(Not) Dreaming of Taras

06.15.2006 | Yevgeniya Traps | Literature | 46 Comments


Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, ‘The night is dreary,
He cometh not,’ she said;
She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead.’

Tennyson, Lord Alfred. “Marianna.” The Collected Poems. (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Poetry Library, 1994.) 6.
~ ~ ~

At eve a dry cicada sung,
There came a sound as of the sea;
Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
And lean’d upon the balcony.
There all in spaces rosy-bright
Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears,
And deepening thro’ the silent spheres,
Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
And weeping then she made her moan,
‘The night comes on that knows not morn
When I shall cease to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

Tennyson, Lord Alfred. “Marianna in the South.” The Collected Poems. (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Poetry Library, 1994.) 49.


~ ~ ~

The first boy who loved me was called Taras. We were seven. He had wavy blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, well-fed Ukranian cheeks. This is what I remember anyway. This is how I picture him. It has been almost twenty years now. And still I think of him.


~ ~ ~

Thinking of Taras, the first boy who loved me, the first boy I loved, reminds me of the girl in the Balthus painting “Thèrése Révant.” Therese is a girl, young, very young perhaps. She sits on a chair, reclines, her eyes closed, her hands laced together and resting on top of her head. Her head is turned, in three-quarter profile, and her legs are parted, unself-consciously.


~ ~ ~

The first time I see “Thèrése Révant,” I am walking through the Met. I see Therese reclining, her reverie and her red shoes like Dorothy’s.

Therese is Dorothy reimagined by Humbert Humbert.

I wonder what Therese dreams of, what Therese’s dreamlife is like. In the picture, she seems to be daydreaming, not really dreaming. She is not sleeping, though her eyes are closed, though her head is thrown back, though she seems unaware of the room around her. Still, her posture suggests that she is not fully relaxed, has not fully abandoned herself, has not given herself up fully. And somewhere, off to the side, is the invisible presence of Balthus watching her: her brown bob, her upturned nose, her red skirt hiked up to reveal white panties. It is an undeniably sexual image. Balthus’s preoccupation with young, nubile, sexualized girls is well-known and well-documented. We imagine we know the dreams Balthus dreams of Therese.



~ ~ ~



But what of Therese? What of Therese’s fantasies and obsessions and shameful desires? What does she dream of? What are the nature and the content, the shape and the substance of her reveries? Caught halfway between innocence and perversity, arrested at the nexus of rest and stimulation, Therese remains an unknown, an unknowable.


~ ~ ~

And when I remember Taras, when I think I remember Taras, I picture him at seven, the baby fat, the clear eyes, the boy in a blue school uniform. He does not speak. I render him all innocence and light and halo of blond curls. I think of him on rainy nights, on cold nights, on nights I cannot sleep and feel sad and old and alone and terribly afraid. I think of him as I am smoking the last cigarette of the day. I think of him and it is a sweet memory, sweet like cherry jam at the bottom of a cup of tea. But he does not think of me. No. I do not think he thinks about me.


~ ~ ~

I think of Taras because he loved me when it was easy to love me. I wore my hair in two braids, a thin whippet of a smiling girl, not unlike a very young Therese: her smooth brow, her lovely cheekbone, her innocent abandon, the pretty white shirt collar, her little ankle socks.


~ ~ ~

I am no longer that. But what is Taras? I project him on the walls of my memory, a voyeuristic image, a dried rose hung upside down in the attic, stripped of meaning, withered. I do not any longer know what he is or where he is or how he is. I think of him but I do not dream of him.


~ ~ ~

But I dream of Kiev.


~ ~ ~


A dream I had about a year ago:

I am walking through Kiev but it is not really Kiev. It is only Kiev in my dream. And it is awful in the way dream-places are often awful. Not simply frightful but capable of filling with awe. There are hills. They form a border around the city, like a perverse, nonsensical moat. It is dusk. And the streets are empty, or rather the street I am walking along is empty, but I know there are people everywhere, on other streets, and I can hear them, hear a buzzing, low and menacing, but very definitely there. The moon is coming out, vague, but there, in the sky, not shining, no, but glowering, a mad, blind eye, a milky cataract.

Another dream, more recent:

I have gone back, I have visited Kiev. I stand now in the airport, surrounded by luggage, mine, someone else’s, bags and suitcases and backpacks. I am staring at the announcement board, looking for my flight back to New York. I cannot find it. Then, an announcement is made: “Former citizens wishing to board flights to the United States must report to the Consulate.” My parents are there, grabbing for their bags. We go to the Consulate, another part of the airport. Another announcement: “Betrayers of the Motherland, we forgive you, we take you back. You shall remain.”


