Anno MMXXV

— 3 January. 2025:
The year 2025 hath commenced, and I have resolved to embark upon the noble endeavor of chronicling mine own diary—a compendium to encapsulate personal tales, creative musings, manifold thoughts, observations, and divers other matters of intrigue.

It seemeth fitting to commence by recounting how I did greet this new year. December, verily, is the month of festivity.

In the earliest days of that wintry month, we did celebrate the Night of Krampus. Upon this occasion, our family adorned our château with resplendent decorations and garlands, their cerulean glow casting a spectral luminance through the lengthy corridors. Forsooth, at this time of year, the sun's grace is scant, and thus these nocturnal illuminations serve as an enchanting substitute for the absent light. I have ever been enamored of azure garlands, for they evoke in me the spirit of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, particularly those passages wherein Jonathan Harker journeys to the abode of the enigmatic Count, guided by ethereal blue flames. My beloved wife, Alexandra, doth associate these lights with the animated tale Brave, wherein similar flickering glimmers summon the heroine to her destiny. Alexandra, no less intrepid than that fiery protagonist, shares her exuberant curls and undaunted spirit. Amongst her ventures this winter, she hath mastered both the art of driving a motor carriage and the delicate yet formidable skill of wielding a needle—both in fashion and in defense. Beware those who possess the power to create, for destruction is the dominion of the many, but creation belongeth to the few.

During the Krampus festivities, my wife and I did partake in the annual Hungarocomix festival in Budapest, where I am oft an honored guest. There, I was reunited with my creative friends, most notably Milan Kovacs, who hath been my steadfast supporter, the first to purchase my comic works in those distant days when I did but commence my artistic journey. At this vibrant gathering, I conversed with my cherished readers. To a soul acquainted with the fires of creation, there is no sensation to rival that of one’s labor being treasured by others, who request an autograph as a token of esteem. I remember each face, each name, for I hold every reader dear.

Then came Yuletide and the solstice. In celebration, a Yule tree did grace the ballroom of our château—a symbol of evergreen life defying the frost beyond the walls. 'Tis a marvel to savor the contrast betwixt the wintry chill without and the warm familial cheer within, where the spectral aroma of baking apple biscuits wafts through the corridors. My wife doth craft the finest confections. Yet this season of wonder held for me another delight—a fine wardrobe for my boudoir, gifted by my wife and mother. It doth fit the corner of my chamber most excellently, albeit requiring new handles of a more macabre elegance and a coat of black paint to suit the gothic aesthetic of the room.

Gifts did not cease there, for a parcel arrived from my mother-in-law, dispatched from the mythical lands of Russia, replete with delectable treasures. Even Old Nick himself did leave a bounty of sweetmeats beneath the tree.

Meanwhile, my brother took flight to Japan to revel in the New Year and did invite me to join his adventure. Yet, as I am unenthused by Japanese fare, and regard the New Year as a feast above all, I deferred my desecration of Japan to a more fitting occasion. Instead, I did suggest he carry with him a wealth of stickers bearing the insignia of our fashion brand, KOMETA.A, graced by a charming ladybird. He did comply, affixing these emblems across Tokyo, sending me daily visions of our beetle’s audacious dominion. May the Emperor safeguard this artful vandalism, for all art is, in essence, defiance—a bonsai, torment upon a tree; a sculpture, desecration upon stone.

Then came the threshold of the New Year. Upon the final day of 2024, I took a bath, that I might enter the coming year in mine utmost state of refinement. Throughout the manor, we placed candles—aye, true flames, for no artifice of the electric lamp may rival the pure and noble glow of natural fire. Through the corridors of the château echoed the strains of Yuletide music, particularly the darkly enchanting albums of Tarja Turunen, Dark Christmas, accompanied by the plaintive mews of mine black cat, who stoutly refused the adornment of a festive ribbon about his neck.

First, by way of the magical apparatus of videotelephony, we called upon my wife's mother and grandmother, engaging in lengthy conversation and exchanging hearty felicitations of the season. Thereafter, we reached out to other kin and cherished friends, lifting our goblets in unified cheer with the entire clan.

