За Фикуса...

Не знам дали Блага Димитрова е чела какво Учителят Петър Дънов казва за фикуса, но след като познавам романа ѝ Лице, бих казала, че да. Особено интересно е, че главната героиня, Бора Найденова, е професор и според Петър Дънов фикусът е точно за нея...

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Запример, добре е да отглеждате фикус. Наистина, фикусът е безплодно растение, но дава нещо от себе си. Който иска да забогатее, нека отглежда фикус. Той внася спокойствие и разположение в човека. Фикусът е за учените хора.

Петър Дънов

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Фикусът остава сам до прозореца в стъмнения апартамент. Многорък Буда от зеленясал бронз, съсредоточен във фик-съзнание.

Обладател на някакво неизвестно растително проникновение, този безмълвен състайник е установил подкоренна връзка със сетивата на мъжа и жената, без те да я осъзнаят. Той съзира миналото и това, което предстои. И със сгъстено излъчване на биотокове се опитва да предодврати катастрофата или поне да я смекчи. Как ли? По своему, по фикуски. Може би чрез фотосинтеза между двамата. Непрестанно поглъща въгледвуокиса, който те издишат. Примесен със заразни отрови – подозрения, съмнения, злъч, дори в стила на героинята – класова омраза, непримиримост. И го преработва търпеливо в кислород, наситен със спокойствие, сговор, сън, любов, прошка, за да вдишват. Ако такъв е техният микроклимат, в който биха могли да виреят като същества, верни на природата си, те си го отравят сами с разни фикс-идеи. А разстението иска да им внуши своята проста фикус-идея:

Внасяй в хаоса Фи-хармония!

Вземи на фокус един слънце-лъч – фикус-фокус.

През себе си го пропущай, чрез себе си го превръ-

щай в нещо по-най пренай от себе си: в зелено, в

лист, в сянка, в бистро, в капка, в глътка, в смях, в

сълза, в свежо, във въздух, в дъх, в дух.

И ще станеш най-сетне спокоен – фику-

тивно.

Сянката на фикуса с лапести листа е уголемена на стената. Напомня за тропическия му произход. Сякаш призракът на изгонената завинаги от града природа се промъква в този тесен апартамент и плете някаква разклонена формула, от която двамата обитатели със своя самонадеян разум няма как да се откопчат.

Един мистичен сноп лунни лъчи се плъзва върху полираните листа, изтръгвайки от тях недостъпен за човешки слух ултра-фи-звук. В този миг фикусът, превърнат в арфикус, отехтява своята носталгична болка:

Изкоренен от джунглата, въдворен в единоч-

ка саксия, аз фикукрея – джудже-фикус, таен

стаен пратеник, за да внасям с пълни, зелени

шепи сред стените фикосмоса.

Блага Димитрова, Лице

На нашето мъниче за едно денонощие му се излюпи листо... ❤

Повече за фикуса, четете тук.

Страшна сила...

Онзи ден влязох в една книжарница и една от първите книги, които видях, беше „Пътуване към себе си“ на Блага Димитрова. Разтворих я и ме чакаше един от най-красивите абзаци. И някак си ми напомня за предишната ми публикация, от Властелина на Пръстените – той я хваща за ръка и Времето отново започва да тече...

© Христиана Бобева, 2017

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Страшна сила е събрана в ръцете на любим мъж. Гледаш в хипноза тая едроставеста китка с тревожещи космици по кожата. Сякаш тия снопчета влакна са излъчители на гравитация. Някаква древна закана напира от ъгловите линии на кокалчетата. Широката твърда длан таи гореща ласка и плясък на камшик. Дългите, чувствителни пръсти умеят да те докосват и да четат всяка гънка на кожата ти като азбука за слепи. Могат цяла да те прочетат. Да изтрият като магнетофонна лента всякакъв спомен от друго докосване по тебе. Могат да те моделират и да изваят една богиня от тебе. Но в същото време – и да те подчинят, да те превият, прекършат, да те смажат. Страх и нежност, закрила и угроза внушават мъжките ръце. От тая длан извира животът за тебе, от нея може да те удари гръм и да те овъгли до корена. Каквото и да бъде, нека да е от неговата ръка! От ничия друга, само от неговата!

Блага Димитрова, Пътуване към себе си

Your life will be brighter than noonday; its darkness will be like the morning. *

*Job 11:17

[…] And they said no more; and it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that above the ridges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of darkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth, and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

[…]

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the East there came a great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings beyond hope from the Lords of the West, crying:

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,

for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,

and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,

for your watch hath not been in vain,

and the Black Gate is broken,

and your King hath passed through,

and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,

for your King shall come again,

and he shall dwell among you

all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,

and he shall plant it in the high places,

and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

And the people sang in all the ways of the City.

THE RETURN OF THE KING

(BOOK SIX, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Because it was impossible to stay in The Darkness of Sholob's lair...

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."*

*Psalm 23:4, Psalm of David.

Drawing a deep breath they passed inside. In a few steps they were in utter and impenetrable dark. Not since the lightless passages of Moria had Frodo or Sam known such darkness, and if possible here it was deeper and denser. There, there were airs moving, and echoes, and a sense of space. Here the air was still, stagnant, heavy, and sound fell dead. They walked as it were in a black vapour wrought of veritable darkness itself that, as it was breathed, brought blindness not only to the eyes but to the mind, so that even the memory of colours and of forms and of any light faded out of thought. Night always had been, and always would be, and night was all.

THE TWO TOWERS

(BOOK FOUR, Chapter 9: Shelob’s Lair)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Master SamWise The Stout-Hearted

'Yes, that's so,' said Sam. 'And we shouldn't be here at all, if we'd known more about it before we started. But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't. And if they had, we shouldn't know, because they'd have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr Bilbo. But those aren't always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?'

[…]

'…Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We're in one, or course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: "Let's hear about Frodo and the Ring!" And they'll say: "Yes, that's one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave. wasn't he, dad?" "Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that's saying a lot."'

THE TWO TOWERS

(BOOK FOUR, Chapter 8: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Beware of Mother Nature...

“ […] The mountains seemed to be trying with their deadly breath to daunt them, to turn them back from the secrets of the high places, or to blow them away into the darkness behind. […]”

THE TWO TOWERS

(BOOK FOUR, Chapter 8: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

How sheer desperation feels like...

'I wonder,' said Frodo. 'It's my doom, I think, to go to that Shadow yonder, so that a way will be found. But will good or evil show it to me? What hope we had was in speed. Delay plays into the Enemy's hands − and here I am: delayed. Is it the will of the Dark Tower that steers us? All my choices have proved ill. I should have left the Company long before, and come down from the North, east of the River and of the Emyn Muil, and so over the hard of Battle Plain to the passes of Mordor. But now it isn't possible for you and me alone to find a way back, and the Orcs are prowling on the east bank. Every day that passes is a precious day lost. I am tired, Sam. I don't know what is to be done. What food have we got left?'

'Only those, what d'you call 'em, lembas, Mr. Frodo. A fair supply. But they are better than naught, by a long bite. I never thought, though, when I first set tooth in them, that I should ever come to wish for a change. But I do now: a bit of plain bread, and a mug − aye, half a mug − of beer would go down proper. I've lugged my cooking-gear all the way from the last camp, and what use has it been? Naught to make a fire with, for a start; and naught to cook, not even grass!'

THE TWO TOWERS

(BOOK FOUR, Chapter 1: The Taming of Sméagol)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings