Rus Articles Journal


For the person who lived in the mother country for many years thirst for the province is some kind of thirst for tranquility and silence, with the province of usually associated. Or, can be - to not vanity, meaning an external number of life as intellectual vanity is hardly somehow connected with the place - with the city of dwelling; but the capital, especially the last years, is so densely penetrated by it that the small provincial town, despite all costs of the concept, is represented a peculiar form of disposal if not itself to achieve a harmony with itself. If for five or seven children`s years spent summer, at the dacha at relatives there, or at them the house, playing with the brother, hardly comprehending the province, but, in some measure, becoming impregnated with its spirit.

Besides the concept “provinciality“ did not learn to view with skepticism that, it seems, it befits the capital inhabitant - that is did not begin to look down on the province, thinking its congestion of backwardness, bad taste in a combination, quarrystone which of its inhabitants moves to the center, with impudence, with infernal enterprise, or - on the other hand - small opportunities etc. As for boredom - it everywhere in bulk, but its volume depends rather on attitude and education, than on the number of restaurants on the neighboring street or books in own case. It is rather on the contrary - the province is connected with something left, nevozvratno - darling - with plentiful greens, with dead almost, officially, kosno, violently revived Russian churchism, with fine, cozy life. That is with something warm. the Warm juice of the province zhivitelno feeding soul promotes

not only its health, but also creativity - or to formation of that state which gives the first impetus. And it is not important what from this will leave and whether there will be something in general; the creative requirement - requirement, but not an itch - in some sense is more important than result if only not too successful result does not begin to be imposed to all and everyone. But it is probably already a sort of a sincere illness,

I the province is powerless here - as well as not and. It is less or not the insane in the province is known by only the corresponding statistics, but to address it - occupation not from cheerful.

Is much better to consider types - here, for example, a close congestion of houses: red, it is gentle - blue, yellow corners and the planes, dim cuts of windows, strict having soared up churches, ukazuyushchy a way. Or a scattering of the wooden houses which stuck around a huge ravine with crookedly fenced kitchen gardens divided into segments of beds. Just life. Not a subject for discussions.

If also itself - that left from here - meaning the childhood defining a further reality; especially as periodically, and it is unknown with what to connect this frequency, came back here - for a week, to two, to holiday, pursuing the unknown aims - or without pursuing any.

I here you go to the old city again, testing light hopelessness if that is possible. However, when you choose from all probable alternatives learned by heart, similar to test something and it is necessary. Of course, it is possible to go to Venice or Copenhagen, but it demands forces of which it is not enough, and vanity which it is always a lot of. Besides, the prospect of visit of various official establishments - from a photoworkshop to OVIR - seems oppressing, and therefore the bag filled by simple gifts and a way to the familiar station are most logical. Return to vanity - station - represents this time all its versions much. A crowd portrait - not in its worst option; it most fully is associated with the East,

Though it is hardly possible to explain why, and several incidentally flashed skullcaps, and a set sunbathed - the dusty, badly shaved faces and slanting or is impudent - self-confident black eyes, least of all confirm regularity of similar association. Something hard - as a bunch, something low-explainable and badly deciphered, plus - a grease stench of chebureks, and an opportunity to buy anything - from condoms to drugs - than not east market? And - children`s memory - caustic, as acid - the train reminding a dragon, frightening by smoky gloss of eyes and prompt noise. Europe reminds

of itself exact graphics of the schedule on which levels - blades with greenish pereshchyolkivatsya dexterously - in any case they those seem - names of stations, - however, right there also recedes because punctuality turns into illusion, and there is no train everything and is not present. People small groups accommodate along the platform, calculating estimated doors with bigger or smaller degree of accuracy.

station Smell! The tapes and lines seeking for reunion, and not reaching integrity! The gentle stench of the oily, yellowish cross ties which are strong warmed up by the sun breaks the heavy reek of alcohol proceeding from the sudden neighbor. Slow schizophrenia of a cigarette smoke, aromas of various food, a lot of things is stirred in one, and here, at last - meet the late train - already, alas, unlike a dragon.

