The devil, the monster from hell

I finished my last post promising to tell you about how I met the devil as depicted in the scariest Christian stories. However, since then I remembered that I had encountered the character way before in the 90s in Russia, much earlier than that time he appeared to me and my friend, and before I once saw him in one of my lucid-dreaming experiences (and where he showed how he really looks, and he can take many forms and appearances).

It is easier to write about it than talk, because people simply stopped believing in all that stuff, and it’s every day that I wonder how the Christianity survived till today, as everything in it can be judged as ‘delusions’ and according to the psychiatry, all Christians should be proclaimed as insane. I once read a psychiatric article where it was hinted quite clearly that Jesus had suffered from psychosis and exhibited all signs of being a bipolar. Needless to say it wasn’t a nice read, as for yet another time I started to doubt my own mind and my own sanity, because I believe in Jesus, and have seen the manifestations of parallel world many times. Denying this truth to me (and other people) is denying the whole reason of any existence based in spirituality, and once I tried to live a life denied of it, I stopped to see the aim of any life, or at least a life, based in some meaning. How can we wake up and not believe in Jesus, is a question I decided I don’t want to explore any longer. I have to add here that my own ‘search’ for Jesus took a long time, and not because I failed to realize until recently that Jesus is always around, but because I have been obscured by the presence of the devil almost my entire life. Yes, he is constantly around, and yes, I’ve met him and know for sure that he is as real as a glass of nice red wine I am drinking right now, while writing this post.

The problem with the devil is that he made his appearance in my life way before I received baptism in the Russian Christian Church (on my own accord, at the age of twelve), and hasn’t left me since, in terms of his presence. He appeared many times in my life, and I do wonder as to why he is so much interested in my persona. Do I have an interesting soul? Is it because I am indeed a holy fool (a concept to which I will come back again and again) or is it because I can contribute to humanity and he tries to ban me from doing good works? But I will try to quiet my ego for now and go back (in my mind) to that first time I met the devil in my life.

I was three years old then and was sleeping in my cot, on the sixteenth floor in our Moscow’s apartment. We lived on the top floor, and as was established later, the apartment was chased by the spirits or something similar, and my step-mother would discover some sort of insects all the time under the flower pots years later.

I woke up from a dream because I literally sensed a presence and then I glanced at the window, I saw HIM. He looked like a total monster from hell, with horns, and terrifying eyes, and I knew at once that it was the devil, and that he was interested in me.

Interestingly, I didn’t panic or anything like that at that point because, even at the age of three, I knew that there was no point in panicking. If I started to cry, the parents would arrive and tell me that he wasn’t real and that I had simply had a bad dream, and therefore, I did the opposite of child logic. I stared at him without crying and told myself aloud: yes, he is real, and what you see is not your imagination.

I also forgot that vision till later in life, but I had to resuscitate the memory once I had met him on that bench in Moscow, overlooking the church. You might ask me, but how do you know for sure? And the only answer I have, is that yes, I know, and the truth runs sometimes deeper than anything else. It is the whole core of your being which tells you that what you see and hear, while not visible to everyone else, is happening in reality. I also learned from experience that people simply don’t want to believe in uncomfortable truth, because once they do, the only remaining path is to embrace Christianity and pray for the return of Christ. And the path of a true Christian is indeed much harder than anything else.

I met the devil several times later in my life and will tell you more about the encounters. You don’t have to listen to me, of course, and you don’t have to believe in me, but I am sharing you my story from a vintage point of view of hexagram number 41 of the Chinese I Ching, line nine in the second place. The text of the oracle says: “…without decreasing oneself, one is able to increase to others”, which means that I share the story from the position of personal truth. You might believe and hear and see, but it’s obscured by what others reply to you in return. Jesus is real, and so is the devil, and the fight between good and the evil is taking place now on earth as never before.

In the next post I will tell you about how I attended the devil’s ball.  It was during one of my lucid-dreaming, just for those who might start saying, but is she insane? All these whispers (implying insanity) are just whispers of the devil preventing so many of us from saying the truth, according to my gypsies cards (demons, card 47, in straight position). But I studied all the enemy tools (including all Tarot cards and oracles) for years, and therefore, yes, I have the tools and the courage to say the truth as I see it, and not as others tell me it should be.

Hear, hear.

 

Bibliography:

Wilhelm, R. (1967). I Ching: a book of changes. Penguin.

Touchkoff, S. (1992). Russian Gypsy Fortune Telling Cards. Harper San Francisco.

0TheFool

(the fool in Tarot cards is, of course, showing us the path of a Holy Fool, it is all real, and it is all based in reality. Tarot cards taught me many lessons, and I am grateful for that)

Foolishness for Christ. Encounter with the devil

There is a reason as to why I go back to the 1990s in Russia so often on my blog, because it was exactly at that time that devil made his appearance in my country. The Christianity was proclaimed as official religion, and he, quite, obviously, couldn’t miss the opportunity to battle for a few remaining souls.

I could watch what was happening in my country from a vintage point of a teenager, which helped me somehow, because it is much more difficult to survive the battle between good and evil when you are an adult. The mundane daily responsibilities don’t allow space for any deep philosophical inclinations, and then, of course, it is hard to believe in anything, yet, allow oneself any ‘magical’ thinking, because one is always at risk to end up on the radar of the psychiatrists. The psychiatrists rule the world based in normality, and no one dares anymore to proclaim loud and clear: yes, there is the devil, and yes, there is God, and Jesus was real.

Back in the 1990s in Russia I met the character, the devil, on numerous occasions. He was lurking around, and once when I was with one of my best friends, he announced himself around us, right when we were admiring the visitors to a local church. My friend Anya and I were skipping a class in algebra, and were sitting on the bench on the hill, above a Russian Orthodox Church where some people started to go because Christianity had seen its return, and people didn’t have to hide anymore their faith in secret.

It was an interesting development for both me and Anya as we had grown up in a country without any religion. The Soviet Union’s doctrine was based on absence of any belief system, besides the building of a communal goal, with  stuff like ‘Jesus’ or ‘God’ considered to be absolute madness, and where those who had dared to proclaim otherwise, were deemed to be mad, and had to undergo a psychiatric treatment. Interestingly enough while I live now in a so-called free society, the mantra that you can believe in anything you want as long as you remain silent, is truer than anywhere else. You are proclaimed as insane immediately if you start talking about God and the devil, and especially if you hint at the fact that you see their manifestations in a daily reality.

So, Anya and I were watching the church with deep curiosity, it was indeed totally beyond any logical thinking. How come, we both wondered, that a country of absolute atheists suddenly turned into zealous church devotees?

“Look, even young people go now there,” I made a remark to Anya, and she nodded to me an agreement, noticing as me, a couple of what looked like students entering the door of the church.

“And I still remember how the doors to the same church were totally closed in the seventies,” we both jumped from fright as we hadn’t noticed the man, sitting now next to us on the bench, approaching us, let alone, materializing himself, suddenly on the bench. But here he was, wearing an interesting red hat, and staring longingly into the distance at the church, furtively giving me a wink in the process, locking his eyes with mine for a brief moment.

A though immediately entered my mind that he was the devil, and I allowed it to remain there, because I was still a teenager, and radical thoughts and visions are more tolerated when you are still at a precarious age. I haven’t yet reached the years when you learn that weird thoughts are not allowed, and that the psychiatry as an institution has the reins and power to silence all ‘different’ individuals once and for good. All those that have seen the devil, met him and know that he is real, are sitting behind the psychiatric bars. Since I am not there, I decided that I have the liberty to say whatever I want, and therefore, I am taking this opportunity to reassure you that everything ever written in the Bible is totally real, not that I had read all of it, due to the difficulty of the scripture. But I live the stories written in it in real life, and manifestations of it and the truth, reach me on a daily basis, usually in my dreams.

And so I allowed the thought to remain there and it was scary but at the same fascinating. Oh wow, I thought, it isn’t all fables and just stories then, is it? Here he is, the devil, and once I permitted the thought to stay there, it took that definite proportions when you realize that perhaps, magic is all real, and I was blessed (or cursed) to see and witness the manifestations of it in my daily reality. It was also interesting to observe that Anya jumped from fear and started to run away, while I remained sitting on the bench for another good couple of minutes, to (and I realize it only now) come to terms to my ‘raison d’etre’ from now on. Yes, I would be chased by the presence of the devil my entire life, and it’s only with experience that I learned that the only way to fight him is via Christianity and belief in Jesus.

Amazingly enough we didn’t talk with Anya about that particular manifestation of the character. I think that like me, she realized the significance of the presence of the man in the red hat, but it was too scary to admit the reality as it is: yes, the devil is real, and he is chasing the earth for a few remaining souls.

It was also the same year that I went to receive baptism and became a Russian Orthodox, embracing a difficult and run with obstacles life. Because the life of a true Christian, the life of a Holy Fool, is one of a martyr, and I ended up fighting with the devil my entire life.

Having met the character many times since that first encounter, I will tell you more about him from now on. He is a great manipulator, and uses clever tactics to lure one into his kingdom. He can also take different forms, and only once I saw the real him, as depicted in Christian scary stories, when I was lucid-dreaming in my sleep.

But this is a tale I will share with you next time.

holy fool

(Saint Nicholas of Pskov – Russian Holy Fool)

Let’s define the normality: the most boring tale

We are making yet another break in chronology about the events in Russia back in the 1990s to look at an important issue, which has been bothering me for a while.

Let’s look at ‘normality’, let’s have a good look. Let’s even try to define it, because it has become relatively easy – the whole society is based in normality, it is difficult to miss. The definition is literally staring at our faces, reflections and minds.

Normality is when first of all, one acts ‘normal’. One is supposed to follow a certain life pattern nowadays, and dare you to do otherwise, – you will be proclaimed as insane if you don’t follow the rules. You need to finish school, continue studying, get a job, then a mortgage, meet your second half, have children, two holidays per year that one would prefer to spend at the sea or skiing, work more, retire, wait for visits from the grand-children. In between all this, one has to read the news brainwashing our brains, shop for Christmas and on Black Friday, celebrate the Valentine’s day, buy a new car every couple of years, save for a new TV, etc, etc. Just writing all this, I want to evaporate all that boring bullshit with a nice inhale from my vape. Or and I forgot the gym! One also has to be a member of the gym, being a member is enough, as you probably know, you don’t even have to go there, a gym card will do.

Normality is boring. It is so boring that you can stare at it, each day, and the picture remains the same, it is static. It is the desolate faces of people who greet you every morning on a train to work, it is the same tired faces when you return home from your work, the same reality TV which greets you back home when you watch your TV, the same shops that entice you to spend even if you can’t afford it or, more sadly, don’t need their merchandise. It is gossiping about your ex-best friend because she did something better with her life, or is depressed, and you think that it’s a good topic for gossip. It is wishing to marry a rich man, forgetting that there is also love and care, and that being marrying to a rich man without being in love, is a total nightmare. Or when you stay in a marriage because you are afraid to leave and have no job or qualifications because you put all your faith in a rich husband. The syndrome of normality is also when everything simply has to be normal, without extraordinary thinking, without challenges and even reflection. Even universities are affected by the syndrome, boasting of their ableism, as if being normal equals being perfect, while in reality, no one is ever perfect, and we all can get unwell, depressed, sad or anxious. It is a normal reaction when one relies on zero contract, when there is no stability and no security. One’s mental health is directly affected by the social circumstances in which we find ourselves.

I don’t like the normality, you see. I find it extremely boring. If I had to lead my life by the normality’s astonishingly boring to death rules, I wouldn’t be here. There would be no joy for me, no aspiration, no challenge and no magic. I learned from an early age that I can always rely on myself, and thus, I am not defined by any rich husband or aspirations about how to get a mortgage and save for the next TV. I don’t watch any TV (very rarely), and I always can find a job to sustain myself. It also happens that I love my job, and work, and not labor, is an essential part for a person to feel happy and fulfilled. Without it, we feel useless, even if there is a thick bank account at one’s disposal. One can feel good only when one does something meaningful with one’s life.

Our boring society is running itself to its boring death, with laughter being replaced by the capitalism which sees no respite in its own making. Where love is replaced by the Instagram culture, Tinder culture, and the reassurance from the authorities that status and money do matter, instead of finding a job one really likes, even if it isn’t the best paying job. Where care is replaced by the ever-consumption, with animals being tortured still in civilized countries, to make sure your cream of more than hundred pounds is good for your skin.

Remove the normality, and only when you will see, and you will start caring. You will see when what Greta is on about, with fires in Australia, dying forests, and lands. You will see that you should stop eating animals, because you will notice that they have a soul. You will stop planning the Christmas a year ahead, and just chill in the moment, perhaps making presents by your own hands, or realizing that a good tasty meal is maybe enough, when some people are dying from hunger on the same Christmas day where you are inundated with presents.

