Book of Knowledge. 1. 15. Casting

BOOK of KNOWLEDGE,
a novel by Alexandra Kryuchkova
in the “PLAYING ANOTHER REALITY” series

PART 1. PLAYING ANOTHER REALITY, or the WAY to the LIGHT

Chapter 15. CASTING

That evening I took part in a literary event in a cozy bard art cafe in the city center. Poems were interspersed with romances and songs. The poets performed at the «Free Microphone», although it was always occupied, and, like for many other things in the Earthly Reality, one still needed to fight for it. Having cast my spells, I was talking at the bar with Svetlana when an elderly stranger approached us.

«I want to tell you something,» he said quietly, smiling. «You are a spell-caster!»

«Thank you!» I smiled. «Who are you?»

«It doesn’t really matter. Consider me a professional critic and editor. I listened to everyone, but I heard only you. I want to give you a small gift… Please write me down your email address. I’ll send it to you tonight.»

I wrote the address on a napkin. The critic thanked me and disappeared. Another man immediately called out to me. I had met him there a couple of times. He was already in «Another Reality» and just ordered himself a little more.

«Alice!» he exclaimed, shaking his head painfully. «You’re creating at the level of the Last Century spell-casters! Where does all this come from to you?! Such power! I gave your books to my friends, but people need no poetesses, but… money! Money rules! What injustice! World has gone mad! I can’t help you!»

I smiled and suddenly saw a portrait of Boris Pasternak in front of me.

«Svetlana, do you know anything about Pasternak?» I asked.

«Why are you asking?»

«I feel some spell-casters of that time, as if I knew them personally, but now I see Pasternak in front of me. I would like to meet him and talk. Who was he? What was he like?»

«You will still have time to meet him in Another Reality,» Svetlana reassured me, and we fell silent.

It came from the stage, «Oh, Kay! Everything will be okay!»

I think, I have no right to criticize anyone. Switched myself off, I don’t listen if it’s not mine. Usually, one who criticizes writes nothing or writes even worse. Even created by a genius can be criticized. It’s impossible to please everyone. Any work carries certain vibrations and feelings that are either close to you or not. So we say, «Yes, it’s mine!» or «No, not mine!» However, our own perception doesn’t mean at all that the work has no right to exist, because someone else can like it.

I turned off my hearing until another poet got the free mic. I had often seen him in our underground sphere, but never talked to. When I heard him for the first time, he reminded me of Alexander Blok.

They had nothing in common in appearance, but the themes and style of poems were very similar.

I got acquainted with Blok as a child, when I sang in the church choir. Or… even earlier, in a past life? I instantly absorbed a huge volume of his spells, feeling them by my soul, and suddenly entering the Flow and connecting to his sector, I felt him as well. It seemed that he had written a lot about me or for me, so that after so many years I would read and recall something. I knew his spells by heart. My favorite one, read for the first time after my mother’s death, was «Poet». If you think, it’s about poetry and poets, you are deeply mistaken. It’s a dialogue between a poet-father and his little daughter whose mother died. I painfully tried to understand why and to whom Blok had written his «Poet», but whoever I asked, no one knew anything. Incredibly, Blok played an important role in my destiny. Both in written and oral exams both at school and at the Academy, Another Reality gave me the opportunity to tell what I knew about him and to recite his spells to people.

The free mic passed to the next one. The poet came down from the stage and for some reason sat down at my table.

«Well, hello, Alexander,» I smiled.

«In this case,» the poet laughed, «hello, Anna?»

«I’ve got many names in this life, as well as the lives within one. As a child, my relatives and neighbors called me Tatyana, my mother’s name. At school, Eugenya, the teachers confused me with my friend. At the Academy, the Italian teachers called me Sandra, the English teachers — Alice. At work, Italians call me Alya, and Germans — Alex. Close ones — Fox, very close ones — Lily, because I have Lilith on the Sun.»

«You are Anna, I would even say Nude, since you appear naked in your poems. I want to gift you something.»

The poet handed me a book, a film, and a rosary, Buddhist wooden rosary with one hundred and eight stones. The book «Alexander and Love» was about Alexander Blok, and the film «Moon at Zenith» was about Anna Akhmatova.

«You always write about Harlequins and booths. Didn’t you have time to say something then? You can experiment with other images, why not?»

«I don’t want. This is my favorite character. I love Theater. You know, I could become an actor in this life, but the chance was missed. Are you still looking for the Man Who Was Not? You couldn’t get along with anyone then, right?»

«Have you found your Beautiful Lady?» I retorted.

«Sorry. A book of dedications to Akhmatova will be released soon. Presentation in St. Petersburg. Shall we go?»

«Too much connected to that city,» I answered evasively.

«I agree, but that Petersburg exists no more. At least the same as I remembered and loved it.»