the Platform is generally more interesting, than the car, on - a last resort is more selective. Car belly! - it it is right, the stomach would seem, appear an opportunity to survey it from within, and it provides few options. Waxworks exhibition of persons! and however - a misanthropy not the best assistant - if you want to understand world around.

reminds the Case of the platform of claustrophobia - the illness named too beautifully to understand its sources, and confidence that the illness did not build a nest in your brain, does not deny hope (then sometime) to meet an angel on the bridge - hopes, rather literary, than illusive … the Movement, however, began

, and you stand, having closely nestled on a cool wall, even not really - that looking in a window, and trying to present three forthcoming hours a strong stone which should be rejected, not too tsiklyas on the forthcoming faces of the smokers or people passing from the car in the car. Standing - as a special case of the movement: angular air of Geraklitov of paradox. Smoking as special case of self-destruction; gentle relation to accurate white columns of cigarettes, measured, shaggy spread of a smoke.

the Landscape behind a window is various as the days penetrated by an illness. The woods - infinite them, the getting denser, thinning strip - not worst of offers of space; occasionally arising massifs of dachas - poorly board, panel board, with kitchen gardens, conceding in an expression Wang - to Gogovsky ridges. From a distance dachas remind toy East German lodges, so desired in the childhood, lodges what wanted to be occupied tiny people - but little men it was not necessary that was. Perhaps, the only defect of these remarkable combined toys - and now that the children`s dream was not embodied, neither in kitchen gardens, nor near houses does not flash nor a uniform figure: everyday life.

First left to smoke: with a high-cheekboned, stupid and sharp face, as if the appearance confirming justice of a saying: scratch the Russian - you will find the Tatar. For certain, Petrov or Sidorov. The rolled-up sleeves of a light shirt bare mighty, from knots the twisted forearms. Nearby there is a krasnorozhy old man with a dim award, vverchenny in a jacket lapel, the bottle neck looks out of a trouser pocket. Several gestures quickly lead to a consent - drink in turn, from a neck, clicking scraps of semi-phrases.

the Landscape behind a window does not change, and, be sure that the city in which it was born, is where to it and it is necessary. The wood, as a last resort, can descend from the place. The city - in the worst option of destiny - to be destroyed by enemy artillery or aircraft, having replaced itself with memory of itself that frightens much less own death.

But the city can begin with anything, in particular half awake in which you exhausted with banal loneliness were going to construct the, on anything unlike, or similar to all cities at the same time - but could not: not from - for shortages of material, and from - for need of awakening. The city where arrived, having safely passed the controller`s flourish, having crossed out his ominous grimace the bought ticket, begins with the station - if not began it with that with a children`s habit to see. Possibly, there have to be also suburbs because here all - not a limit of Oykumena - but, apparently, that the station and replaces them, and so it, or not - to check a lack of time therefore the exit to the platform in crowd of other passengers cuts excessive curiosity. It - this crowd - is dense as if a pulp, and a mnogodetalna as the detailed model of the ship which admired in the childhood. Backpacks and baskets, boots and shoes, rods and bouquets; somewhere the hunting double-barreled gun flashed, but immediately hid for a trunk; portfolios, sacs, suitcases - than more details, especially the reality - fluid reality of a pulp which not to turn into paper depresses.

As the platform is higher than the level of the station square, it is possible to take it for a pedestal, and the crowd then is cast in a peculiar live monument to; the monument at all deprived of grandiosity and illusory as a veil - Morgan.

I here, yet will not appear the descent promising the area, you are the same attribute of crowd as all these trunks and bags. As if things conduct people, dictating them life, its style and an essence, without speaking about a rhythm. The city plays a sponge role a bit later - during a different time, the courses, holes sucking in moisture of people, and still keeping them in itself not to a lesser extent, than the sponge holds water.

the station from far away reminds huge cake - more true, the cake brought on an area dish and there is a wish to come into the building to destroy ridiculous association; and here legs themselves pass the area, and eyes idly slide on the cars placed poluduzhy. The trolleybus smoothly floats by a drugstore, a supermarket, and, anywhere slowly, you enter a source of the long, penetrating almost all city prospectus, and go for the present near several former passengers who also chose a pedestrian way.

Each city moves somewhere, remaining, certainly on the place; at the same time the feeling - is very persistent that here it has a purpose which is pulling together to itself houses, monuments, streets, the yards, lanes, squares. The airport, the central station, the well-known cathedral or art gallery - something has to serve as object, around which the ball of disappointments and offenses, pleasures and delights, travel and … is reeled up, to

This city moves to the river. Weigh it, muskulisto - compliant as if strains the hills, houses and breaks as the athlete on a podium, showing them it - the immemorial observer who is not hurrying anywhere, serovato - steel, confused in many windings involving fishermen. And river, possibly. Is more ancient, than he.

A city dreven. Perhaps, some grass reviving from year to year stores memory of Mongols, of hoofs of horses; the imagination is also conditional, as well as the ethnic definition given to conquerors - and still there is a wish to think that the same grass was trampled down by horses, and on it blood flew, and also the grass in the fall - fall of all times, already without war grew brown, it is lazy - in the juicy provincial fall. Anyway, the city saw many wars, including that, ancient when gunpowder was known only in Celestial Empire, and the imperial thought was in an embryo stage and therefore whistle of the arrow dissecting air was something that connects the murderer and the victim, unless that the murderer nobody would call: the soldier doing the work.

I wants to submit the prospectus the arrow which did not decay in the earth which did not lose the plumage what role will be successfully played by various greens, and itself - such tiny little man, the gnome from the children`s fairy tale investigating her mighty ancient body. Only the body is the habitual, heated by the sun and slightly softened asphalt never opened with a laborious shovel of the archeologist. What to look for here? Not gold of Troy! And so everything is clear!

I nevertheless, the archeologist is not right - also as well as reproached him with carelessness. Really the jug filled by silver does not cost muscular effort? Coins are eloquent, as well as the defects left time on their round timbers. Besides there can be tips of arrows - because the arrow can be fired in a different occasion, as well as to break a spear. Anyway, the same movement sometimes has the opposite purposes, and the arrow form, as well as the onions device, a bowstring tension only does not change. In Europe, perhaps, it was more interesting to be at war, than here in spite of the fact that the arbalest is heavier. It is more interesting to build gelipol, or even more cunning construction, to adjust it to powerful stone walls and to conduct tactical fight - the success in which pales into insignificance, having yielded the palm to process as in effect and has to be if not irritating brain ambitions demanding everything new spaces. And what interesting is in a pelting of defenseless, wooden walls the burning arrows, with the subsequent address of the city to brands among which and to profit - that nothing?

However, arrows whistled throughout centuries, and their whistle was equally terrible both during Peloponnesian war and in the eighteenth century; arrows, already in what name precipitancy is put, sometimes addressed in a symbol, and only once in the history of legends they lost the striking force - falling to Gautama`s legs, turning into motley, harmless flowers …

However, it is time to return to the prospectus. Buildings on both of its sides - a box, full destinies, dim gloss of windows allows various imaginations. And here liqueur - vodka distillery - massive, dark-red, brick, he reminds ancient fortress. Teetotal province? Absurdity curl. However, in the mother country drink at all not less, but the arrangement of plant near the station seems symbolical though it is difficult to understand this symbolics.

Guilty, guilty alcohol! - one of forms not - existence, or - the best proof that the reality is unreal - as claimed, building a graceful short flight of stairs of syllogisms the crafty English bishop ranked by the leader of all proletariat nearly as materialism. By the way, the prospectus bears his name - not the bishop, certainly - and still is not renamed. In the province stereotypes are steadier and servility is stronger, without speaking about the perverted iconography. In days of old from each show-window notorious brovenosets with a valiant half-smile, and allegedly him, and actually anybody`s - because for similar formulations not mind potreben stared at you, and its absence - statements - mottoes stared on going by - by them in particular - on the daily affairs. Somewhere, however, in the city there is a street of Darwin - more similar to the lane unless hens do not rummage in dust, at fences; the lane, the look as well as possible confirming related communications between the person and that being out of whom he was also brought by the broad-browed Englishman who was diligent driving in the childhood of rats - why in that case and to them, chetverolapy not build genealogy?

the Cross of a far churchlet grins - as if in reply. Massive air is based around it, the air saving in itself silence which in effect one of proofs of God`s Life - naturalness surpassing gray-haired sophistications of skholast.