~ ~ ~

In old wives’ wisdom, to dream of visiting your old home means you will have good news to rejoice over. To dream of your old home in a dilapidated state is a dream of sorrow, of foreboding.


~ ~ ~

But I do not really have an old home. I do not remember Kiev. I cannot picture myself there. Again I think of Therese, of Therese dreaming in her red shoes. And somewhere else, long ago, I had learned: click the heels together and there is no place like home.


~ ~ ~

In Blue Thirst, Lawrenece Durrell writes : “You have two birth places. You have the place where you were really born and then you have a place of predilection where you wake up to reality.” I find the quote on a post-it, disembodied, having no connection to anything outside the yellow sticky square of paper.


~ ~ ~

But, does not everything, everyplace look the same? Sartre wrote: “And then everything looks alike: Shanghai, Moscow, Algiers, everything looks the same after two weeks.” Is this not true of my dreamplaces, the places I dream of? Everything blends and melds; everything is thrilling and complicated and ordinary. Everything is the same, everyplace. Every-(dream)-place.


~ ~ ~

Sleep is a kind of place and a kind of predilection. It is a kind of reality too. I am startled awake: by the alarm clock, by voices, by rain on the skylight. I am startled awake by the ringing phone, static on the other end. “Hello?” But there is nothing. I roll over and light a cigarette. It is still a little dark and a little cold and the thought of fully waking to reality is overwhelming.


~ ~ ~

I look at photographs of my younger self, black-and-white-and-sepia. I am posed against backgrounds I no longer recognize, settings that resonate yet remain out of reach, beyond comprehension. The places I do remember retain, in memory, a mystical quality. They are shrouded in mist, rise out of the mist for a brief moment, sink back into the mist. I do not know with any kind of certainty if I have dreamed them or lived them. Some dreams are so vivid, I gasp at waking. This is part of the process of coming back into the self, of reconstructing the self.


~ ~ ~

A friend of a friend returns from a visit to Ukraine. Kiev is beautiful, he says. We are drinking whiskey, grown now and reminiscing about the place we called home a long time ago when we were children watching grownups drink tumblers of liquor, smoke falling, dropping and rising again like memory refusing suppression. I did not imagine then that I would imagine it now, remember so little and want so much.


~ ~ ~

This friend tells me about the roads paved over and parks and people bustling to and from on green lit rambling streets and I wonder if somewhere Taras waits for me, thinks of me, dreams of me. I wonder that I do not dream of him.


~ ~ ~

The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”

The last twist of the knife.
Eliot, T.S. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Selected Poems. (New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1936.) 16.


~ ~ ~

This is the last stanza of “Rhapsody on a Windy Night,” T.S. Eliot. To sleep is to prepare. For life? I am not so sure. I wake up feeling something that has been misplaced, something has been forgotten. There is a dream I used to have:
I have forgotten my shoes or left them behind deliberately and suddenly I realize that I am far from home and barefoot. I do not know how to return, how to make my way back. I am stuck in place, rendered immobile and terrified.


~ ~ ~

For a reason I cannot quite name, thinking of that dream now, I am reminded of the Twelve Dancing Princesses fairytale. In it, a king has twelve beautiful daughters, kept locked up for the night in a room with twelve beds. Every morning, their shoes are found worn out, as though they have danced all night. The princesses, it turns out, disappear through an enchanted tunnel; night after night, they attend an enchanted ball. They dance the nights through, carefree, delighted, exuberant. But then they are caught, the eldest marries; their dancing shoes are put away forever.


~ ~ ~

You sleep, dream. Then, morning: waking like the putting away of the dancing shoes. Or, put another way:

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


Eliot, T.S. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Selected Poems. (New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1936.) 16.


~ ~ ~

The king has decreed: whoever uncovers why the shoes are worn out though the girls ought to be sleeping will have a share of great riches. An enterprising soldier, wounded in the war, no longer fit for battle takes his chance but only after being advised by an old woman to strap a sponge under his chin and let it absorb the wine the princesses would have him drink. Doing as he is told, the soldier remains awake, only feigning sleep as he observes the girls sneaking away for the night. He has solved the mystery of the dancing shoes.