Get away with normality, and you will start questioning things. You will start thinking about deeper and more meaningful values. You will notice that there are more and more homeless people on the streets in your ‘civilized’, ‘democratic’ country, and you will ask: why? You will realize that one in third has a mental health problem, and you will question, why? You will finally notice that even in your ‘rich’ country, children have nothing to eat, and you will hopefully cry, because it isn’t fair, and it wasn’t our God’s plan.

Have a glance beyond the normality, and you will encounter angels, you will communicate with God, you will meet the fairies, and you will know: it is humans and only humans who are the biggest problem on this earth, with their distorted normality, greediness and death of moral values.

F…the normality, I prefer to be ‘insane’, which in our days, means being saner than the rest of our miserable population.

A little wicked.

mewitheecigarette

Bad Witches in Russia

But let’s go back to the 1990ies in Russia to continue with chronology of the events, not just influencing me and my life after, but also the fate of Russia and how it has become.

When I talk about witches, and apologies to all nice white witches, who wish no harm, I talk about bad witches, and in order to ban you from telling me what I am deranged, I will present you a picture of Moscow on one day in June in 1991.

It was a beautiful day, as far as I remember, and I was strolling the lovely streets of the Moscow city, together with my cousin, who came to see me from the South of Russia. We were then really young, fourteen, fifteen, care-free, and very independent. I, for instance, due to the fact that I was constantly moving from the house to my dad and step-mother to the house of my grandma, and back, had lots of freedom. I really could do anything I wanted, and once I came back home at seven o’clock in the morning from a party of my boyfriend, and no one even noticed.

I was proud of my city then, because Moscow still stood as it was meant to: large streets with scare construction, old beautiful buildings, the view of the Kremlin, undisturbed, amazing museums, and not than many shops. I was slightly boasting to my cousin, even if I also actually envied her, with her nice, simple, very friendly life in an old mining town in the Eastern Ukraine, where she could visit our grandparents, proud Cossacks, in the South of Russia, whenever she wanted.

We walked for a long time, stopping at different places, to admire the view. We didn’t go inside the Kremlin that time, but stared at it from the bridge, taking in the breathtaking view of that amazing establishment. Kremlin is indeed breath-taking, encompassing beautiful imposing building, the most beautiful cathedral in the whole world, and the Kremlin tower itself, as well as the canon, and park and river around. All Kremlins in Russia were built on the river, surrounded by it, to protect themselves from the enemies.

And then we reached the old Arbat, a famous street in the center, forbidden for cars, where so many Russian writers created their stories, and where artists and vagabonds loved to assemble: to play guitar, to have a laugh, to share artistic ideas, to fall in love and to experience magic. Old Arbat was magical.

But no anymore. In the summer of 1991 I got for the first time a definite feeling that something wrong was going on in my native country. We entered the street, and there it was: witches parlors on almost every corner. At each corner, they were sitting, the witches. One was saying on a poster in front that she could read your fortune and make it better. The other had an announcement that she could ban certain people out of your life, and one man claimed to be a hypnotizer, looking similar to the idiot Kashpirovsky, promising to hypnotize one to good health or death, depending on your wishes (he didn’t mention ‘death’, but he looked like he could do it).

Ah, all that is innocent, and doesn’t mean anything, you might say at this point, especially if you are an atheist, or a psychiatrist.

Well, it does, of course it does. Queues of people were assembling next to each witch, wishing, hoping to get something that would make their lives better. It was indeed a desperate moment for my country: there was nothing to eat, nothing to buy, with uncertain future and total turmoil in politics and economics.

I didn’t like any of them, and I kind of felt a sort of despair myself when I saw these crowds of people, and because I was curious by nature, I joined the queue of a palm reader, a woman who didn’t look kind, and who started to give me weird looks before I even approached her. My cousin was standing next to me, but I told her I had money only to pay for my reading, not for hers. Something protective was always in me, in regards to my one year older than me cousin. She was vulnerable, fragile, thinking that she had lost on points, because my father had made a life in Moscow, while her dad, my uncle, worked in a mine. We both didn’t understand then, yet, that the life of her parents, in a small mining town, was the one that was full of beauty and wonder, and nice, kind people, who earned their bread with honesty and integrity.

