Yesusth - Oh...

a guide to exploring abandoned farms

essential supplies include: plenty of food and water, a change of socks, a hat, rope, bandaids, a knife, gloves, an acorn in your pocket, and an offering

there are always odd noises on the farm. half of them come from the animals

try to forget what the lake looks like between the hours of three and four AM

never ever find yourself alone in the milking shed in the south end of the farm. time passes differently there

if you happen to hurt yourself in your exploration, make sure you do not bleed onto the dirt

bring plenty of water, you do not want to drink from there

the cows will watch you, this is normal

close every gate you open, even if the fields are empty. don’t ever leave one open behind you, just trust me

beware unstable rocks, the cracks tend to be filled with insect nests

bring a weapon with you, but no guns

if you see someone else while exploring, never tell them your name. you can never be sure if they are real or not, and further out you go, the less real they will seem. the patupaiarehe have evolved in cruel and unusual ways

do not go inside the empty share-milkers cottages, whatever you do, do not go inside. something else lives there now

a tree with the undersides of its leaves showing mean that a storm is coming. a tree with no leaves means the storm has already come

sometimes the hills look like they’re moving. be aware of this, because some things don’t like to be disturbed

do not sleep under the full moon, in fact, just don’t sleep on the farm

finding skulls is normal, only become worried when you start finding ribs

if you find yourself lost in a forest, continue walking in a straight line until you are free again. the trees may make it look as though you are going in circles, but i promise you’re not. ignore the soft music you can hear

your phone won’t work out here

the ghosts from the land wars won’t harm you, but be sure to show them respect

don’t take anything from the farm with you when you leave. just be grateful you have made it out alive

I woke up almost at dawn. Outside, the smoke from the chimneys suddenly turned pink, as did the birches in the neighboring yard. A delicate pink, January-like color from my old winter dreams.

After ten, at the eleventh hour, I went for a walk. A little snow fell overnight, roads and isolated puddles froze, and the thermometer showed exactly -5°C. I remember falling asleep at night thinking about the rain, about why it suddenly became very quiet outside. The next minute, I heard a strong sound of raindrops on the window and sill, but very soon everything subsided, and, in all likelihood, the rain turned into the sound of falling snow.

I visited a stream in the village of Ugolevshchyna on the way. I found a small ferry made of branches, and almost fell into a swampy place when I wanted to get closer and take a picture of the view. Looking at the other side of the reservoir, I remembered how I jumped along the banks in the spring with the risk of falling into the water, but with the opportunity to find as many marsh kaluzhnitsa as possible, of which there were a lot that season.

A village dog I had known for a long time followed me relentlessly, barking, almost to the very end of the village. I couldn't even look at the abandoned house in solitude for the hundredth time, which is getting worse and worse every month and year… This time, half of the roof collapsed, which made it much more dangerous to be inside. I found plenty of Soviet-era newspapers on the back of torn wallpaper; nothing remarkable. My memories revolved around the moments when I came here on my birthday, and how I liked the door on the back of the dwelling, its safety, «vitality», and colorfulness against the background of dark greenery after the June rain. I think it hasn't changed its position since those days–it's still slightly ajar. However, you can't move her anymore.

January 3, 2025; part one

These Tiled Steps In San Francisco Glow At Night From The Moonlight

Тихая ночь. Сергей Данчев, 2020

Respite / Peace 🌼🍂

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“The fruit was never an apple”

Max Svabinsky, (1873-1962)

“In Paradise” circa 1918