~ ~ ~

And so, he reaps his rewards, marries the eldest princess, they live happily ever after.
But her dreams end. Her nights—glorious dancing nights—are no more. Only quiet sleep now in her marriage bed and memories—glorious dancing memories—locked deep inside herself, inaccessible, a dim snapshot image without time or place.


~ ~ ~

She has lost her dreamlife, her dancing life, because the soldier kept awake. Those who tried their luck before him drank the wine, fell asleep, were duped, lost their heads. The soldier won the game. He would not give in to the sleepy brew. He kept awake and intruded into the dreams of the Twelve Dancing Princesses, forced them out of their dreams and startled them permanently awake. (See Anne Sexton’s version of the Twelve Dancing Princesses story in Transformations)


~ ~ ~

There seems to me to be a permeable border between the conscious, planning, deliberate mind and that other part of yourself, the tucked away, hidden repository of the private, unbidden self. I have a dream which lingers, wanders from my nightmind into my day-mind, colors my day. I think about it all day, push it and prod it. Later, I meet a friend for a drink, try to describe it to him.


~ ~ ~

He says, “Oh, is that where we are now? Telling each other our dreams?”


~ ~ ~

And I think, of course, he is right. It seems silly. It would be as if we have run out of things to talk about, real things, day things. But I think too, what of the night things, of hidden meanings and things unsaid but felt only vaguely? What about the parallel life, glimpsed in night visions, remembered only tentatively? What about that?


~ ~ ~

In an Anne Sexton poem, there is a truth the dead know. I think there must be a truth sleepers know. But they too, like the dead, refuse to divulge, “refuse / to be blessed, throat, eye, and knucklebone”, as Sexton puts it.


~ ~ ~

Once I heard that people who lose their eye-sight later in life remain capable of “seeing” in dreams. Night after night, they see, dream. Dreams become like phantom-limbs, a temporary, unreasonable, perverse, awkward sensation.


~ ~ ~

I wake up with an image burrowing back into some remote region. It is only an aftertaste now, not quite a memory. But I try to hold on, to grasp it. In that single moment, between my nightself and my dayself, it seems something is being revealed, something potentially important, potentially vital. The day takes over. But there are moments, through the day’s demands, when I think again about the night, its logic and laws and requirements. The dream tries to tell me something but it is undecipherable, unclear. The dream answers a question which remains unarticulated, unknown, perhaps unknowable.


~ ~ ~

There is the moment when Alice awakes. There is the moment when Dorothy awakes. Wonderland is a dream. Oz is a dream. When I was very young, I felt a terrible pang of terrible disappointment when the stories ended. A pang, not unlike the terrible pang of waking up from a pleasant, beautiful dream. Little girls go on big adventures and then nothing. Nothing. Merely a dream. My father bought me the Alice in Wonderland picture book. I was consumed by it. Then: Alice wakes up.


~ ~ ~

There was an exhibition of Lewis Carroll’s photographs at the International Photography Center in the summer of 2003. It was called “Dreaming in Pictures: The Photography of Lewis Carroll.” There were beautiful photographs of little girls, not unlike Alice herself, dressed up, many reclining, half-asleep, innocent and alluring. One photograph in particular, “Julia Arnold, Seated on Unmade Bed,” struck me then. Julia Arnold sits on the edge of her bed, unmade, yes, but pristine, white sheets, white fluffy pillow. She too wears white, leans back, elbow on the pillow, her little face serious, her skinny legs dangling far above the floor. She has long dark hair, in stark contrast to her light bed, and the picture is sepia, as if the image it projects is just now developing, hazy, a little unfocused. Perhaps Julia has just woken up, perhaps she is about to fall asleep. Tthe look on her face is serious, but sleepy too, weary. Perhaps she is dreaming, in reverie. Carroll’s Julia reminds me of Balthus’s Therese. The illicit dream of an older man, the unwitting, sleepy muse.


~ ~ ~

Therese, again. Therese has blended and melded in my mind with Dorothy and with Alice. If you love someone, you want watch him sleep, want to protect him when he is vulnerable, to watch the little throb of his throat, the little pulsing, the subtle rise and fall of the chest, the vaguest belly quiver. The beloved body at rest. Parents watch over their sleeping children, lovers watch over their sleeping lovers.


