Vanya rushed into this love - to pull this love out of the embraces of the flabby world. High Vanya put love - inaccessible to the lust of the world - and he never thought about how there - get up, not get up. This happened with Ivan in a rush, in flight beyond the borders of a flabby world, in a sphere inaccessible for reasoning about "will rise, will not rise." This happened to Ivan in a dream, suddenly bursting into a flash into those inaccessible living spheres, scaring the fluttering and singing spirits there.

And here ... There was a girl quiet from the periphery of comfort. But comfort - how much gravity in it is very heavy, how much predatory atrocious "I"!

And Ivan rushed, out of habit, into areas inaccessible to a mortal - to wrest this love from the embraces of the flabby world. And in the midst of the flight, he suddenly felt: “Something is not right!” Looked: an arm squeezes his hand, and the air is the rarefied cold air of the peaks. And his beloved watching him from below - with fright and incomprehension. The wings of Ivanov collapsed, and it collapsed downwards — it fell into the failures of grayish, tangled everyday life. It hurt Ivan, that he was always, as it were, not at all subject to earthly gravity. No, not that he was floating - or rather, he was shaking in a laughing wild wind, and, from time to time, fought on the rocks of the earthly device. This is exactly what is called flight in literature. (Because it is a lie, it’s all this-those-te-ra-tu-r) But - that is true, then the truth - all the winding in a laughing wild wind happened in isolation from the sinful earth, for Vanya did not have the weight of the world in himself.

And so I fell into the dips of greyish, tangled everyday life. And he learned a different love - not flight, but a surly overcoming. This avenged his earthly possession for his subordination.

So - in the rattle of the old world, in the female screech of unbridled squabbles (a well-known thing - the wife does not get along with her mother-in-law), Ivan was torn to the point. And how could he have survived something in a hochish frenzied wind, if there was not one that lurked dreams, his dreams are in bright spots of notorious anxiety. But it was only that they look like he is good, or not very much.

Burst - broke into these arguments about "rise, not rise." And ... here we are again returning to Freuda. And in vain. Vanya was not a Freudian. And all he felt on that damned morning was life unbearable. Mortality! * * *

And, in the waves of nausea, crossed the thoughtfulness of bitter maples, he approached the building, let's say, an absurd type: something between a barrack and a circus. Dirty green, completely devoid of windows, with a dome, rust yellow flowering, it harmoniously completely complemented the impression of immersion in the general shit. It was a computing center. Ivan worked here, and it is pertinent to note that he worked, fucking, in the very vent of progress. Here in the neon light, in the green flicker of the displays, crazy women were worn to and fro and, as if sibyls in Radeni, squealed: “Double-three-pi-four-eh! ... Double-three-pi-four hung-a!”

Vanya sidled in the twilight, trying not to breathe into the face of the crazy Sibyls, crept into his corner. Sanka was already sitting there, his young life burnt in the blink of displays, in the wild cries of poor sibyls. No, he could not help him, Sanka, on that gloomy morning. But, marveling at Ivan’s indifference in front of the display, he sympathetically thrust a book under his nose: “Here, Wan, read. Interesting. ”Floating away somewhere in the waves of nausea, sailing away from himself, Vanya’s weighty volume pulled up to himself and, opening at random, fixed his eyes, clouded with flour, into the page, and ... and a pack of iron harpies burst into the frail Ivanov mind:“ Architecture trunk-modular complexes provide for the creation of multi-modular systems - drivers, file structure ... ”Consciousness faded, and, tilting dangerously Pizansky tower, he collapsed from a chair into the darkness of electronic spaces.

Suddenly, something moved up, something happened in our gloomy vent of progress: the Sibyls darted around with a startled flock, the assholes scolded angrily; its young burnt into flickering displays. All wave surged and retreated.

He hung. He descended. Is he. Yefim Moiseevich. Baum

Who is he, the powers of heaven ?! Who is he, stunning dark bowels of progress? - the reader exclaims. And I'm out ... no, let's say - dude, so I could start:

My Baum, my good friend,

Born on the shores of the Volga,

Where, perhaps, you wolves drank ...

But, gentlemen, to imitate Pushkin is a dirty trick. And even though Baum is worthy of a poem of a pen more familiar - no match for me! - nothing to do. Dear Efim Moiseevich Baum, forgive you and let me dedicate to you this lowing on the edge of ear possibilities.

Ah, Efim Moiseich, you belonged to the relapse of Russian romanticism that took place at that time - the era of ambiguous, deceitful, like all historical relapses. Then it was so tempting - computers and tourist songs. But in the shadow of the computer cunningly fat assholes, and all these authors of author's songs did not live after all a dangerous, undead life, about which they sang so smoothly and plaintively. (This is a lie. For if the poet does not live by his own words - he lies, this poet) Ah, Efim Moiseich, even though you were a romantic repeat offender and purred tourist songs, and said to the man "old man", ah, Efim Moiseich , even though you were a bit of a jerk and you were a little smart-ass in green flickering displays, but you were not a deceitful poet. And you drank, as only honest people drink - you radically and mournfully drank. Because-y, because so close was the torment of Ivan to you.

Well, so, he loomed, he descended, Efim Moiseevich Baum. Awkward, huge, with a habit of some kind of straight bear - from the sons of Reuven’s riotous, apparently, he was going on, Efim Moiseevich Baum. He was very short-sighted, and his bearish eyes, because of horny semi-dark glasses, were forever squinting over the top, unwashed patla were sticking out, and the floor of a woolen jacket fluttered, wound to the beat of heavy steps. I'm telling you that he was an infinite romantic repeat offender!

So, he descended, and Ivan from the darkness of the electronic seized and sat down on a chair, and filled the space with a completely inarticulate, but powerful, growl-moo. A stranger would hardly have dismantled anything in him, but Ivan’s habitual ear caught notes of pity and complicity. And Ivan realized, choking with a sob of emotion and nausea: this is the angel of his savior stretching his woolen cloth over him, letting smelled wings.

“No, Roly, you throw! No, well, come on! Are you completely, perhaps, sour, eh? Well, here ... No, you quit! No, I know ... These are the more, you know, things! Well, you are this, old man, you do not drift! No, well, be patient, old man ... "- Baum so hummed over him, ovayu his tobacco and bearish slightly crushing, -" No, you quit! ... No, we help grief. You drop it! Everything can be corrected, you see! And now we will fix you. Do you understand? You, popra-avim! "

He disappeared for a moment and reappeared, holding a mayonnaise jar with a human-colored liquid in a hardened huge palm. And again he buzzed, shaking a vessel under Ivan’s nose: “No, you leave it! ... On, sniff it - a tear! It is in the vein! No, come on! ... No, come on, come on. "

The smell of alcohol hit Ivan in the face, and he groaned, gasping: “Oh no, Moses, have mercy - I can't. No, by God, it is above my weak forces "

"No, you throw it! ... No, well, you throw it!" - persuading Ivan, Baum and poke and crushed, and crushed it with his paw. And then somehow awkwardly bent over with a bear - medve-go! - crawled under the display, sliding the Sanka with the chair. Sanka did not wake up, and Baum growled from below: “No, Sanya, well, how are you? Are you normal? ”“ Normal, normal, ”Sanka replied, as if from a distance, from distant and echoing electronic spaces.

Baum - with a reared backwards - crawled out somehow from under the display and got up, puffing heavily. On his hardened palm, as if on a clumsy tray, were placed: a mayonnaise jar with liquid ... Read more →