By the time I approached the palm reader, I wasn’t feeling that well, I think it was probably due to the fact that all people who had a reading with her, had sad, desolate faces when they departed after receiving their reading. She was piercing me, with her unkind, calculating eyes all the way through, and I assumed it was due to my quite sexy, revealing top, that my mum had brought me from Italy. I was standing out in terms of my clothes, and the woman probably didn’t like it, was my guess.

When I sat in front of her, I had a massive headache, not helped by the fact that what she was telling me, a fourteen years old, was beyond being disturbing, it was pure bad madness.

“You will soon have an operation and you might survive, but it is all in the hands of the fate. You should never work as a teacher, or become a doctor. You will be unlucky in love.”

There was nothing nice coming of the mouth of the woman, and I don’t even know where I found the strength to contradict her, but I did. When she finally revealed her trick, such as asking to paying her lots of money to correct my outrageous fortune, I put a hand on top of hers, looked into her eyes and said:

“You are a liar.”

I then stood up and took my cousin firmly by the hand. I stopped for a good measure as well, looking at the crowd still waiting for their reading, really wishing for them to never approach that monster psychic, to never deal with her madness, greediness and ill-will.

Something unexpected happened then. The bad psychic stood up and started to assemble her chair and her tools (cards or whatever), and then she said:

“No more reading today, I am going home.”

I experienced enormous relief then.

The next day, I took my cousin from the south of Russia, and my cousin from Moscow, my sisters really, I don’t like the term ‘cousin’ to the Zamoskvorechye, a district full of churches, right outside of Moscow (now, a part of it), to baptize all three of us.

We received baptism, someone stole my best hat on the train back to Moscow, and I did feel something. Something really good entering my life.

It wasn’t enough though to fight with the negative energy my native town was dealing with then, but we will come back to it in my next post.

zamockvorechie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Madness

We will make a small break in chronology and return back to Russia in the 1990s later on.

For now I want to focus on madness again. It is all related, everything is connected, because in order to really know how to be properly mad, one needs to have gone through dramatic events: childhood drama, traumatic event in one’s life, big unusual happenings in a country where one lives. I had experienced all of that, and therefore, I understand madness perhaps better than anyone else. Real, beautiful madness is when you become saner than the rest of human population.

I also don’t look at it anymore from the perspective of mental health narrative. I had to exit this discourse, because staying there is a sure way to not only get stuck in it, but also never recover from it.

People do get unwell, people do experience problems, bad things do happen in life, but I believe that with the right approach, and determination, and sometimes simple will-power, one can always get better. The mental health narrative takes the will-power away from the individual, and the only way to reclaim it back is to say ‘fuck you’ and reclaim your own power back.

If you are truly, beautifully mad, you are a genius. You are a shaman, you are creative and you can achieve more and better things than all others, suffering from mediocre thinking, narrow-minded approach to life, and inability to grow beyond fakeness. Fake people are all around us, just have a good look: they think about which next car to purchase, how to get a rich husband, how to take advantage of a vulnerable person. Their mind is not a great mind, when they laugh at the expense on another, when the highlight of their day is to read a dirty celebrity story, when they spend the whole day on posting angry comments to a person who does better, and well, looks better.

The same kind of people judge you if you are stuck in mental health narrative. It doesn’t matter if you ended up in a psychiatric hospital one day. So what? You can always get out and resume your life, and make it even better. If you can’t exit the psychiatric narrative, then you have to outsmart the narrative. It is simply stupid to think in our modern world that medicine is all shit, and refuse all sorts of medication when it can help.

But nothing will happen if you constantly play on pity, and wait for a shaman (or donor) to come and help you out. You are the shaman, you just don’t know it yet. You have to learn how to become one yourself, and go even further in that ancient wisdom, as we live here, in the West, and material comfort does matter, and it is nice and rewarding to have a good job, and do well in other aspects of one’s life. Being a Buddha under the tree is just a concept, a concept for someone who doesn’t embrace the dance of life. If you dance, you dance with spirituality in a beautiful, sensual way. When you know that you are spiritual but can also afford a nice pair of shoes.