~ ~ ~

Yevgeniy Yevtushenko has a poem called “Beloved, Sleep.” I shall attempt to translate it from the Russian here:

Salty sea-drops sparkle on the fence.
The little gate is already closed.
The sea,
rises, and rising breaks the dams,
and pulls the salty sun into itself.
Beloved, sleep…
Torture not my soul.
Already the mountains and the steppes drowse.
And our limping dog,
shaggy and dumb,
lies down, licks the salty chain.
The sea – all might,
the branches –tenderness,
by all that experience –
the dog is chained,
so I to you – whisper,
then – half-whisper,
then – already silent:
“Beloved, sleep…”
Beloved, sleep…
Forget that we have fought.
Imagine:
We will wake.
And all is new.
We’ll lie in bales.
We will drowse.
And the matsoni exhales
from somewhere below,
from down below, –
into our sleep.
O, how can I make you
imagine all this
when you do not believe?
Beloved, sleep…
And smile in your sleep
(leave all your tears!),
collect flowers
foretell where to put them,
and buy beautiful dresses by the dozen.
You moan?
It must be that you have tired of turning?
So turn into your sleep
and be covered by it.
In sleep we shall do all,
all,
which is muttered,
when we do not sleep.
Not sleeping now is without reason,
is forbidden even, –
and all
that is unknown,
yells from within.
It ails your eyes,
so many people to see.
Under their lids, they will feel easier in sleep.
Beloved, sleep…
What is insomnia?
The cries of the seas?
The talk of the trees?
Bad omens?
Someone’s dishonor?
Or, maybe, not someone’s,
but simply mine?
Beloved, sleep…
Nothing is written,
but know,
I am guiltless in this guilt.
Forgive me – hear? –
Love me – hear? –
even if in your sleep,
only in your sleep!
Beloved, sleep…
We are on this earthly globe,
wildly flying,
erupting, –
and we must embrace
not to fall down,
but if we do fall –
let us fall together.
Beloved, sleep…
Don’t gather your sorrow.
Let dreams quietly settle.
I know how hard it is to fall asleep,
and yet –
hear, Beloved? –
sleep…
The sea – all might,
the branches –tenderness,
and all their experience –
the dog is chained,
so I to you – whisper,
then – half-whisper,
then – already silent:
“Beloved, sleep…”



Yevtushenko, Yevgeniy. “Beloved, Sleep” (“Lyubimaya, Spi”). Selected Poems (Moye samoye samoye). (Moscow, 1995.) 200-203. [The translation is my own. It appears that the poem’s title is sometimes translated as “Sleep, My Beloved,” but I have been unable to locate a full-length translation into English. “Matsoni” is a kind of herb popular in the Caucases, for which I am unable to find a suitable translation.]


~ ~ ~

The Beloved sleeps and all is well. This world, this wakeful conscious terrible world, is full of sorrow and unmet need. But to watch the Beloved sleep…Only to watch the Beloved sleeping…To sleep next to the Beloved…All is forgiven and forgotten. There is no guilt. Sleep, Beloved, sleep. Oh, my Beloved, sleep next to me.


~ ~ ~

Tracy Emin’s “Everyone I Have Ever Slept With” is just a blue tent, a mattress, a light. The inside of the tent is stenciled with the names of everyone Tracy Emin has ever slept with from 1963 to 1995. But this is not salacious, or, rather, not simply salacious. The piece is about a stranger, more complex kind of intimacy than the sexual implications of its title suggest. It is about the sharing of a bed, the familiarity and confusion of the simplest and strangest kind of human contact. Someone is in a bed next to you, a friend, a relative. He sleeps, she sleeps, you sleep. Emin includes her twin brother, other relatives, her two aborted children. Her lovers too. And so the boundaries are blurred. Who shares your bed? How do they share it?


~ ~ ~

The tent is a womb, a bed, a home, a little space carved out of nowhere, a nylon island marooned in a vast museum space, a shared solitude, the possibility of a connection in a wilderness. To sleep next to another—sexually, or otherwise, out of a need born of perpetual, frightening loneliness, or simple cold—is an act of faith. I believe I am not alone. I believe there is warmth, a body to snuggle against, a kind of love and a kind of giving.


~ ~ ~

But sleep is a solitary act. I am alone when I sleep. So too are you. I look at your sleeping vulnerable body and at the very moment I think I know you, I know nothing. It is only for a moment that I can believe. I believe I am not alone. I believe I shall not be cold tonight. I shall rest by your side.


~ ~ ~

“Everyone I Have Ever Slept With” is a sort of exhibitionism, but it is also perversely withholding. We know the names, but nothing else. Not the circumstance, not the feeling, only the sleeper’s name: Therese parts her legs but not her dream, not her dreamlife, not herself.