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a woman flew up to us. She was no longer young, looked quite extravagant and was all… buzzing.

«So! Sign up for the casting, everyone! Come on! Sign up! I have listened to all of you. You all are geniuses, so come here, come quickly! Here! To me! Everyone! Just, comrades, take turns and, as they say, according to the staffing table!»

«What kind of casting?» I asked.

«Well, girl! I see you are active! It’s great! I’ll sign you up now!» the buzzing woman exclaimed and took out a notepad and pen from her bag.

«Where do you write her down to?» asked one of the attendees.

«What do you mean, where to? On TV! So you, girl, don’t you want to get on television? There is a broadcast there!»

«In this case, sign up our Alice for sure! She is a spell-caster!» a poet confirmed.

«She’s not just a spell-caster. She is a great spell-caster,» a bard added.

«So, you are Alice! I’m writing it down… Your phone number, please!»

«And who are you?» I asked carefully, having dictated my phone number.

«I’m the casting! And Casting is me! Don’t interrupt, baby, otherwise I’ll forget to ask you something… So… The hair is black. Long. The eyes are black. Huge… Appearance… Turn your head to the left. Yeah, the appearance has a touch of the East… Very good! I’ll write it down… Well… What else did I want to ask? Ah! Here it is, how old are you?»

I told the truth. The woman recoiled from me in horror.

«What are you saying, baby? Is it really possible to say that to someone? And even more so on television?! Remember once and forever, you are eighteen! Got it? I’m writing down, eight-teen,» the woman wrote it down and added in my ear in a conspiratorial tone, «Write it down somewhere for yourself too so as not to forget, if someone asks later!»

«They released a lot of her books!» Svetlana added proudly.

«Okay, keep silence, everyone! I’m writing! What about your height?»

«I am a meter… and a half… plus eight… centimeters…» I raised my eyebrow in surprise and quoted my own verse.

«Ugh… It won’t be enough! Well, what do you want me to do with you?! I’ll have to write it down like this, a meter… and a half…» the buzzing woman dictated to herself.

«Alice is a member of the Main Society of Spell-casters in our country!» someone shouted from the crowd already gathered around us.

«And what is your… weight?» ignoring the exclamations, the woman continued.

«Is it important for spell-casters?» I was even more surprised.

«No, it’s not important for spell-casters, but it does matter to television!»

«I don’t know,» I was confused.

«How can you not know?»

«It’s not important for the spell-casters. So I didn’t weigh myself.»

«Outrage! Branded outrage, stop… or brandy outrage? Anyhow, in fact, apparently, it doesn’t matter to you either… So, where did we stop, baby? Ah, your weight! We’ll definitely have to weigh you! I’ll write it down now, „to weigh!“ Remind me before the show!»

A voice from the crowd came again,

«There, on the show, let Alice recite more! Have you heard the way she casts spells? Everyone will be delighted!»

The buzzing woman finished the word «weigh!», gave an appraising glance at me and asked,

«What is your bust size?»

The hall froze… A silent scene… However, the woman, realizing that she would not get an answer until the Apocalypse, instantly ducked under my furs, found a thin blouse and sighed heavily,

«Not Hollywood, of course, but for the second roles it will fit… So we’ll write it down… And that’s all with you! The next one!»

…I returned home. SHE met me at the door.

«A gift, you have already forgotten about, awaits you. Open your email. This letter now is rightfully yours as well.»

In fact, I found a letter in my email, from the old critic who, as it turned out during the literary event, was a well-known poet-translator in the literary circles of the last century. The text of his letter was quite laconic, «Dear Alice, I am sending the gift I promised you. Sincerely, M.V.» I opened the attached file, a document called «Letter», and… It was a letter by Boris Pasternak, with whom I had so suddenly and so strongly wanted to get acquainted just a couple of hours before!

In his letter dated December fifteenth, 1955 and addressed to the old critic, poet-translator, Pasternak expressed in black and white his attitude to poetry and poets in general, and to spell-casters in particular. He wrote about the existence of some Other Secret Power which was selecting spells that would remain for centuries. «The power of spell-casters is usually recognized late. In some cases, they initially have tragic notes leading to suicide, in others — features of foresight, revealed by posthumous victory…»

Pasternak’s letter was a greeting from Another Reality, and SHE sat opposite smiling, «The surprises are not over for today. Open the book about Alexander.»

Unable to resist, I took out the gifted book of 400 pages. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t read it all at once. «Just look it through!» SHE hinted.

There were almost no poems in the book, just a life story of Blok, whose mysterious «Poet», enchanted my soul in childhood, remained a great secret for me. I obediently leafed through, when suddenly I came across that poem inside the text. «Wow!» I breathed out and started reading.

