This road home under a star-dishieveled mountain sky, smells of thyme, lavender, and a bitter smoke of a kiz'ak from kishlaks, a jittery tormented squeal of a donkey at dawn - all that, when so desired, excited in my memory and sinuses at same instance, will remain with me until the last hour. 

It was exactly that night that I became an adult - so it seems to me now.  It appears to me that in that night of returning home under an indescribably horrible and indescribably magnificent sky I understood several important things.

That a man is lonely.
That he's miserable always, even if he's very happy at a given minute.
That for escape he's capable to open any window, except the most important one - an unreachable window-glimpse into other worlds...

I vividly remember the face of my father, when he opened the door at around six o'clock in the morning.  My mother ran out after him in a nightgown with a scream: they did not expect me...

For some reason I wasn't given a good beating.  To clarify now the reasons of that with mom I consider tactless, besides, she probably hardly remembers herself.  Although I suspect, that my father secretly commiserated with me: he himself being a mister not from the sociable.  As for mother, she lamented, distressed and horrified.  It, of course, wasn't about the cervelat, and not about the "healthy mountain air," it was simply - this is unfathomable: alas, to any other child... certainly any other would dream of such happiness... and ..., just take a look at this marvel - is this a normal girl?

Without saying a word, I passed into a narrow, like a pencilbox, nursery, where me and my sister slept, and lay down on my sofa with one pillow at the head; the other I long time ago pushed out with elongated over the year legs.

Past me drifted dark fields with dawning fires of far-away windows, on a .......  froze and faded stars, asfalt under bare feet long time cooled.  I walked and walked, and was the pivot of the universe, tiny sprout, around which rotated abysmal, impenetrable to light, once and for all unchanging worlds...

About two-three times through the whole night the dark road poured into some settlement, poorly illuminated by a dozen of deaf streetlights.  Like drops of thick honey glimmered windows of kishlaks (villages in Asia Minor), pulled in a bittermost smoke of a burning kiz'ak, and in differently pitched voices dogs barked one to another, in an answer to a jittering sqeal of a donkey...

I walked all night; at down I reached a tram station in the subburb of the city, waited till a first empty tram came and for free (a lady conductor became really scared when she saw me) arrived home.

Afterwards none of the aquaintances, and parents too, coudn't belive that I walked all that way on foot.

-- Did you hitchhike? - I was interrogated. - In a car? In a wagon? On a bicycle? Clearly you couldn't have made all that way barefooted, alone, and at night...

Namely alone and at night, I argued wordlessly, only alone and at night could it be possible to make that long and lonely way among havocing smells of foothills, under an endless and innumerable army of planets, comets and asteroids, that breathed so horridly and deeply and faught in the celestial window above my head...

The deeper surrounding foothills sunk into a viscous night, the higher and clearer became the sky above my head.  Magnificent scattering of brightly shimmering/blinking disturbed/worried stars - needlepointed frost on a gigantic glass - pulsed at an undescribable, inexpressible height.

There went on an unending bustling life: [жарили??? это опечатка?  может, шарили?] 
still white projectors - bigger stars - rummaged; slowly turned, shifting, smaller beacons; fussily blinked and flashed beaded handfuls of small fires, among which rushed cloudlets of pearly starry dust.  Everything lived, swam, and moved, struggled, stuttered, demanded, upthrusted and fell in that horrifying, grey-haired from/by/with stars, abyss up above...  There proceeded some uninterrupted exam in geometry: figures lined up - circles, angles and trapezoids, and right at the center of the sky a square formed - a window, defined quite sharply by a diamond dotted line, and no matter how much I walked, then speeding up, then slowing down my step, that window drifted and drifted above me, and it seemed to me that within its boundaries it contains stars more bright, more scary and alive, and that for sure somewhere overthere, in another universe, a lonely and stubborn girl is also walking, and above her is also drifting this calling window...  I made it up to myself that there something is about to happen, something will be shown to me in that cosmic window, for that reason I continually stopped, lifted up my head and fixedly watched for signs, every time discovering amazing happenings: new flashes of swirls, new communities of worriedly blinking stars...  At times I would begin waving my hands energetically, giving signs to that one, that other girl: maybe their civilization is so advanced, that she can see me in some cosmic telescope?