However, plant remained behind, and chance to meet near it new Edgar Poe, is deplorable ended the days, is small; not that he in general is impossible in the modern world - the drunkard Edgar, will not get accustomed supposedly as too exotic plant - and just time does not promote literary apocryphal stories - respectable publishing houses guard the respectability why to them scandal? - and scandals in general crushed. And so at the province will quite get reserves to take and take out something especially bright - and to extinguish the same, to fill in with alcohol, to strangle emptiness, a fence from which one you will escape, the general slackness, kakovy and there is a provincial charm.

a Third of the houses extending along the prospectus is painted in yellow color. But its local shade is disgusting, also as well as local lemon ice cream. It is not dense pesochno - the brocade color penetrated by the sun and not the gentle solar, flavored with a tender haze outflow, not coquettish tenderness of cucumber colors, and not rough camber of a ripe lemon is a hybrid yellow … with something else, but yellow prevails, Ne winning why begins to feel sick as if ate too much onions, and you spit out the dense, plentifully running saliva.

the City in general is perceived as: it is too much. Even small. Even the last provincial hole is an aspiration from the particular to the general, with the subsequent return into place, to short circuit in private, in a life capsule.

Space habitual to a brain, always konechnomerno; and the fact that this city is considered a cradle of astronautics does not justify - and does not condemn - its sizes. And even the remembered space if it is capable what to wake, just the fantastic project of its building. But … on what whirlwinds of space streets will be based? And what it is streets if they vikhritsya? How to live on them? Souls, probably, know because where to be it, having thrown bodies, old worn-out space suits how not in space, not in infinity,

because what other space will sustain such abundance?

Construction - a need consequence. An urbanization - too. A consequence something whose reason seems primitive, and it is actually difficult - because what in general the primitive in contact with something on light is possible?

But the following step of an urbanization it is logical to see won - the built-up space. Modern Timur`s hordes will rush into the gentle fortress of the left souls, will fail because arrows have no purpose and suitable did not think up arrows yet. So, there is Fritz Lang with the Metropolis and the science fiction which lost scientific character signs. Be content with what is. In particular long prospectus.

He, by the way, as well as any prospectus, reminds a trunk with mighty boughs of streets and small branches of lanes. Leaves, clear, serve houses - they are similar at each other, but also not to find two identical. The only unconditional relationship is a share of heat saved inside for the sake of which it was worth uniting.

In the province of the house are low as if who put an end in three, four floors, and even the civilization is not capable to improve things because block monsters in ten - twelve floors, tasteless coarse, are capable to spoil any panorama. Also it seems fantastic that the family which was once living in a sound, portly felling with a dark garden - in the house where there lived not one generation with which so many memories are connected, is so much teenage games in a garden, on ancient trees - rejoices, and it is very sincere, to moving to three - or a four-room fragile box - overlooking all same river for which the city reaches.

the City - which cannot be kept in memory entirely. Say his name - and there will be that, syo, separate details, details, something especially lovely, or opposite disgusting - the walking boat on the river, park, the memorial board demonstrating stay in this hole of your favourite writer, a bakery where trade in excellent kalatches -

I, being confused in these details crawling at each other nevertheless try, feeling like the child, to mold from them as if they plasticine a certain complete figure. Correctly did ancient, keeping original names of the cities a secret.