A year before his death, Blok had got an unofficial daughter, named Alexandra, the same name that my parents gave me at birth. Her mother died. The woman who adopted the girl gave her that poem with a note that it had been dedicated to Alexandra by her father, and indicated his name, although the poem had been written almost 15 years before Alexandra’s birth. «He saw the Future too,» I thought. So, almost 20 years after my acquaintance with Blok, the Higher Forces told me the secret of the «Poet».

I was about to fall into the realm of dreams, but as soon as my physical body touched the bed, and my eyes hadn’t yet closed, I suddenly saw the Patriarch right in front of me. I jumped out of bed and rubbed my eyes, but the vision didn’t disappear.

«Come in, be bold,» he said with a smile, and I clearly saw the Temple of my Soul.

Landing my head on the pillow, I closed my eyes and opened them again, but the picture remained the same. I was in the Temple of my Soul and at the same time in my room, so both Realities combined in one, there were no boundaries anymore there.

«You are very tired, Alice. You need to relax. Let’s go.»

Since my last visit to the Temple of my Soul, nothing changed in it, but the Light was on again. I still didn’t understand where it was coming from. However, I was very tired and really wanted to rest. We approached the niche with climbing plants and white flowers, where there was a table, at which the Patriarch used to write something. I glanced down the left corridor and saw my Moon Cat. The Cat came up to me and climbed onto my shoulder humming the Music of the Spheres.

«Hello, Moony!» I whispered joyfully, scratching the Cat behind the ear. «Do you know what’s there, behind the door at the end of the left corridor?»

The Cat obediently jumped down to the floor and walked with an important gait towards that very door. I looked questioning at the Patriarch, whether I could look behind that door. He nodded in agreement. The Cat opened it with the paws, and I saw the bottomless dark blue Sky. The same one that I had painted as a background in the paintings about the Girl with the Moon Cat. I took a step into the Sky following the Cat. We walked through the Sky, although it seemed that we should fall and fall-fall-fall, since there was the Void under our feet and around us. Then I saw the Earth as a small ball which could easily fit in my palm.

«Where are we now, Moony? What kind of place is it?»

The Cat meowed in response something like, «What’s the difference? Take a walk to your health.»

The Sphere where we found ourselves was an intermediate state belonging to both Realities. One could return to Earth from there or observe the Earthly Reality through the Window to the World.

«They mostly fly this Sphere through, and at a fairly high speed,» it flashed in my mind for some reason.

I thought that there should be a vertical tunnel there, through which I had once flown up from the Earth to listen to the Music of the Spheres. One could get Knowledge there, since Heaven was an open Book, and everything one wanted to know instantly appeared on its pages. In my childhood, a Voice had taught me the structure of the Universe there. Both formulas and geometric figures appeared on the screen of Eternity, as if the stars were forming into certain patterns, figures and words.

«Moony, can it be the place of a Higher Educational Institution?»

The Cat purred contentedly. I realized that my Moony lived in the Temple of my Soul. I had never met him before, because the Cat was fond of walking by himself in different Spheres, otherwise, how could he know the Music of the Spheres? I mentally invited him to return, but the Cat purred, «I’ll probably wander around here, and you go back.»

I returned to the Temple. So I got to know where the door, located next to the entrance to the Library of the Universe, led to. I approached the Patriarch, remembering that all the doors in the right corridor, which he had showed me the previous time, were associated with the sin of suicide. I asked him if the final door of the right corridor was the entrance to Hell, the Lower Astral. The Patriarch nodded, adding that I needed another door. He pointed with his hand to what could be seen behind the climbing plants with white flowers parting in front of me in the niche opposite the entrance to the Temple.

Another level of Heavens, one of the Spheres where I had never been before. I stepped inside. Everything was flooded with the Light, but not that of the Sun. Permeating the entire space, it didn’t blind the eye at all. Emerald grass was underfoot. Multi-colored butterflies were fluttering over the flowers. A beautiful huge meadow, a friendly forest on the right… everything was just like in childhood, when my grandfather and I had used to wander through the forests next to our cottage in the summer. Voices were heard in the distance. The bright souls of the departed lived there. That Sphere was filled with joy and tranquility. Nothing negative reached that level, being settled downstairs. All that existed There were mental images created in the likeness of what we got used to on Earth, and/or (?) vice versa, on Earth like in Heavens. There was nothing to be afraid of, but I was afraid of going too far, since the morning would come soon, and I needed to get back on time.

Therefore, I fell into the flowering grass, listened to the birds singing, watching the magical butterflies and the Light that surrounded me. My own inner Light was slowly merging with the Universal One. I was dissolving in It, because I was a part of It. We had the same nature or structure, or composition, or whatever it was. Call it something for me.

All I knew then — I was That Light.