~ ~ ~

I remember dreams I have had in which I was not myself. The not-my-self that was my-self in the dream did things, good and bad. The dream followed its own inexorable, mad logic. Still, I say the dream was “mine.” I hold on to it, treasure it, write it down and tell it. My day-self hidden, my night-self takes over, runs carefree, cowers in corners. Sometimes, I see myself in the dream, watch my night-self. It is as if the day-self lurks in the background, observes obsessively. That voyeur, that Peeping Tom.


~ ~ ~

Sometimes this reminds me of “The Walrus and the Carpenter” poem from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. Here is how the poem begins:



The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”


My day-self, that spoil-sport, that kill-joy. It is very rude to come and spoil the fun.


~ ~ ~

There is a collision. I am startled awake, sleep still filling me, dream in my mouth. I swallow. My night-self takes a bow, exits stage left, retreats behind the curtain. Do not go. Encore! But she is gone.


~ ~ ~

Once I stayed up all night. Restless, I paced the house, smoked many cigarettes, drank tea in the kitchen. There was a fight, an epic battle it seemed. My self, my self-self, my day-self, wanted control, would not cede the stage. My night-self, my secret double, my crafty doppelganger lurked in the background. I watched the moon fade, the sun come up. It was over. Tired, breathless, weary, I lay down, closed my eyes but the night-self would not come.


~ ~ ~

The parallel-self, the night-self, has terrible power. But I have trouble remembering. I cannot remember though I struggle to grab it and hold it. And I want to put it into words but the words will not come. The words retreat, fall back, fall behind, remain in the dream, out of reach but so tantalizingly close.


~ ~ ~

Norman Mailer, from his testimony at the trial following obscenity charges leveled at William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. :



It is very often you can wake up in the morning and start writing and you have this experience: what you are writing about is what you haven’t been thinking about. It will come out in detail. One’s best writing seems to bear no relation to what one is thinking about. There is an unconscious calculation that seems to go on in one’s sleep. The work is done while you sleep; and the discipline of writing is almost to keep from interfering with that creative work that is done by the unconscious.


~ ~ ~

There is work to be done, things to worry over. “Sleep on it.” That is the saying. A similar proverb, from the Russian: “The morning is wiser than the evening.” Something magical will happen in the night, on the pillow. A kind of process, something wise, something useful. Work is done: things are figured out, problems solved. Wake up wiser, that is the idea. But that is a dream, a kind of dream, an illusion. I, for one, wake no wiser.


~ ~ ~

William Burroughs once claimed to have no recollection of writing Naked Lunch:



I awoke from The Sickness at the age of forty-five, calm and sane, and in reasonably good health…Most survivors do not remember the delirium in detail. I apparently took detailed notes on sickness and delirium. I have no precise memory of writing the notes…

He is not talking of course about the proper kind of waking from the proper kind of sleep, but a different delirium altogether. And yet The Sickness is a kind of sleep, a similar kind of mystery. One wakes up, unawares, caught by surprise, caught by lingering evidence of a parallel life, unbelievable but documented, not to be thrown off.


~ ~ ~

I long for sleep, crave sleep. It is oblivion, lovely. So much is possible. Sleep appears infinite. No limit. I wake up and do not know how much time has passed. There is the moment of waking, the attempt to reconstruct. Most mornings, it is only a lingering feeling, a sensation unnamable. I am afraid I often forget something very beautiful.


~ ~ ~

But perhaps it is useless, this futile wonder. To look for meaning and beauty and knowledge in that other part of myself and my life, the part I do not fully know and will not fully know and cannot fully know. I think of wandering through a museum, of the feeling I get in a museum sometimes, the walls almost closing in, the tremendous beauty, the overwhelming beauty. I get tired, something about maintaining an unnaturally slow pace, the slow treading. It is a feeling of accomplishment, of work done and the tiredness at the end of the day, a sweet tiredness. I wake up with that feeling sometimes, as if I have completed an important task and must now assess the work. I wake up with the vaguest hint of a headache, a slight, slight hint of an ache, almost exquisite in its fineness, in the quality of tenderness; then the slow absorption of the things to be done, the start of the day.


~ ~ ~

I stretch: head to one side torso pointed in the other direction, extend my arms, flex my toes. I brush my teeth in the shower. Make a cup of coffee. Reach for the cigarettes. Inhale, exhale—a choreographed routine of a very simple dance. It is mechanical, motion after motion, executed every day, part of every day. I look in the mirror and the face I see, the face of every one of my days, is just there.