In the childhood collected specific cards - those cities where it will hardly appear, then and it was not necessary to dream of it but only to guess: whether their existence is real, or it is deception, the phantom, the imagination imprinted by miracle. The present confidence in their existence almost relieved of desire to come to be among narrow streets or magnificent prospectuses, near mystical pyramids or monumental cathedrals - general availability is always impossible, and the newspaper pages dazzling with various tourist offers finally deprive of a charm desired places in the childhood; however cards remained - as any beautiful trifles, it is heavy to throw out them, and reflections about their full uselessness do not help. Besides, the hope joins that in winter or rainy day they will warm better than cognac. Are too motley! Too everything is unlike! Especially the general panoramas - so please that sometimes you feel like a bird, looking at the burned-out sum of tile roofs, the sea of a tile interrupted by the rock of a cathedral on curves, dark-the green or gray channels duplicating the movement of streets. Here where it would be desirable to live! To see in the morning the same accurate house opposite, in cozy cafe to drink the strongest coffee, with pleasure - as if change of the residence adds joyful feelings - to begin to smoke the first cigarette. Then to wander about streets with full confidence that you will not meet anybody - because who in this city knows you? Anybody! And you nobody - emptiness, the absence which is pretending to be something material. Absence - a frequent case of a non-existence, and therefore is logical to stop near a cathedral, and, looking at its mighty buttresses, once again to be convinced that it does not demand proofs … And then again to sit in cafe, watching the street leading own life to eat a beefsteak with blood and fried potatoes, to light … We did not learn to think yet how Heidegger noticed, but there can be highest happiness - not to think of anything? It is simple to absorb. In particular, nourishing juice of a beefsteak.

to go Then the street parallel to which the channel dozes. To stop, look down at bearded, mossy walls, at slowly floating yellow leaf curtailed by a fancy figure. The fall - by all means that was fall. Yellowness of trees will not contrast with not changing coloring of houses.

Then … however, any then will not be - you will never appear in the lovely anonymous town. It is just nonexistent option of happiness presented by cards - or the childhood. Therefore they are stored - idle, but also festive in the top box of a table, in a dense envelope with the inscription made a fatherly hand: Whole world. Grandiosely, isn`t that so?

we Will return to the prospectus. Just because it is necessary to come back somewhere, besides any way can will end with the house. This, on - a last resort, precisely - because arrived to relatives at whom led a half of the childhood and who love you, at what for this love you can be charged that in itself - a rarity. Therefore be happy, even when the prospectus forks, precisely split in the middle - overtook the Mongolian sword? - and one of his tails lasts, passing church and any uninviting houses to the long bridge through the river, losing asphalt and utykayas in the old, jingling ferry in the end. The second way is more preferable - at all not from - for malls where not one movie was shot - is red - a white, labyrinthine structure with an area near where and carriers seem, and especially not from - for the park beginning a row. More preferably - by force of habit always to go this way, ignoring another, studied during automobile trips.

Descent is abrupt, is even excessive. The restaurant which arose on the way carries the name of the river; and behind wide glasses something primordial seems: a pig with porridge, the sturgeon served entirely and turned by the skillful cook into similarity of a fantastic tower, various mushroom delicacies. Invitingly vodka in the sweating decanter shines. Someone drinks alone, obliging sexual fuss … No - hardly here once there was a tavern, merchants, with all costs of drunk violence hardly walked, tables hardly broke. It is silent and is simple - this restaurant, the food is monotonous and sad, and even the neighbourhood with the fish river does not bring benefits. Therefore, will not come more true and money just barely enough, and the hunger which arose a consequence of walking, you will satisfy at the dacha.

Somewhere here is the drugstore which is precisely taken out from late Chekhov. For certain, it flashed in some cinema too - about the Russian province, or the Russian old times. White, thorough, the quadrangular building is emphasized, rather: the house, low and massive, with dusty glasses - it strongly is associated with a drugstore though there is no inscription, but … what else can settle down there?

