The detail of the day was on morning. I came on the second lesson and found our workshop almost empty. Stage was very simple – just three draperies. (with the sitter it’s really good) But the main thing was about our teacher. He was drunk. Really. Girls sniggered about it and called fanny, but for me that was a fall down of him. I recognised traits of speech and gestures of my dad when he was that way too. And all I felt was anger. Anger and full disappointment. There was my sincere bewilderment of girl’s reaction (It’s OK, just very fanny that’s all). After we had known about new orders of checking student’s attendance something like a abyss opened inside. Statue in the grey workshop. It’s me.

After lessons I went home looking up the sky and rewatching images and thoughts of my mind. I have them on the case of this greyness. It’s just a test. Continue do.



To be arriving across the town with the picture of my little amoursness on tennis. Just a view and all preoccupations of the day flushed away. But I still bad pupil who has never learnt to dance. So much deals to do, to be the best, but I feel nessecary to sit in a minibus with music, not with texts. I don’t hear its on background of my thoughts.

It was the closing of student works’ exhibition. No my work there. I sat so slack and dim listening words of praise and repeating something like “I’m OK, everything will be excellent. I can.” But it hadn’t helped me to overcome myself to go to talk and joke with secular laugh. My thinks are spinning around diploma picture. Even yesterday’s night I’ve just a bit of thought about it to spread into my mind.

I was so happy on weekends as my own world expelled this one. Task to keep it inner.


Delicious days of mists and rain with snow. Soft pictures of trees moved away into a grey cloud of air. Just look up and you will see nuded trees spilled with water drops. Look through the window on the furthest bank dissapeared in a mist. Fresh air. Shiny pavement, snowy ground. When you open your eyes for beauty and creativity sense of happiness extended on you in a moment. And finally I’m a rigid one in my skill to slide from sadness to happiness in two days. It’s so clearly now. Than more you live than more you understand it all.

Often last time I hear about cars and husbands and parties on friday, costs of electricity or something this kind. All this practical view is boring. Most people lives this way, but I suffocate with it’s endless series of preoccupations. I want something more. Breathe with life. Feel and understand it proper. Way of constant notion about life is not my way. I don’t want to complain about foolishness of someones or poverty or angry foreign adversaries. This is not for me. I need to create and improve myself. Process is life. I continue to breathe till I am in process.

Bussiness of admission

I have to say it’s a tremulous thing to slide through orders of this education system. Yesterday we’re informed about new rules of exams. State exams instead of local ones. It seemed me a little good as with sertificate I would insure myself giving papers to second order universities. On today’s gathering they said us another thing, in a lesson we learnt the other one. And girls and me had came to educational centre to consultate. There were such a ponderous woman who humorosly and stern explained us a situation. On the street it was snowing so placid and tranquil on trees and plain pavements. But we were angry with wrong information we had recieved in the college. Pages of institutes didn’t take me more certainty. Certainty. It’s a fanny word. I certainly know everything where I am going to apply, how and when. I know about my little plans. But deep down it always remains a little part of doubt between two cities. Where is my heart? It’s not a question at all and I know it. Blah-blah-blah.

I’ll just enter the academy. Everything will be OK. Keep calm and be optimistic.

What a resting day of grey empty streets and noisy crowds into markets. Mom tumbles about money. Its are never enough. But I think about different things. Morning it was programm about Lermontov – poet of timelessness. Sadly. There no joy in russian literature I have found.