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pech
The Russian Stove is an amazing creation. It is made of very simple materials and its interior design has been perfected over many generations. Eastern European countries, not just Russia have adopted the use of this style of stove. In some cases artisans get a hold of the materials to make beautiful centerpieces in the homes that will be heated during the winter.The Russian Stove



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Evening in Shimla, India Oren E Above Side Sync SwimmingDiving into the Wreck by Adrienne RichFirst having read the book of myths,and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade,I put on the body-armor of black rubberthe absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask.I am having to do this not like Cousteau with hisassiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schoonerbut here alone.There is a ladder.The ladder is always there hanging innocentlyclose to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for,we who have used it.Otherwise it is a piece of maritime flosssome sundry equipment.I go down.Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses methe blue lightthe clear atoms of our human air.I go down.My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladderand there is no one to tell me when the oceanwill begin.First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yetmy mask is powerful it pumps my blood with powerthe sea is another story the sea is not a question of powerI have to learn alone to turn my body without forcein the deep element.And now: it is easy to forgetwhat I came for among so many who have alwayslived here swaying their crenellated fansbetween the reefs and besidesyou breathe differently down here.I came to explore the wreck.The words are purposes. The words are maps.I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail.I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flankof something more permanent than fish or weedthe thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staringtoward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disastercurving their assertion among the tentative haunters.This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silentlyabout the wreck we dive into the hold.I am she: I am hewhose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrelshalf-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a coursethe water-eaten log the fouled compassWe are, I am, you are by cowardice or couragethe one who find our way back to this scenecarrying a knife, a camera a book of mythsin whichour names do not appear.From Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972 by Adrienne Rich. Copyright © 1973 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright 1973 by Adrienne Rich.


Dr Zhivago
Dr Zhivago

Maurice J...

Dr. Zhivago
Winter's Night
Blizzards were blowing everywhere Throughout the land. A candle burned upon the table, A candle burned. As midgets in the summer fly Towards a flame, The snowflakes from the yard swarmed to The window pane. And, on the glass, bright snowy rings And arrows formed. A candle burned upon the table, A candle burned. And on the white illumined ceiling Shadow were cast, As arms and legs and destinies Fatefully crossed. Two slippers fell on to the floor With a light sound, And waxen tears dripped from the candle On to a gown. No object in the misty whiteness Could be discerned. A candle burned upon the table, A candle burned. A mild draught coming from the corner Blew on the candle, Seduction's heat raised two wings crosswise As might an angel. It snowed and snowed that February All through the land. A candle burned upon the table, A candle burned. 1946. By Boris Pasternak. Translated by Alex Miller.