~ ~ ~

At night, the routine is reversed. Smoke on the porch, inhale, exhale. A cup of tea. Brush my teeth, my hair, wash my face. I get into bed, lie on my right side, face the wall. A mirror image, an unnoticed, unexamined reversal of my morning.


~ ~ ~

There is a moment right before falling asleep, right before consciousness gives way. That is the variable, the unknowable. Sometimes, I am smaller, shrunken, the borders of my body fragile and blurred. Sometimes, bigger, stronger, massive and powerful. My dimensions are erased when I close my eyes for the night. This world is phased out and another is entered and the body is prepared, scaled to match its new environment. Just like Alice.


~ ~ ~

Time passes. How much time? I cannot know. Or, no, I do know. I am startled awake and I see the time, the clock by my bed. Time passes, and again, it is day.


~ ~ ~

The first boy who loved me was called Taras. We were seven. He had wavy blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, well-fed Ukranian cheeks. This is what I remember anyway. This is how I picture him. It has been almost twenty years now. Time passes. So much time, sleeping and waking and things in between, big and little things, good and bad.


~ ~ ~

And still I think of him.


you kill me. absolutely stunning.
10.4.2008 | ejm
she is beautiful and fascinating.
10.4.2008 | ejm
You are amazing.
08.11.2009 | alexus zabel

I am Taras, without the wavy blond hairy and well -fed... cheeks.........and I still think of you........there could not be a more perfect piece of writing and how true.....it is easy to forget something beautiful and....the morning is always wiser than the evening.

01.20.2010 | Taras

I'd give my...well, I don't know, but I'd give some body part to be able to write like this. A bit late, I know, but this piece lingers.

05.28.2010 | Amanda

Сайт простой выдающийся, блоги тоже!
а у нас [url=http://istsad.ru/zemlya_-_natsional_noe_bogatstvo_-_nedvizhimost_-_stat_i.html] на сайте [/url] лучше

12.6.2010 | Calohoubcuh

Хорошо пишете. Учились где-то разве просто с опытом пришло?
а у нас [url=http://kainsknso.ru/udobstvo_i_komfort_v_planakh_-_nedvizhimost_-_stat_i_doma_kvartiry_uchastki_zagorodnaya_nedvizhimost_zarubezhnaya_nedvizhimost.html] на сайте [/url] лучше

12.10.2010 | vebyirrarcela

Литературное дело автора впечатляет !
а у нас [url=http://ip-lopatina.ru/popravki_udaryat_po_tsenam_-_nedvizhimost_-_stat_i.html] на сайте [/url] лучше

12.11.2010 | vebyirrarcela

Чрезвычайно понравился этот блог !
а у нас [url=http://object-build.ru/versiya_dlya_pechati_vashdom_ru_-_kak_vybrat_parketnuyu_dosku.html] на сайте [/url] лучше

12.11.2010 | vebyirrarcela

Достатно интересно конечно. Чтобы я немогу подписаться около каждым словом, только в общем соглашусь.
а у нас [url=http://vk-boutique.ru/2010-10-30-18-40-08/category/58/fixator/fixator_lokot.html] на сайте [/url] лучше

12.12.2010 | Varlbleashhex

Прочитал, несомненно, вдали от моей темы. Только, постоянно же, дозволительно с вами сотрудничать. Якобы вы сами относитесь к доверительному управлению?
а у нас [url=http://911-online.ru/?p=137] медицинский [/url] лучше

12.18.2010 | gyncenlalasog

Содержание ваша баста сложная ради новичка.
а у нас [url=http://911-online.ru/?p=155] медицинский [/url] лучше

12.18.2010 | gyncenlalasog

Неплохой место, только куча лишнего.
а у нас [url=http://911-online.ru/?p=65] медицинский [/url] лучше

12.18.2010 | gyncenlalasog

У меня проблема следующего характера - Дозволено ли разместить на вашем проекте рекламный попуп баннер 768на90 .
а у нас [url=http://911-online.ru/?feed=rss2&p=160] медицинский [/url] лучше

12.18.2010 | gyncenlalasog

Сочинение хорошая. Единственно жаль который без картинок…

12.21.2010 | Terssaisini

Что-то не вижу форму обратной связи сиречь другие координаты администрации блога.

12.21.2010 | Terssaisini

В последнее период, одной из наиболее эффективных методик продвижения сайтов, является деление неповторимых статей.

