Saiga's Notes

Applied the “glad game” to my hard feelings about my wife spending life reading fanfics. So why can I be glad? - I earn enough for my spouse to live the life of an old days’ aristocratic dame. - My darling feels safe behind my back. - She ploughs mountains of stuff to sniff the rare sparks of really talented authors and prompt them to keep going. Her hobby is very intellectual and she’s in the thick of real, alive, raw literature. 

When you embark on a mental practice to replace the old negative beliefs and behavioral patterns with new positive ones, anxiety, doubts and fear rush in as tsunami, forcing you to abandon the practice. Does it ring any bell? Know this from personal experience, just like many other improvement seekers. Just yesterday, I have nearly put aside visualization of some useful daily habits needed to improve my productivity as a professional writer. From the first glance, that resistance of a psyche is a weird joke of nature; irrational obstacle for changes meant to benefit us. But it's a fact. So all we can do is explore it, allow and find a way to overcome. In this relation, I love this place in Bible, John 11:25: "Even if he dies, will live". Bible is a cute book. When taking it from the theological perspective, things just don't come together. However, when perceiving it as a metaphorical psychological guide, lose ends meet. In relation to the subject, resurrection is a g...

Not long before age 15, my cat got tired of living. Her daily activities shrinked to eat / sleep / piss / sometimes groom. She lost affinity to playing and galloping around as before. Instead, she dragged along, a pale shadow of her lively self, skinny, uneven thin fur. Once or twice a year, a hormone rush turned her into a restless noisy creature with insatiable hunger for being caressed so that my wife dubbed her Scratchbelly. I was much worried and sought a solution. Through thinking, reading and conversations I finally found a fresh look on the life that we gave to our cat. She lived in a flat, always indoor. Never gave birth to kittens, serving as a walking decoration and an amusement for humans. In her dwelling, nothing stayed unexplored or unfamiliar. All games been played, all corners been sniffed. Sick of chasing balls and feathers. I was determined to get my pet out of that hole and my wife supported me. So we embarked on a plan to change the life of the cat... and us. Since ...

We met at the airport, a Brasilian and two Russians. Shook hands. One of us looked at his watch: “Two hours to departure. Mind if we wait in a cafe?” When we were seated, I explained to a waitress that I ate only fruits and vegetables and asked what on the menu was suitable. Both my companions, Russian and Brasilian, looked at me with refreshed curiosity and one asked: “So you're a vegan?” “Actually, I am,” I replied, “albeit usually I prefer not to use the word.” “Why?” both looked intrigued. Why indeed? Simply put, telling people that you’re a vegan is risky for relationship. I recall being assigned to work with a new teammate. He was a nice bloke until lunch, then I mentioned being a vegan and he had turned into a troll. The change was so immediate as if I cast a spell on him by saying the word ‘vegan’. Of course, most people keep being fine and corteous. Yet, it’s easy to notice how they get hold together as if they were whispered in the ear: “Nevermind. Usually, he’s not dange...

I think it's this: It’s not my job to pass the exit examination, let the child care about it. My job is to give him skills useful throughout life. Supervising my son’s education, I remind this wisdom to myself again and again. I also remind it to my wife.  Want a free bonus? Catch an add-on for the mantra:  Even if his/her current academic grades are far from perfect.

As it's been Indian summer since the end of August, I jogged each morning to the bank of the Volga to do morning fitness. Lots of rubbish alongside the river is making me sad. Today, I took a dirty plastic bag lying on the sand, filled it with empty bottles and cups, cigarette packages and carried to the waste collector on the way back home. If I jog again tomorrow, gonna pick another bag and collect some more waste. Nobody sees me. I don't set a model. Don't try to change the world. Just feel happier that way.

“Short hand!” a voice came from behind when the ball hit the rim. A granny passing by the court smiled with sarcastic triumph. Lots of folks cross this court in our yard, many tempted to comment on us (me and my son Archie) playing. Some praise (“It’s so amazing seeing you two working out every day!”), most banter. Jokes simple as rocks – one or another cliché regarding us missing shoots, typically. And I have always been buying it with a thought jumping in my head “Show me your shot”. I seen that granny a hundred times - a ball with a walking stick who had nothing common with whatever type of fitness or healthy living for the last fifty years or so. Yet, something’s changed today. It occurred to me that I really missed the shot. She was right, I was a short hand indeed. Ten minutes before, I was a sniper, shooting five straight baskets. I was both. In fact, every short hand has his/her noble reason to be it. And it had nothing to do with the question if she could shoot. That moment, I...