A descent proceeds - now it goes among two - three-storyed houses and wooden private houses, among the uneven gray and red fences which are densely covering simple life, only clumps of apple-trees slip out sometimes, laying down on a flat surface shtaketin. On windows there are flowers and where - nibud between them the cat capable to tighten the whole world in a funnel imperceptibly - a fluid look surely dozes. There, in houses there is life silent and sleepy, bake pies there, and the cheerful Italian gathers grapes on the used-up carpet, and elephants on a dresser go, and something mutters the TV in a corner. There live stout, kind, artless women who are not representing, it seems, that somewhere live differently that there can be in general other life. The province is the coziest world order, and the boredom is compensated by lack of vanity.

the Column comes to life under pressing of a hand, splashes cold water. Water whips in the substituted bucket, but the stream is so thick and plentiful that drops fly extensively. Asphalt is corroded, and the long shapeless furrow turns green a moss. In the yard opposite the owner chops firewood. The sweaty body shines. The harmony of life is indestructible.

In the last house at the river settles down shop. In it it is low, dark, cool. The wide square space before a counter is empty. Cubes of black bread last up. Dim cans, fish in a tomato, in oil, sausage, cheese, vodka, matches, cigarettes … In effect a variety harms. Why it if everything can be reduced to the similar range? And there is a river.

Yes, it opens behind the house in which the shop is located. The river is good in itself - as any river,

Rather deep - and rather long once again to try to imagine infinity … precisely having entered one, it is possible to appear in another, or on - a last resort not to go mad, endeavoring to present the harmful eight to fleshes. Besides water calms - not obligatory even to float, rather simply to look.

Here, in this place of the river, do not bathe long ago, water is yellow - brown color, gently turning yellow yantaryom at the coast where vanity of whitebaits is visible. The ferry inertly flows the river as if fading on the middle. The purpose of a way - giving relatives - nearby - however, rise on that coast is not less abrupt, than descent on it.

the Small river station, the vessel which is written off as superfluous, near at hand, it is also possible to come there, expecting the ferry. And here, having stepped into the used-up vessel board, you feel how all it it is gentle - lingeringly vibrates, turning into a silver hand bell, into imaginations, of course. Tiny corridor, ragged red bench, small window of the closed, barred cash desk … There is no place and is nothing to go.

It is possible to approach a handrail, to look how it laps, slightly foaming, the river to see a casual chip, a stub or a match - and to pull out from hiding places of own brain hackneyed phrases about similarity - destinies, the rivers, chips, and here the ferry will bury a bare nose in the used-up asphalt. And you pass from one vessel to another, not too changing the line of a way, hardly in general subject to changes - owing to the idleness which pushed to the road. Whether everything is equal - a step there, a step here? Not in camp eventually! Therefore you trample on a ferry floor, of the number of the passing legs already lost white coloring. Reading

about camps, prisons, about days and works of war you represent that - unknown, untried - life impossible, however, an attack of tart happiness because that hard times did not concern you, you do not feel at all; banal problems and troubles … they do not become less, more ordinary, some annoying trifle continues to torment still. Possibly, absence of real trouble does not guarantee happiness at all, and reasonings on a subject that to someone it is worse than you remain abstraction. Perhaps, opposite - there, in extreme conditions, it is also perceived every day as authenticity - as original gift, and the moments of casual inspirations - something bubbling, lasting from within soul up, to light - and there are best moments of life granted to the best.

the Panorama of the city will open from other coast, and she will be beautiful. Having jumped off from the ferry on the broken asphalt, it is possible to turn back and survey it, mnogazhda seen, but it is much more interesting to rise uphill and to turn back only then - and therefore that the panorama will be fuller and therefore that then, sweaty from efforts it will seem an award. While from two parties fields extend, sunflowers flare, mixed houses flash; on the right the disorganized, rusted barge among which fragments played in the childhood sticks out. The wood darkens on the right - a mighty, fairy forest, it once went down in the river, and powerful rhizomes fat snakes slipped out on a surface, were weaved, blocking a way.

Slightly above the house already last from two parties, it is the village in whose harmony dachas whose designs considerably differ from fellings sometimes interfere - slate flashes, sometimes a tile, a tin, the color is more joyful - green, red, blue colors shine - and waves of flower beds are in harmony with them. Filigran roses as well as an arrow of gladioluses a rarity, without telling about carnival stars of dahlias, but it is a lot of phloxes - a true wave, a small, but imperious setup …

a Half of rise behind, the pass behind which other half opens is suddenly marked by loud bark jumped out from - under a collar of a doggie and the motorcycle crash causing desire to turn back. And here, having passed the jingling thingummy, it is possible to examine a city panorama.