Just as I fancied I had extended mine greetings to all, most unexpectedly did my good friend Dmitri Gluzdov from Moscow call to hail me with New Year's tidings. At that selfsame moment, his cousin Vladimir Logvinov sought my attention on another line. Not wishing to be torn asunder by divided obligations, we resolved to merge our communications into one grand discourse. As though fate itself delighted in reunion, our old comrade Pavel Yeshanov joined the call unbidden, followed in short order by Dmitri’s brother, Sergei Gluzdov. This fortuitous gathering brought with it a rare and heartfelt joy, for to converse with dear friends, long missed, is a dark blessing most profound.

In the serene quietude of our family circle thereafter, we partook of the finest dishes known to humankind, exchanged tokens of affection, and ventured forth to admire the brilliant spectacle of fireworks sent aloft by all our neighbors. It was a display most wondrous to behold.

On that night, we did greet the magical New Year and performed our secret ritual in honor of this wondrous occasion.

In the days that followed, the festivities endured, and my family and I did journey to the Royal Budapest Opera House to behold the ballet The Nutcracker set to Tchaikovsky’s enchanting music. For what are the New Year’s revels without The Nutcracker? It is a cherished fragment of our family’s yearly tradition. We took our places in my favored Box Six, ever kept vacant for my delight. There, beside the Phantom’s abode, my wife and I did revel in the divine spectacle of dance and the spellbinding melodies. Tchaikovsky is among my most cherished composers; whenever I chance to visit Saint Petersburg, I make it a point to seek his grave and pay my respects to the great musician.

As oft occurs after such performances, especially those graced by the vigor of live music, I found myself brimming with inspiration to create anew.

Thus did I usher in the New Year.



— 10 January. 2025:
The festivities in our household linger yet. Our celebration of the New Year usually stretches to this very day—the tenth of January—for we believe that joy should not be confined solely to the turning of the year.

On the fifth day of this month, we marked the birth of my wife’s brother. Through the magic of videoconference, we conveyed our felicitations to him on this momentous occasion. The young lad hath reached the tender age of nineteen—a most excellent and promising season of life.

Shortly thereafter, my brother returned from the land of Japan, bearing with him New Year’s gifts from the realm of the rising sun. To me, he presented a true marvel—a hand-forged Japanese katana. Its curves are flawless, the beauty of its cold steel peerless. In my youth, I harbored a deep affection for and curiosity about Japanese culture. Knowing this, my brother brought me this singular treasure from Kyoto. The katana doth come with a sheath and a wooden stand, both as comely as they are practical. A thousand thanks I give, for it now graces my foyer, a silent guardian that doth warn unbidden guests of what may await them in my château.

Today, however, is a day of greater significance, for it is my mother’s birthday. From the kitchen wafteth the delectable scent of cake, soon to be crowned with candles and consumed in merriment this evening. Yet my mother harbors a curious indulgence—a rare and delightful vice. On this day alone, she shuns all sumptuous feasts, disdains fine restaurants and suchlike. Instead, she craveth but one thing—a thick and mighty Big Mac from McDonald’s. Only on her birthday doth she indulge in this guilty pleasure, and knowing her heart, my brother and I ordered her a bounty of McDonald’s fare. The sight is ever a comical one, for amidst our family table laden with the choicest dishes, we sit united, feasting on delivered junk food.

As a gift most befitting, we presented unto our mother and father a private sojourn to the Canary Isles, where they may bask in the sun and escape the chill of Europe’s winter for a fortnight.

Happy birthday, dear Mother. We love thee beyond measure.



— 17 January. 2025:
The revels now are ended, and at last I may return wholly to my craft and calling.

How curious it is, for in mine own house the season of mirth begins in October and lingers until the mid of January. Each week within this span is marked by some joyous occasion for revelry, be it grand or small. And yet, January, swift as an arrow’s flight, shall soon give way to February, that month wherein I mark the anniversary of my birth.

But lo, I have returned to mine endeavors. With the New Year hath come new prices for gold, and as an alchemist, I am bound to alter the formulas of my trade to suit these changes.

This year, I have adopted a motto most resolute: "To repeat not! To craft only that which hath ne'er before been wrought!" Already, this new approach hath borne fruit. In the realms of winemaking and the sale of fine vintages, great success hath been ours, with numerous contracts sealed and prospects made bright. As for the creation of a fashion brand, my brother hath journeyed to Paris this very day and there forged connections most promising with patrons and partners alike. Thus, our family enterprise moveth boldly forward.

As to mine own artistry and toil, these recent days have brought me alliances most favorable. A young and flourishing publishing house from the distant lands of Oklahoma hath offered me a generous contract to revive my old comic, Vanity. My dealings with their discerning leaders fill me with great cheer, and I am assured of a bright future for our collaboration.

