed election fraud and took dishonest electoral
   commissions to court, I held anti-war pickets in my hometown and in
   Moscow, and I worked as a human rights defender in courts to protect
   people whose only "crime" was speaking out against Putin and against
   the war.

   I no longer pay a single rouble in taxes to the Russian treasury,
   I've evacuated my family from Russia, I've hidden from the police in
   a remote Russian village, I've endured hunger and cold, and I've lost
   my home in Ozyory.  Some might say I've lost almost everything, but I
   disagree: I haven't lost my freedom, which the Russian state so
   zealously tried to take from me, and just as importantly, I've
   preserved the freedom of my family members.  I don't regret choosing
   this path for a single moment.

   The war continues.  The people who have betrayed my country continue
   to attack Ukraine, including raping and killing civilians.  By
   conservative estimates, at least twelve thousand Ukrainian civilians
   have died since the war began.  Twelve thousand!  And how many more
   will die?  How long can the gears of this bloody war machine continue
   to grind innocent people?  Neither I nor anyone else knows the answer
   right now.  But I refuse to give up.  And I'm certain we'll soon see
   Putin's face in a war crimes tribunal.





Germany                         Dresden                 10 November 2024


   I've visited this city before, and more than once.  As fate would
   have it, I decided to visit it again today.  Wolfen, where I've been
   living since the beginning of this year, was once again shrouded in
   pungent fog when I awoke this morning.  Interestingly, unlike last
   time when it cleared by noon, today's fog has persisted: the German
   Weather Service (Deutscher Wetterdienst) has even issued a warning
   that this phenomenon will continue until at least eleven o'clock
   tomorrow morning.  It's wonderful: I love it when everything is
   enveloped in fog, transforming all the ordinary, somewhat tiresome
   views into a mysterious natural spectacle.  Most remarkably, one
   needs only to venture a short distance from the city for the fog to
   vanish completely.

   Would you believe it - I'm writing this note on a train again, making
   my way to Jeßnitz station via two major cities: Chemnitz and Leipzig.
   I could have opted for the direct train to Leipzig, but firstly, it
   was already packed to the rafters, and secondly, I fancied another
   ride on the vintage train from Chemnitz.  I'd travelled on it during
   daylight hours, but never after nightfall.  This oversight needed
   immediate correction.  I shan't drag this note out any longer, but
   I'll just add that Dresden today is also immersed in fog, and upon my
   arrival, it was fascinating to observe how the sunny journey from
   Chemnitz abruptly gave way to Dresden's foggy vistas, as if I were
   entering another world entirely.  In such moments, I catch myself
   wishing tomorrow wouldn't bring back the sunlight outside my window.





Germany                    Train to Chemnitz            10 November 2024


   Today I decided to visit Dresden and pop into Chemnitz along the way.
   I'd been wanting to add some variety to my travels by visiting this
   city.  Interestingly, it's the birthplace of composer Daniel
   Rosenfeld, better known as C418, who was born here in 1989.  His
   compositions have been a great source of comfort to me during certain
   periods of my life.  Initially, Chemnitz wasn't part of my itinerary,
   but when I arrived at Leipzig station and happened to spot the
   particular train heading to Chemnitz, knowing it was just an hour's
   journey from there to Dresden, I decided to treat myself to this
   detour.

   About the train: I noticed it just as the conductors were leaning out
   of several carriages, waving their red hand signals used in German
   railway signalling.  This wasn't the usual express train I frequently
   travel on, but rather a vintage-looking one, with each carriage
   compartmentalised without any connecting passageways between them -
   or at least none that I could spot.  The scene was made all the more
   atmospheric by the thick fog that had enveloped both my city and
   Leipzig since morning, which I can still see through the train
   window.  The train disappeared into the mist as it pulled away from
   the station.

   Unfortunately, I wasn't destined to catch that particular train I'd
   spotted and hoped to ride.  Just after the conductors waved their red
   hand signals and disappeared inside, the train departed.  There was
   no point in running after it, so I simply stood there, mesmerised,
   watching it leave.  That's when I decided I wanted to ride it myself,
   so I revised my route and waited.  Yes, this little adventure meant I
   had to endure an hour of cold at the station, but it was absolutely
   worth it to experience a journey on this historic train through the
   fog that still blankets Saxony.

   To make good use of my time while freezing, I researched these
   trains.  It turns out they're operated by Mitteldeutsche Regiobahn,
   and according to the Deutsche Bahn app, this service began running
   today, 10 November, and will continue until 14 December this year.
   The full designation of the train I'm currently on is quite a
   mouthful, especially on an empty stomach: D-TDRO 55 80 21-33 002-9
   Bomz 520.  Initially, I'd planned to shorten my waiting time at the
   station by taking a train to Geithain and catching my connection to
   Chemnitz from there.  However, in typical Deutsche Bahn fashion, that
   train was cancelled just before departure.  Well, zug fällt aus
   happens.





Misc                             200 OK                  9 November 2024


   What's the difference between a Russian invader and an HTTP request?
   Both sometimes return with a 200 status, but only one of them is OK.





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.





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