We must cultivate our garden

Three years of squatting. Now what?

Edward having a nice squat in front of an abandoned village barn

Edward Slavsquat, the most trusted name in Russia News, turned three yesterday.

Published on October 19, 2021, our inaugural blog post was titled, “Russia mobilizes robot army to defend restaurants from unvaxxed vermin”. Simpler times.

As reported by RIA Novosti on October 17, 2021

(Russians didn’t take kindly to being cattle-tagged. Consequently, the plan to terrorize the country with QR code-checking robo-bouncers was shelved.)

If you are interested in Slavsquat lore, I have already written about the circumstances that led to this historic blog post and the subsequent blog posts that came after it.

But today's blog post is not about reminiscing fondly about the past, but rather looking to the future.

We're among friends, so allow me to type frankly: Things are a bit precarious. And not just in Russia. What to do?

The only thing we can do: Wake up every morning and try to make the best of it.

I don't know about you, but every day I’m leveling up my skills.

For example, just fifteen minutes ago, Ekaterina asked me to retrieve a chicken from the freezer in the garage.

“If you have trouble opening the freezer, gently chip away any ice that has formed around the sliding glass,” she advised.

Gently, Ekaterina reminded me as I headed out the door with a hammer.

I did as instructed and successfully extracted the chicken.

Good enough. (She didn’t even say thank you.)

That’s village life, though. Honest work that makes my bread taste sweet.

I wish you could see my village. Some of my cherished readers have actually made the trek out here to say hello, which makes me very happy.

The new bus stop (left) before being reinforced with wind-resistant tree branches. The old bus stop (right) was built using lost ancient technology.

Village sunset

Susan supervising the carrot harvest

Susan has a new friend, by the way. Meet Sabrina:

Sabrina and Susan

Sabrina and Susan (Edward Junior rendition)

The cows

The goats trying to escape. Again.

I have to confess that these days I have trouble typing about the News. My mind wanders and I inevitably find myself tromping through the forest in search of things with more meaning.

There are still so many unsolved village mysteries and unread Peasant Woman magazines; somewhere in the village there are more KGB telegrams waiting patiently to be discovered.

A Soviet newspaper-line chest containing Peasant Woman and other literary treasures

These are the important geopolitical issues that I am most excited to share with you in the weeks and months and years ahead.

Of course, this blog's bread and butter is making fun of Herman Gref, which I will still do with pleasure, but honestly Gref can suck it. Who even wants to know what that lunatic is doing at this point? Reminds me of that wonderful passage from Voltaire's Candide:

[T]he news was spread that two Viziers and the Mufti had been strangled at Constantinople, and that several of their friends had been impaled. This catastrophe made a great noise for some hours. Pangloss, Candide, and Martin, returning to the little farm, saw a good old man taking the fresh air at his door under an orange bower. Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was argumentative, asked the old man what was the name of the strangled Mufti.

“I do not know,” answered the worthy man, “and I have not known the name of any Mufti, nor of any Vizier. I am entirely ignorant of the event you mention; I presume in general that they who meddle with the administration of public affairs die sometimes miserably, and that they deserve it; but I never trouble my head about what is transacting at Constantinople; I content myself with sending there for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate.”

Candide and his crew were quite impressed with this wise Turk:

“Let us work,” said Martin, “without disputing; it is the only way to render life tolerable.”

The whole little society entered into this laudable design, according to their different abilities. Their little plot of land produced plentiful crops. Cunegonde was, indeed, very ugly, but she became an excellent pastry cook; Paquette worked at embroidery; the old woman looked after the linen. They were all, not excepting Friar Giroflée, of some service or other; for he made a good joiner, and became a very honest man.

Pangloss sometimes said to Candide:

“There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible worlds: for if you had not been kicked out of a magnificent castle for love of Miss Cunegonde: if you had not been put into the Inquisition: if you had not walked over America: if you had not stabbed the Baron: if you had not lost all your sheep from the fine country of El Dorado: you would not be here eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts.”

“All that is very well,” answered Candide, “but let us cultivate our garden.”

I would only add, “if you have the time and means, consider digging a tunnel under your garden.”

But other than that, Candide pretty much nailed it.

Born to milk.

Who knows what the next three years hold. There's no way to know. What is most important is to cultivate our garden, which can be a figurative or physical garden, depending on our specific circumstances.

Thanks for reading and take care of yourself.

Until next time,

— Riley