I learned shamanism all by myself. There was no one to save me, and so I had to save myself. And if I didn’t do it, then I wouldn’t become a proper modern shaman. You do need to become ‘mad’, but you and only you can learn how to use that gift, how to protect it, and how to stay with it grounded. Shamanism is real, but so is witchcraft, and it’s not the ones who are busy making stupid spells you should watch out for. Bad witches are all the people who bring you down, when they make degrading comments, when they say something nasty, when they try to reassure you that something is wrong with you, even when you are better, and do better than them. They want to see you fall, and this is what bad witches are all about: to derive ill energy for short gratification of ego from the misery of someone’s else life.

Yes, I had to learn it all by myself. I lived through it (the initiation), and I also studied. I studied all religions, beliefs, and ancient wisdom. I consulted I-ching oracle, I learned Tarot, I studied Kabbalah, I read about Islam. I studied the Bible, and went to Christian churches. I am a combination of all different beliefs now, where I borrowed only what really works, and what helps me in a daily reality. And I believe only in what I can see, feel and experience as real, not when someone tells me: ‘because it is so’.

Leave the average, the mundane to fight about which religion is the best, or which culture, or language. Let them in their small, boring, not interesting, unkind world. Get out and do better. Read great books, go to the best theater performances, listen to the most beautiful music, try different amazing tasty food, start writing, go and dance. Don’t listen to their opinions. They don’t have the same gift as you, and therefore, they can never get to your level.

True madness is a gift. I am not talking about ‘psychosis’ induced by drugs (that’s simply drug addiction) or being stuck in some sort of eternal depression for the rest of one’s life.

No, I am talking about what they call sometimes ‘enlightenment’. It is given only to a really few, and it has to be given. You don’t learn it, and do run from those who tell you that they will teach you how to achieve it. Most of them are fakes, as the majority of all self-proclaimed spiritual gurus. Ask to see the certificate from a psychiatric hospital first, in order to take such a ‘guru’ seriously, or proof of some mad experience. Ask them to demonstrate the experience of suffering.

And so, yes, suffering, bad things do happen, and you can learn how to live through them, and how to live well.

I was ‘mad’, and now I enjoy my sanity of seeing outside of purely material level. I also lived well in 4 different countries (in two of them – twice), I speak 4 languages fluently, I have a PhD, I have a great job, I raise a beautiful son, and take care of my beautiful cat. I have 5 diplomas from different fields of studies from different countries, I worked in 6 different domains, in different countries and languages, I fell in love and out, and saw and experienced more than the average population.

But I am also yes, different. I speak to the universe in a different language because the universe chose me to speak to, in return. I hear birds, and understand their language, I make friends with random cats, I dance with feathers, and I see occasional angels. I met the devil, and I saw manifestations of God.

But on a daily life I also spend time on thinking about nice food in the evening, a glass of great wine on Saturday afternoon, which next book to read, which music concert to go to, where to buy my next coat, and which conditioner to try next from the Body shop.

On the other hand, I also think about when to start learning my fifth and sixth languages (German and Italian), how to become a professional dancer as a hobby, what to write as a next book, when to re-learn how to play piano, and how to help those in read need. I donate to charity, and I visit patients in psychiatric hospitals, bringing them beauty treats.

True madness is a dance with God and Devil simultaneously, and one either can dance (and get better and better in dancing), or one cannot, because he or she is faking it.

I like people who can dance in life. Real, sincere, genuine people. I like cleaners enjoying their work, making simple delicious meals and knowing how to love. I like academics who want to transfer knowledge and help students, instead of being busy with building their own academic name. I like farmers who care after earth and raise their children with kindness. I like writers who fell and got up again to write amazing books. I like musicians who had the unfortunate fate to be ridiculed by the press, but then came back stronger, better-looking and happier. I like people who know how to read books, how to speak beautiful language, how to value friendship, and how to wish the best for a person, a creature, a neighbor.

Are you with me?

mewithbird

Madness as manifestation of the world around. Moscow in 1990s

Having looked at Moscow in 1989 in my previous post, we are going to stay there for the time being, but move a couple of years forward.

We are staying there, because I want to start demonstrating that madness is not just a state that affects individuals at some point or another, but can also be a manifestation of the society as such. And while it is also very much present in the Western hemisphere (where we will move together in 1995, when I went to Brussels to do a Bachelor degree in French), Russia and my native town, Moscow, were a typical, very outspoken examples of that particular case, when madness strikes the society, deeply and profoundly, without that individuals affected realise it, or if they realise it, they either keep it for themselves (like I did), or they reanalyse it in retrospect. That moment when you look at some past, and say, loud and clear, yes, that was totally insane.