Greens, already rich in the province, triumphs here. The continuous stream, the avalanche weight parallel to the river, color is dense, sometimes to excessiveness, and all - is fine. If to look for the color embodiment of perfection - that the best candidate for that it will be undoubted green color …

But, it is necessary to go forward, to dachas whose congestion will begin, soon soon.

Giving has a charm - but only for the summer resident, but not for the owner of land, the owner of beds, hotbeds and trees. For the summer resident - sweet, sleepy inaction, movement from a verandah to a hammock in which semi-sleepiness is so good. Sweet still water of time. Numbers it is identified only at a look in the newspaper.

Besides pleases a flower bed.

Can understand nothing in roses, but it is necessary to love them. The grandmother fostered and cherished pink bushes many years - at first it was the small triangle of the earth, then it slowly extended, and already in a shadow of a white pink bush the child could hide, playing at hide-and-seek with the brother. Then appeared magnificent tea, not having, alas, any relation to strong karminny drink, and it is gentle - pink, and … and … Transfer does not make sense - especially in memory they remain the sum.

Giving as continuation of the province. In years giving, of course, changed - invariable was an aura of heat, and a cosiness skvozheniye.

Many trees grows on a site. Apple-trees and cherries predominated. Violent thickets of the last were represented by something like a fortification which, breaking nails and peeling hands, stormed with the brother - at all not from - for production, and from - for trivial boyish bravery.

Giving, once wooden, is laid over by a brick long ago, and looks strong, massivno,

However is more pleasant to have supper on air.

Ah, this summer dinner! The potato fried to a crunch on fat, or boiled, expiring the ferry, strewed small with greens! Long, sharp arrows of onions, the dense, napiform basis teasing a whiteness. Radish of the improbable sizes. Shaggy, odorous fennel. Nourishing yacheistost of black loaves. If there was a fishing - the golden, fried in flour sinets and rudds, plotvichka and verkhoplavka which can be absorbed in pale, harmless skeletons. And, if fishing was preceded by a campaign for mushrooms - the whole frying pan of chanterelles, vyzharenny to a condition of sunflower seeds or crackers, and they are stewed fresh boletuses in sour cream, with their strong nourishing spirit.

Convivial luxury of evening, and then its slow condensation to anthracitic blackness; large stars, mokhnato arising where they should be … Banality of life in effect is not so bad - in it the uncountable experience of the left generations multiplied by impossibility to resolve the issues from the Fermat`s theorem series only attached to own life, but not to geometry. So let banality - it nevertheless not pain triumphs.

Natural absence of internal, mental anguish at the dacha - or in pro-winestion. Silent pacification. Imperious light slumber.

the Value of these or those memoirs speaks probably not only the left impressions. Than still? Why this or that trifle - begins to live the person, a difficult life - somewhere in a subsoil of your memory? The bread crumbs on a table-top which developed in a strange pattern, a leaf, a snail the curtailed on a window sill, lonely glass of wine together with own thoughtfulness?. Old men lived in the two-storeyed house, the stone first floor, the wooden second, semicircular yard with a nettle and burdocks, a bench with a fat, red cat … The creaking ladder, a floor, thickly colored red …

of Vospominanya live in you, and with it to make nothing. One can be explained with trite pain, another - an insult, the third - at all nothing. A whim of the device concluded in a brain, a whim of the brain, at last, in whose labyrinths not to wander, as in suites of huge cabinet of curiosities where on exhibits though the explaining plates are. Hardly it is possible to reconcile to misunderstanding, but you have no trump to beat it - or logicians to disprove. With it - with misunderstanding of much - it is necessary to learn to live as it is impossible to go on time, for the purpose of examination something important back.