And most momentous of all, with the dawn of this year, I have at last proclaimed to the world my long-cherished project, the comic Cybernomicon. This visual manuscript doth weave together the notions of cyberpunk and alchemy. I have unveiled a full and wondrous website, which itself stands as both a part of the tale and a work of art unto itself (cybernomicon.net). Furthermore, I have begun to steward a page upon the social platforms devoted to this endeavor. In but a few days, hundreds of new readers and kindred spirits have come forth, filling my heart with joy and purpose.

On the matter of social networks, 'tis worth noting that I have forsaken many of the old platforms that once held sway over the digital realm these past fifteen years. I have turned instead to younger, untamed realms where neither censor nor overlord reigneth. Indeed, the creation of mine own personal website (juriikirnev.com) was spurred by the realization that no platform is truly free when it is owned by the wealthy few who may silence thee at their whim. Thus, I resolved to craft a space of mine own—a sanctuary where I may speak as I will, unfettered and unafraid. For I am not one to wait upon the granting of rights, nor do I beg for liberties. Nay, I am one who taketh them by mine own hand.

And thus, here thou art, reading these words within mine own domain. I bid thee welcome, kind reader, to this journal of mine, where freedom and creativity reign eternal.

Only when I did pen these lines did I catch myself pondering how greatly I delight in crafting websites. There is, within this craft, a certain enchantment, as if digital spells were wrought upon the ether. Straightway am I reminded of my youth, in the mid-years of the aughts, when I was a hacker. Yet I shall not, in this open chronicle, confess the precise deeds I did, nor reveal the alias by which I was known in that shadowed realm. Forsooth, from time to time, I still venture into the darknet to greet old pals and seek their boon in memory of days long past.

And yet, sweet nostalgia doth oft wash over me, stirring fond recollections of those bygone years. Alas, the Internet of today is a changed.



— 25 January. 2025:
Beyond the casement this day, a veil of mist doth shroud the world, and verily, it pleaseth mine heart. Such weather is mine own delight, most apt for sitting within my château, before the crackling flames of the hearth, and immersing mine soul in the pages of a book. These past eves, I have revisited the noble romance Lolita, penned by Nabokov’s hand. The work hath stirred mine heart anew; though I did read it in years gone by, 'twas then in the tender season of mine youth, an age not far removed from that of the titular maid. In those days, I could scarce comprehend the fervor and tumult that did cling to this tale. But now, with the wisdom that cometh of time, I do declare it a true masterpiece, perchance among the greatest works wrought in the twentieth century.

This morn, together with mine adored wife Alexandra, we did hearken to the ritual strains of music conjured by the wizards of the Ural lands. For today is the Day of Purity, and after the steaming solace of the bath, we did anoint our forms with a salve most potent—the Flying Ointment, wrought from ancient recipes of Altai shamans. Thus do we perform our private rite, a celebration of purity and the natural state of our mortal frames.

Yet, in truth, this sacred ritual was but a prelude to a greater festivity, for we did honor a noble triumph. My beloved wife, in this very week, hath conquered a fearsome trial: she hath earned mastery of the mechanical chariot. From all her company, wherein did dwell only men, she alone hath prevailed. A jest most merry it was, for her tutor, in his chagrin, did rebuke the hapless menfolk, declaring: "Shame upon you, boys! Even a woman has triumphed, and she is blond!" We still ponder how we might regard this—be it an insult or a compliment? For mine own part, I lean towards the latter, finding no slight in such words.

On that selfsame day of her victory, I too was graced with fortune’s favor, as I did seal a contract most prosperous and gain a new partner from the other side of the globe.

My brother Eugene hath returned from fair Paris, bearing with him a wealth of promise—lists of potential allies with whom we now exchange letters of commerce and ambition. From that illustrious city, he hath also brought tomes most wondrous, rich with knowledge of design and the crafting of gowns of haute couture. By the light of the evening, my wife and I do pore o’er these treasures, marveling at the intricate patterns and artful designs contained within.

Meanwhile, Eugene and I continue our labors in the attic of our château, a place long whispered to be haunted by spirits of yore. Yet now we, in our endeavors, have taken up residence there, that the shades might find their company less lonesome. Thus do our days pass, a mingling of triumphs, toils, and the quiet companionship of ghosts.