As Nietzsche once said:

“Madness is rare in individuals – but in groups, parties, nations, and ages, it is the rule.”

So, Moscow in 1990 to 1992 and beyond, represented quite an interesting sight.

Moscow at that time (from my archive)

You can watch the depiction of these times in a brilliant movie, called ‘Taxi-Blues’ by Pavel Lungin (trailer), which starts with showing us the glimpse of Kashpirovsky, hypnotising the entire nation from state TV in 1989, and then proceeds in telling us the story of how ordinary people managed (or not) to survive that period. As we all know, Gorbachev, came up with his ideas of ‘democracy’, ‘glasnost’, and ‘freedom of speech’, that he tried to incorporate into real life by demonstrating an absolute act of insanity, such as banning alcohol at some point. My dad worked at a local communist council by that time and used to receive ‘special’ packages once a month. Before the arrival of Gorbachev, packages contained some interesting variety of cheese, one type of sausage, some biscuits, and a bottle of vodka. Once Gorbatchev introduced his ban on alcohol, the bottle of vodka was replaced by lemonade.

My dad used to joke about the new measures, saying that: “One Russian is a drunk, two Russians are a drunken party, and three Russians are a local communist party.” It was all done in good spirit, because alcohol was still, obviously, available, made by desperate Russians in the safety of their homes. The name was ‘Samogon’, and local psychiatric hospitals were struggling with the new intake of patients, who were either intoxicated by the homemade spirit, or feeling very unwell after the séances of Kashpirovsky on the TV.

Being a teenager at that time, I was taking it all in as a really curious observer. In all honesty, I was totally bewildered by what was becoming with my native town, my country, and my surroundings. Having lots of free time for myself, I would often take a notebook and write in it, while walking around the streets of Moscow. The view was indeed, how to say it, (amazing is probably a wrong word to describe the peculiarity of madness) stupefying. Kashpirovsky’s appearance on the TV seemed to have led to a particular phenomenon outside of the state TV, such as resurgence of all things ‘psychic’ literally on every corner. Wherever you looked, you could either see a palm reader, or a nice old kind lady, offering a Tarot spread, right next to a Russian Orthodox Church. Churches were reopening their doors next to newly established businesses, specialising in all kinds of magic. You could order a love spell, or ask to get rid of your enemy, and the problem was, that it all worked in reality. People disappeared every day, the unwanted elements were get rid by the widespread mafia, and at some point my entire family had to hide in a remote apartment, because my dad had refused to accept payment for his business in yet another huge stock of ‘Triumph’ lingerie, instead of much needed cash.

My own problem was a particular one. I had a ‘psychic’ intuition myself. I could see the fakes, the greedy ones, and the evil. I could also feel that something totally wrong was taking place in my country, at the level way above my head, such as rubbing an entire nation of its resources and money in a matter of one year (maybe two, but I remember it more as a participant, rather than as a historian with concrete facts). The state companies offered ‘vouchers’ to the laypeople, and it was done right when the whole Russia was having a starvation problem. Shops were empty, and the lucky ones would get an ‘American aid’ at schools. As other children, I was entitled to one and would often carry the cartoon box (containing the aid) to my grandma, who, as other old people, had nothing at all. We would open the box, hoping for something better than last time, but it was always the same: uneatable dry ‘sausage’ (it was called a sausage, but it didn’t taste anything like that), and bottles of dry milk.

Since there was nothing else in the fridge, we would eat that.

The same companies which had given vouchers to the laypeople, started to buy them off the deprived, desperate people for a penny back. It was all done right when shops suddenly started to get some spare products in. My grandma was among those who sold her voucher, as she just wanted little bit of cash, to buy some bread, to buy some nicer food, to buy some boots in order to be able to walk in harsh winter.

We all know now, that it was a moment when oligarchs were made, but not that many people know, of course, that it all happened when Moscow city and the whole Russia was under the curse of evil magic, orchestrated under Yeltsin and his entourage.

So, yes, madness as such, to conclude my argument for this post, is nothing more than an outburst of grotesque and incomprehensible at any given time. It is not madness as such which is a problem, and definitely, not an innocent weird eccentric who points you to its manifestations. The problem is when it is all taken into the hands by evil, greedy people, who want nothing more but power, money, and even more money.