12.21.2010 | Terssaisini

Супер искони такого веселого блога не встречал

12.22.2010 | AnetlelonexeM

Милостивый погода всем посетителям этого прекрасного блога. Хочу внести и принадлежащий вклад в целую историю положительных отзывов. Якобы и безвыездно остальные пользователи этого блога, я полностью доволен абсолютно всем (что бывает порядком иногда, т.к. сообразно профессии я педагог). Резвость работы, навигация, условно понятый интерфейс и целое море положительной информации – моя любимая обстановка. Ныне я первый однажды на этом сайте, но уже пьяный останавливаться активным его пользователем. Буду довольный всем, кто поддержит меня и будет также изо дня в погода целить данным блогом.

12.22.2010 | AnetlelonexeM

Ручки ножки стали мерзнуть, не пора ли нам дерябнудь.

12.22.2010 | AnetlelonexeM

виагра купить екатеринбург

12.22.2010 | nuartiptuccug

купить виагру недорого

12.23.2010 | nuartiptuccug

купить виагра киев

12.23.2010 | nuartiptuccug

Литературное занятие автора впечатляет !

12.23.2010 | tointourA

Хорошо пишете. Учились где-то разве простой с опытом пришло?

12.23.2010 | tointourA

Рисунков только добавляйте и все довольно тип топ

12.23.2010 | tointourA

Сызнова таки побочная проблема) Врят ли она кому то мешает, мне положим ровно то пофиг

12.23.2010 | tointourA

[url=http://timeattendancesys.com/]time attendance system[/url]

12.24.2010 | Enfownheero

Сайт просто знаменательный, блоги тоже!

12.24.2010 | shoorspem

Хоть статья и получилась низкий, но на мой взор эта интересная содержание раскрыта в ней полностью. Я рельно узнал поток нового чтобы себя!

12.24.2010 | shoorspem

Кинули ныне в аське ссылку на эту известие - не жалею, который потратил пора и перешел:)

12.24.2010 | shoorspem

Ейей, жаль, что обновления для блоге происходят не беспричинно часто, словно хотелось бы.

12.24.2010 | shoorspem

Хотелось бы понимать продолжение…

12.24.2010 | shoorspem

У меня одного какие-то проблемы с кодировкой в комментариях? Вместо ответов - одни знаки “?”

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

Рисунков токмо добавляйте и всегда будет вид топ

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

Я уже сегодня писал вам по поводу продаи (цены) вашего домена. Только зашёлш из дома провертиь ваш отчет, а своего комментария беспричинно и не обнаружил. Видимо, я его как-то не так отправил, тож у вас спам-фильтры зарубили мой комментарий, я на каждый случай поменял указанные е-мейл, ник и сайт, внезапно они не нравятся вашему фильтгу.

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

Да, жалеть, сколько обновления на блоге происходят не так часто, вдруг хотелось бы.

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

причинность изза любопытный сайт

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

Ужасно понравился сей блог !

12.25.2010 | shoorspem

А я считаю, который всегда это верно и разительно будто подмечено! И таких мелочей позволительно накопать тысячу.
http://lic1.ru - Недвижимость - статьи.

