Lev Pirogov. The paper expires from 16.10. Autism

The paper expires from 16.10. Autism
Fog, autumn fog

Lev Pirogov

Date of publication: October 16, 2000

It’s a good idea to write autobiographies from time to time, because you never know why you’ll die one day. Especially if you drink and suffer as much as I do. Previously, HR departments encouraged people to write autobiographies, but now times have changed and the only hope is self-discipline.

And since, due to the reasons explained below, there were no socially important literary events over the past weekend (not counting, in fact, the Dolphin event, which I did not go to), you can use the hole formed at the site of the event to fill it with another autobiography, if you understand what I want to say.

If this offends your reader's feelings, let's ignore it and assume that the world is full of inexplicable things, but on the whole it is still beautiful and amazing. And if it doesn’t offend, we’ll pretend that’s how it should be.

Snegiri does not cry

The weekend was busy. First of all, I was resting. Secondly, I went to the station to meet Professor Kolotaev , who came to Moscow on business with the poetics of destructiveness. Thirdly, I featured two smart texts at once: in Literature - about Korolev’s story “The Snake in the Mirror” and in Ex Libris - about what a bastard Soros is for making money for magazines.

About the snake will come out in a week, and about Soros - God knows when. And the dear and operational “Paper endures” (“terpilov”, as Sasha Shchipin says ) ended up with only scraps.

I also, with unexpected and even a little shameful interest, finally devoured a book about Doctor Crime .

And I listened to the group “Ivanushki International” (Vika from some truly unimaginable distance brought the reserved cassette in her beak). I listened to it in the bathroom, where I was on vacation. And it had to happen that on the song “Fog” (although I like “Where are you” better - there, when the transition from the introductory lyrical slow song to the gymnastic rubilov, I always cry from feelings), - and so, in the song “Fog "During the chorus ( "fog, autumn fog" ), a passage appeared in the background, borrowed by the composer from his own project fifteen years ago, the name of which I do not remember.

There Vitya Saltykov was a soloist. Even before the “Electroclub”, well?.. Please, who remembers, write to me in the guestbook ? So, the passage is exactly from the cult song of my youth (this most barbarically forgotten, but also cult project):

The white night has fallen like a cloud,
The wind tells fortunes on (some) foliage,
I hear a familiar speech, I see your appearance,
Why is this only in a dream?!

In. And they also had the coolest song, which I sang while walking through the streets of my hometown, lost on the top of Mount Elbrus: “Fate brought us together in an unequal duel, which is called unhappy love . ” And the spirit was strengthened by this.

So much so that the First Poem was based on the song's motive. Although in fact the first one was written fifteen years earlier, with a brown pencil on a large sheet of scarce coated paper. I remember that while writing, my grandmother beat me on the back with a towel, rightly believing that the paper was taken without asking. I also remember that there were two poems at once - about Hitler and about Mom, from different sides of the sheet. But which side was written on first is now difficult to establish. And for simplicity, it is proposed to consider the first one, which was composed on the motive of “Unequal Fate”. Here it is.

I believe that there is a miracle in life,
Otherwise it’s hard to love and hope,
Let the summer pass, but I will wait for you, -
I still believe in miracles in the fall.

Everyone should cry and play flashlights for two hours.

Then service in the Soviet army vulgarly invaded the reserved corners of the spirit, and the young poet’s sense of rhythm became even worse. Although the desire for a polished rhyme remains .

You are the sky, you are the sky...

Here you go. Actually, I wanted to tell you how emotional this loss in “Fog” made me, but there’s no need anymore - everyone already understood. In the memoirs, as in the poetics of Ivanushki, the main thing is understatement.

As for poetry, I don’t remember it well. I remember that when I was working as a child molester at the University, a friend (whose last name we will now withhold in the interests of his family life) came to visit me. We drank port wine at my workplace and encouraged all sorts of antisocialism in ourselves. Or, as he said, “sociopathy.”

One day, having become a sociopath in Zyuzya, a friend fell in love with a student named Oksana Prikhodko. She was an advanced fan of Ivanushki International in general and Igor Sorin in particular. Which revealed a subtle and sensitive nature in her. Having fallen in love, a friend immediately composed a poem, which I still consider to be the pinnacle of world love poetry:

Oh Prikhodko, you are mine!
You have such a back!

And then - at least kill me, I forgot. Although even these two lines resemble the mise-en-scène from a play by the outstanding Nina Sadur. There the poet declares his love to Commissar Mota. He pokes himself in the left half of his chest and asks: “Here, here, what do you have?” Motya answers: “Kozhanka.” "And what's under the leather jacket?" "A tunic. And under it is a body." “And then?..” “Back.”

In poetry, as in life, the main thing is perspective.

* * *

You should wander around, rustle the leaves, drink vodka, lie in a ditch, fight, swear... Otherwise - work, work, work. Nevermind - it’s all just for people. If I had known that it was so scary to be a Russian writer, I would have become a janitor. Look like Verbitsky.

It's good to be a janitor. I went out in the morning - the trees were noisy, it was clean... If it wasn't at the market. Oh!.. I came up with it: from real prose! (Tradition.) I’m tired of writing a biography (I’m sad in my soul, my kidneys hurt), but there are still not enough letters.

“Theodosius spent whole days in the arable land. Verka milked the cow. Sometimes the wind would bring the bitter smell of wormwood from behind the fence; her shoulders would tremble, the woman would slowly raise her hand, wanting to straighten her scarf or wipe away a drop of sweat, and she would sit there, thinking, until the evening with a raised hand, and you ask: “How are you, Ver?” - he will not answer anything, he will only smile with tired eyes and the rays of premature wrinkles will scatter in a cheerful flock from nose to mouth and ear. We lived well, quietly. We often got up in the morning (?) at night .

Not so in the city. It’s smoky, it’s troublesome, and the main thing is that people have garbage in their souls: some kind of beer caps, Regulax wrappers, condoms... But Vera came to life in the city (she sold eggs at the market, the eggs were one to one: good, fresh, inexpensive - no lie) on Sundays, I went to see a friend of the janitor Ignat. He taught her to read and write. I started to think. Joined the RSDLP. Ignat, a gloomy fellow, smiled sparingly through his mustache and drank a lot of vodka every Saturday. From the darkness of the back streets of St. Petersburg, Vera became a candidate of sciences, spoke at the congress twice, sucked (?) Chkalov, Lenin and Khrushchev. As a noble milkmaid, she was admired at the Foreign Ministry. But happiness still did not come through the wide open maiden doors...

* * * Vera banged her back against the locked door of the ovir for a long time.
Oh Chairman Nikanor...
you have four warm barns,
you have barns full of grain,
and froze my heart -
Look, the women are walking around unfed, tired (?)!.. Migratory birds are flying, buggers,
There's no point in tweeting - Nikanor has no time for them.
Spring, a wild girl with a raised hem,
in vain he knocks on his door with two fists . "

But, if anyone doesn’t know, then everything turned out great for her. Long before it occurred to Kuritsyn to write about the adventures of Matador on the Moon , Vera flew into space to visit Gagarin, Dzhanibekov and Savitskaya. If you want to know how it all happened later, I’ll tell you where it’s described in detail.