The volume and quality of my loneliness in Kamenka determined air. If campuses sky is not perfectly, in the village, it is pressed to the ground. In winter it is more: The cold winter starry sky — everything — on the earth in the snowdrifts, in the gardens, on the silver fences on the roofs of sheepskin on the crystal and mica windows on tyazheleyuschih cilia on zyabnuschih shoulders. Sky everywhere — light, glistening, white, tall and chills … summer — is another matter: the sky is off the ground, stuck in the trees and hard tack-free water, and therefore entirely leaked upwards — to the place where its principal place certain gravity , kinetics, optics and our mythological consciousness. The power of physics and metaphysics in the summer in the village yavna. Someone or something was up to a cloudy day — and the sky is pressed against the grass, but when the fine weather, the sky rises in its limits and thickens around invisible daytime stars. If the sky a lot — my loneliness is clear and powerful. If the sky is not enough — it rotates the limits of its human, God draws the soul to hear, heart shakes and drives away a tear — dry, interior, Russian, inescapable, gold.
Summer in Kamenka I’m all in the power of writing and fishing (which is for me the same thing: on the jetty with two rods at once see the sky, and you sit, hang out between them, listening to for yourself and to the universe, so come to words, words along with music and rhythm, and with a fever shoulder). The lake I go in the dark, yet NIGHT MODE. Scold bushes and thickets of thistles and nettles, raising the rod to the sky — not to break the line, do not lose to the floats. You reach the jetty — wet to the waist, and all stained blades of grass, petals, twigs, seeds of wild grasses. In the mist, with a flashlight in his mouth is getting better, and throws the rod baits. Later, smoke, smoke dispelling hand: he stands in place, indoors, no — simply and directly in the room the night and the universe. Dark air evenly becomes grayish. Here — light gray matter. Approaching light. At first light the dark, later gray, and then the light, to become, in the end, just pure white.
With the dawn mist thickens. Dense. Creeping. Gust. Solid. Fog is (or rather, should) on the water — and get on the ball. In it formed longish narrow passages, with turns, zigzags and circles. Someone or something is walking in it — through it. On the water. Who? What? — Clear, The Who. In the gray matter of the world, pre-Light, dosveta, arhesveta can uglyadet figure Togo. His figure. It moves slowly, but swiftly. So fast that it seems that He is everywhere. Everywhere. He is the fog. And the emptiness in him — he too. And he walks the corridors light: he even darker bright wet-white mist. But — the easier it is. Air. You can feel the power of His — and above the fog and light and the whole world: in the twilight of morning heaven and earth — one indivisible whole. That is — happiness; Happiness is to create. Later this … He disappears — and always smoothly and precisely in the middle (in the geographical center) of the lake. Then the fog begins to separate the earth from the sky. He’s going to the big white balls that, looking up from the water and become clouds. The birth of a cloud, his ascension — is magic. Who do not beheld — he did not live.
Fog — power. His power has been called, has disappeared. Soared — and lost in the infinity of the original sky. None of it — and it was not. But He, the One — was. Such cases … It is quite light. And over the lake there is a kite. One and the same. 10 years, we look at each other, and I like it. Well, I told him not to interfere. He’s doing just circled the oval aqua mirror — and begins the hunt. More often — for the fish, which pulls out the water as a silver spoon. After an hour and a half in the sky there is a crow. She shouts, swearing, hysteria, crying and attacks Kite, who reluctantly dodges lisping fool, but he never tells her he could destroy it in one fell swoop the beak or claws. But he does not kill her. Knows that this is a provocation, that at the moment these creatures will fly 10 pieces, then have tight. He listens politely and seriously crow mother peremat and more courteous goes higher and higher, very high, where the power of this fool is transformed into nothing. Power — a fool. Power — nothing. When you have in store height. Height boundless and transcendent.
Poetry — height. And height — poetry. Poetry and general arts. My old companion once joked: you say, I saw that after the devastating and devastating wars, after the epidemics, pestilence and iron — in Russia (well, at least in any other country) utselevayut always remain alive two social groups — bureaucrats and writers. Good opposition: the bureaucracy and writers. Tongue-tied and literature. Kontselyarolekt and literary language, poetolekt. Bureaucrats do not like to writers (as well as a wimp): they do not understand, for what and why these gentlemen write and not cashing in and delight in life. Here and now.
Russian population varvariziruetsya. Visualization of information. Death of semantics. The text is converted to tekstoid. It kills thinking — chatter and irresponsible, all politicians, comedians, bureaucrats, writer and feral writers working on the market, tradesman, on obscenity. From at least some disk imaging can only husks: factology contrived and glamorous emotions. Obscenity is growing, polarized (from cattle to Kc. Sobchak), atomized, is growing in every person, every family, every company. Now all institutions — the essence of the company. A corporate enthusiasm — it means. Just means. Paper. Power. Nedomyshlenie mass generates spiritual emptiness, in which gravity is enhanced animal: nedomyshlenniki (everywhere in life, fate and even in poetry, in the arts), the barbarians did not think — they fix (visually) everything in the world, browsing. Russian population of the earth was divided into two groups of savages: some think — is the mountain (from the brain), the pleasure and the base / essence of existence; for others — DO NOT think there is constitutive of their quality; dodge, be creative, to dissemble, to extract money, cheating etc.
First are sitting around the kitchen litobedineniya, creative unions (which, however, ordered to live a long time), at the university, on chairs, in the offices and in cheap cafes — a thought thinking: like so cling to eternity and all that.
2nd consider themselves masters of life. At least some life.
First did not notice the second. 2nd despise and detest the first. (And I could not, the former «chief writer» ECX, bureaucrats explain that there is literature, who is the essence of the writers, which requires books all as one in one voice inquired — rhetorically: bad for you, writers? — All admonished : shove their literature in show business — that means there will be …). And yet, every 1st, drawn to power. And protesters (though the stone — but to get it, to feel it, to feel, to join), and the pleasure in power (all: let Dang, Dang!). A painter soars to the heavens themselves Intermedia — the upper and the lower the reflected water — and lazily dodging crows, and just effortlessly overcomes gravity animal. And goes to its height.
Painter knows another Power. The power of the unknown and the unknowable-knowable.
In Europe, the cold. In Italy, grimly.
Power disgusting as hands barber.
Oh, if only to reveal, but could not be faster
The Adriatic extensive window.
Musk rose above the hum of bees,
At midday steppe — grasshopper muscular,
Winged horses horseshoe heavy
Sand yellow and gold.
In the language of cicadas captivating mixture
Grieve of Pushkin and Inland arrogance,
How annoying ivy clinging to the whole,
He courageously lying Orlando kurolesya.
Sand yellow and golden,
At midday steppe grasshopper muscular,
And right at the moon soars liar broad-shouldered.
Razlyubeznaya Ariosto, ambassadorial fox
Blooming fern, sailboat, agave,
Did you listen to the moon buntings vote
And in the court of the fish was a scholar advisor.
About the city of lizards in which no soul —
From the witch and the judge gave birth to the children of such
Ferrara callous and kept on a chain —
And the sun tan brain rose in the wilderness.
We wonder little shops butcher
By a network of blue flies asleep child,
Lamb on the mountain, a monk on an ass,
Baron soldiers, holy fool little
From drinking wine, garlic and plague,
And the freshest, as the morning, surprised to lose …
4-6 May 1933 — June 1935
(Osip Mandelstam’s poem)
I’m sitting over the water and over the sky, over plyonochku it obtyanuvshey lake, its water every bulge and creek. Lowest heaven pushes me in the face, raises it to the sky top, where kite cuts following its own air. I know this kite. And he knows me.