And bewilderment: what to me is this cervelat?  And as for slippery salty caviar, slowly and horrifyingly stirring, then it simply evoked disgust.

In the summer camp, I remember only morning pioneers' line-ups and eye-cutting pain from bleach profusely spread in a monstrous, barracks-style toilet with holes in a floor.

Now I'm trying to remember some tortures or serious hurt, from which to cook up a convincing episode, excusing my wild act.  No.  Not even nearly!  To a person, for whom chief unhappiness is a place in a pioneers' line and a shared bedroom, there's no need to make up other horrors. As it seems, I was not made for a happy childhood to the sounds of a horn.  Although, I always ignored happiness.

I ran away on a fourth day, having waited for bedtime. [Groping]I [groped and couldn't feel my sandals in the dark under the bed] did not succeed in feeling my sandals in the dark under the bed, therefore, having noiselessly gotten out of a window and to a porch, I set out home barefoot.  It wasn't scary:  during summer skin on soles of feet became feelinglessly oak-like.  Having climbed through a hole in a fence and having figured out direction to Tashkent at a bus stop, I started running on a still warm from a day's heat road, at first energetically and excitedly ( I kept imagining a chase, so, having heard a crickety-crack of a far away car, I would ran off to the side of the rode and hide in the bushes, and if those weren't around, I would simply fall face and stomach down into a tall roadside grass, which smelled strongly of sage and warmwood), then slower and slower, and then at daybreak, already trudged tiredly. 

I walked, feeling a direction through an internal vector, like that same cat, taken to hell Devil knows what distance...

When I was about eight or nine I ran away from a summer camp, first and last in my life.  I don't remember any details; I think it was one belonging to Obcom (political: regional commitee), this camp, and was located in the foothills of Chimgan, about 20 kilometres from the city, somewhere in the outskirts/ a district of Gazalkent.

Mom's friend pulled some strings to get me in, and seating me into the bus, mom briskly/excitedly harped upon that there they serve caviar and cervelat for breakfast -- that was the main argument in favor of my being removed from home. As for me, I couldn't comprehend how and with whom my free running around nearby streets and yards interfered so much that I had to be shoved into the bus packed with a whole horde of voiciferous/loud-mouthed blockheads/dumbheads(?) knuckleheads and wheeled away so far: confusion of a cat, peeking through a not tightly closed handbag.

......................
......................

и тут проснулся Давидка

солнце разливает серебро
и широкую тропинку в даль по морю
парусник ложится на ребро
с ветром гонимыми хребтами споря

( Read more... )

клубок яичной нити, размотается утонет
город Русалку* погрузив во мрак
Весенний Холм* вечерней бодростью огней заслонет
твою сонливость тихому приливу в такт

* в перереводе: Русалка - Бат-Ям, прибрежный город в центре Израиля, под Тель Авивом; Весенний Холм - Тель Авив

долой ламу, хуй с ним с мубараком....не дает покоя лишь один вопрос: верка сердючка гэй?  а тут еще у Саши Когана нарисовалась семья с детьми. 

Это милое вступление красочно запечетляет трагедию русского брака, где в придачу к мужу, жена получает еще и его друзей собутыльников.  Если бы не попивал попевал и не покуривал травку с ослом-приятелем, так никто бы и жену не похитил.  А про рыбалку я вооще молчу.

улетающая вдаль, серебристая на солнце гладь моря, перебирающая мелкими волнами на которых колышится белый парус -это фон для трех девушек направляющихся к пляжу в коротких джинсовых шортиках и купальниках.  Волосы рассыпаются и обнимают оголенные подзагоревшие плечи и спины.  Набережная Тель Авива - десятки лет не меняющаяся и в то же время с каждым новым взглядом такая разная, как набухающий бутон, весной, сонная еще, незаметно преображается вынося с каждым новым солнечным и ветрянным днем, еще одну и еще одну кучку туристов и израильтян; и вдруг в один апрельский день бутон открывается солнцу; в порту Яффо открываются новые кафе и магазинчики; и нет нигде спасения от разноликих улыбок и тесноты шумливой гуляющей толпы.