Impossibility of retreat increases hopelessness. It is good to come back only to own house even if to that serve only the doghouse of the small-sized apartment. However, there is still a tart bitterness of return to old friends whom left owing to misunderstanding, or nasty temper.

Sometimes, the road of reasonings is quite capable to lead to an old cemetery. That - to come? The silence injection will never prevent.

the Cemetery in this city - ancient. Church at an entrance, yellow having soared up, light height. Nothing ever interferes with visit of a cemetery especially as it waits for all - in literal and figurative sense though figurative, of course, it is lovelier.

of Burial are located densely and closely, excessively closely, perhaps, monotonous, gray and blue lattices crawl at each other, gates are often linked by a wire, centenary oaks and lindens are high, and flickers before eyes from crosses. Merchant of the second guild. 1908. Bearded, mossy life. Unusual yat and er. Logical power of greens.

But further narrowness becomes fuller. Rusty, in a bluish tatter of paint of a fencing, behaving violently, which - where flowers, cigarettes on gravestones, red daisies. Metal pro-greens. The road extends among graves, being confused in the branches, and here it is church: the old old woman overcomes high steps, turns, christened. On weekdays on a cemetery there is not enough people.

I now when it behind, itself you do not know - tested a pacification or not? Eventually, the thought of death - a universal level - always lives in a brain - whether a background, fear, black, failure horror, lives when your way branches and vikhritsya, removes to ancient theater with a small public garden beside, to a congestion of houses where it seems someone from acquaintances lived, to the museum.

the Provincial museum has a special charm besides if it is the museum art and settles down in the ancient estate, and the cozy court yard which is a little spoiled by primitive sculptural group precedes it. Silver deer - thanks not the pioneers saluting is unknown to whom.

B it it is silent - in the museum as if entering, you get to the required world of the old estate, and indispensable slippers of a ridiculous look only deepen silence. You will slide on a parquet, to slide, but not to go. And pictures have no special value any more. As well as history - all of us are participants of which, everything, realizing it or not. The hall of an iconography - and an image out of church are perceived unnaturally, unfairly. The richness of oil painting, a genre and a still life, even small Dutches is - happiness to skate under rushes of porcelain wind, portraits, portraits - something from other estates, giving branching of the ancient, decayed childbirth; a life secret - left long ago, but withheld by fat, picturesque oil. You go, you slide, and in a window - a piece of the city, the country old town leading the life which does not need you at all. Perhaps, the fact of visit of the museum is more important than the offered exposition because painting merges in a color panel, and gesture which opened a massive door, still sounds in memory.

the Door almost does not creak, letting out you outside. A door - a good symbol of uncertainty …

Many years ago one your friend, already usevshy to learn at orthodox institute in Greece, dropped, widely leading round the lop-sided fences: How here it is possible to live? Also added something from Chekhov - again - about a fence. He was not right, of course, but convinced, and according to this belief left for Munich, having replaced one province with another. Interestingly, what it opinions on local fences? Possibly, the best, on - a last resort the German conscientiousness does not leave in it doubts. And in general - whether everything is equal where to test boredom? Whether everything equally under what sky to suffer damned questions if you suffer them in general? And - whether it is worth coming back to the mother country? Not clearly. Even such trifle can be not clear that to speak about the rest.

of Subjects not to exchange, you go by fences, aiming at the station.

Always for some reason wanted that and the place of a public garden the room of laughter was located. Are reflected in its convex and curved mirrors embodied all your nonsense, all nightmares, and, perhaps, there is in it nothing ridiculous, it is rather - a peculiar therapy, an opportunity to separate from own body, having used which with a clear conscience you buy the ticket, get on the train, and go to the mother country - that is back home.

I the province will hide fog, the fibrous and ragged, reminding morning fog in the mother country when outlines of objects lose the day stability. But also clarity is told - one of forms of absolute fog. Having visited in the next, uncountable time the province, you did not manage to open its secret, did not cope with interpretation of a code of the province and probably and did not aspire to it; just visited those places where - it is worse, better - there passed your childhood.

Thank you that these places still exist.

I already only therefore - long live the province!