12.29.2010 | ForyteloDully

Health care products on our website side of things I hope my dear friends to choose our products so your body to be healthy the mood will be good welcome to buy
Sex Blue Pill
Blue Pills
Sex Blue Pill uk
Blue Pills Supplier
Blue Pills Manufacturer
Blue Pills Wholesaler
sex pill
sex pills
sex pills Supplier
sex pills Manufacturer
sex pills Wholesaler
sex pills Factory
buy viagra online
buy cheap viagra online uk
cheapest uk supplier viagra
cialis 20mg
cialis
discount cialis levitra viagra
Sex Blue Pill Supplier
Sex Blue Pill Manufacturer
Sex Blue Pill Wholesaler
Male Sex Pills Wholesaler
Male Sex Pills Suppliers
Male Sex Pills Manufacturer
Herbal Sex Pills Wholesaler
Herbal Sex Pills Suppliers
Herbal Sex Pills Manufacturer
sex pills products Manufacturer
sex pills products Suppliers
sex pills products Wholesalers
male enhancement
male enhancement uk
male enhancement pills
extenze
extenze Wholesalers
black ant
black ant suppliers
libigrow
libigrow Factory
3 day diet
3 day diet Manufacturer
fruta planta
fruta planta suppliers
paiyouguo tea
paiyouguo tea Wholesalers
fruit plant
fruit plant diet pills
fruit plant Manufacturer
male sex enhancer
male sex enhancer pills
male sex enhancer capsule
male sex enhancer suppliers
meizitang
meizitang suppliers
meizitang Wholesalers
condom
condom suppliers
Female Sex Medicine
Female Sex Medicine Wholesalers
Herbal Sex Medicine
Herbal Sex Medicine Manufacturer
Male Sex Medicine
Male Sex Medicine suppliers
Pilatory suppliers
Pilatory Wholesalers
Sex Delay Spray
Sex Delay Spray Manufacturer
Weight Loss Product suppliers
Sex Toys
Sex Toys Wholesaler
kamagra 100mg
kamagra jelly wholesale
kamagra oral jelly
kamagra suppliers
kamagra 100mg Manufacturer
blue pill uk suppliers
blue pill uk Wholesalers
blue pill uk Manufacturer
vmax
vmax suppliers
v-max Manufacturer
dragon power
dragon power Manufacturer
Max man 4
Max man 4 capsules
Max man 4 suppliers
African superman
African superman pills
African superman viagra
African superman tablets
African superman Wholesalers
Golden viagra
Golden viagra Manufacturer
vegetal viagra
vegteal viagra Wholesalers
herbal sex medicine
herbal sex medicine suppliers
sex medicine
sex medicine suppliers
cheap 25mg viagra
Sex Pills increase libido Wholesaler
Male Sex Medicine Suppliers
Adult Sex Pill Manufacturer
male sex pills Suppliers
sex pills for men Wholesalers
Sex Medicine For Man Wholesaler
African Superman
Chaojimengnan
Dragon Power
Herbal Viagra
herbal sex medicine
Herb Viagra Pills
African Black Ant
Green Viagra
Golden Viagra
V-Max
Meizitang
plant fruit
Paiyouguo Tea
3 Days Diet
P57 Hoodia
Black Ant
Cialis
Cialis 20mg
Kamagra 100mg
Kamagra Oral Jelly
Maxman2000mg
MaxmanIII

01.6.2011 | Viagra

Достаточно интересная и познавательная тема
[url=http://gamedeatch.ru/kino-onlayn-besplatno-erotika/site-793.html]кино скачать на высокой скорости[/url]
семейное кино
кино альбомы
черная кино
билеты в кино
индийское кино онлайн
1 кино онлайн смотреть бесплатно
кино алюминиевые
кино 2009 2010
кино банда
новогоднее кино

01.10.2011 | taureauched

А я считаю, что всегда это верно и разительно действительно подмечено! И таких мелочей позволительно накопать тысячу.
[url=http://gamedeatch.ru/vremya-kino/site-448.php]кино скачать на высокой скорости[/url]
бесплатное кино онлайн индийское
черно белое кино
скачать песни кино
бесплатные кино фильмы
смотреть кино 2010 онлайн
немое кино
кино брестская крепость
песня индийское кино
кино онлайн в хорошем качестве
в кино дети

01.10.2011 | taureauched

Разместил это на своем блоге с ссылкой на ваш сайт. Надеюсь, Вам это какую-нибудь пользу принесет
[url=http://rufreefilms.ru/category/films-by-year/1988/]новинки кинопроката[/url]

01.11.2011 | taureauched

Я тоже иногда такое замечала, только как-то заранее не придавала этому значения.
[url=http://loschara.ru/530/]Скачать[/url]
скачать игры на телефон
скачать сайт
xp скачать
скачать белым белым бела
музыка скачать бесплатно mp3 новинки
скачать торрент гарри
опера скачать бесплатно
mp3 скачать бесплатно без регистрации
скачать бесплатно мыло
flash скачать

01.21.2011 | NaillaTig

When you are trying to save money, it always helps to make sure that there is a large amount of coupons in your play book. In order to save a ton of cash you are definitely going to want to want to have a small stockpile ready and awaiting you.. The best thing that you can do is go out and get yourself a whole boatload of printable coupons for every store that you are going to want to make a purchase from. If you do this, and strategically plan your shopping trip in a manner that allows you to use multiple coupons, and or coupon codes. Then the amount of cash that you could save is a truly huge sum of money and it will be worth all of your efforts

04.18.2011 | Macie Langston

PostPost a Comment

Enter your information below.
Author Email (optional):
Author URL (optional):
Post:
 
Some HTML allowed: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <code> <em> <i> <strike> <strong>