It was not possible to hand over the text for Yanka Diaghileva's birthday.
The Internet was filled with Dovlatov and groans on him: “Ah!
So he left for America, alone, for 12 years, 12 books!
Such a person, for the truth of life, not a drop of lies!
You read - time breathes from every page!
And everything written in the USSR was simply banned from publishing!
What a figure! "
Figure as figure.
Except that she was tall.
And a quiet, bilious rage seized me.
It is the worst of all, like the anger of impotence ... Remember, I suppose.
Why the devil, I wondered for several days in a row, why the hell do bald Dovlatov mean to the point of foam and white eyes, and Diaghilev, putting the world on his shoulder with his one Hundred Years Rain, is almost forgotten?
Where does this wild "culturology of the blatant majority" come from?
What is going on in the minds-minds?
No answer, brothers and sisters.
The endless parterre is endlessly silent.
“A hundred years of rain ...
Gumboot in damp sand.
The eyes are on the rusty ceiling.
Wasted in the heat of the cheerful delirium.
The rings of troubles grabbed, laughing. "
On September 4, 1966, Yanka was born in Novosibirsk, in the brain center of the Red Empire.
A quiet and bookish child - like that Katerok from the cartoon - between the house and the library with a quiet song inside.
A family of engineers, a year at a music school in piano, then a self-taught guitar, poetry, poetry - Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova, texts by Gumilev and Platonov.
You know what these texts are - the density of meanings multiplied by the density of the feeling of being.
This is how they do not speak with words, this is how they live.
“A hundred years of rain ...
Dreams gathered over the precipice of spring
And the early sips of great melancholy.
April scratches the wall with her nails
As if flowers are growing behind the wall
As if to see them from above. "
The quiet girl will be called the first rock singer of the USSR and a representative of the Siberian underground.
The stupidest wording ...
Yanka Diaghileva is the herald, the unknown creator of the exact and therefore almost forgotten apocrypha - after all, she snags, snags and tears apart from a pure voice.
In the midst of the smoke and roar of war with ourselves, what did we hear at the end of the Olympic decade?
- total perestroika vulgarity, and here are theirs - the angels of our imminent fall - after all, all by ourselves, with skillful handles, hooks, with affection and care.
And you will think - maybe it's good that I saw the predicted not from here, from the ground? ..
“A hundred years of rain ...
We have lived for a hundred years - dinner is ready
From the soap bubbles of a damp day
From the seeds of unraveled verses,
From memory from the soles of boots,
Salted with crystals of fire. "
She did not give interviews, did not look like a Woodstock diva, it was impossible to follow her natural beauty emerging through the fabric of everyday life - a goof girl with long hair and melted autumn words stitched through with threads of light tears.
She knocked on the window.
Nobody opened it.
In the house, not whitewashed, unbleached, quiet on the ravine side, as Vysotsky predicted ...
“The doors are wide open for you, and the soul is locked up,
Who is the boss here?
Would drink wine ...
And in response to me: "Looks like you were on the road for a long time
And I forgot people, we always live like this.
We eat grass, century on sorrel,
Sour with souls, sprinkled.
Moreover, they enjoyed themselves a lot with wine,
They ravaged the house, fought, hanged themselves. "
What's the use of knocking on the deaf?
Is it - for the sake of reassurance?
But they listened and heard, just a little and not everywhere.
By that time, "Civil Defense" remained, it is true, the last frontier of civil defense - there was no time for shelters - more and more they marked them for warehouses, they waited only for an opportunity.
And he introduced himself as such.
Strange, in August he wrote about the "putsch", here again ... Does he not let me go?
Doesn't let go of the country?
Have you let go, brothers and sisters?
If those who built the Red Empire were shown a film about the nineties?
A year like this in about 1950?
Would you beat the mechanic?
Would they telegraph to Moscow?
There is no scenario plan - due to the impossibility of the event in principle.
As well as the inability to count, to spy on the reaction of those people.
And how could we live after what we saw?
In their gaze?
“A hundred years of rain ...
Words wander along a quiet lane
And the crumpled foliage is crumbling.
The penultimate sentence has been fulfilled,
All April Dues Ascended
And dreams hang over the spring hole.
Hundred years of rain ... ".
Letov was born on September 10, 1964.
In Omsk.
Noble place.
Not for the nightclub faint of heart.
And how he and Yanka met, and how Yegor hooked her - not about that, not about nonsense - about the heart and what is mixed in it.
Egor Letov.
A croaker and a provocateur.
Warrior against a smooth one wrapped in a crunchy piece of paper, tied with a satin ribbon.
Should I analyze his work?
Funny ... Just by intuition.
Just crawling through the thicket, to the blood, to the warm bloody rags on the branches - further the earth.
Our.
And it seems already - and no.
"Tie up your pants
oblong strap
And step forward hoping
What did you have
Once upon a time
Life is like sour cream. "
Yes, she swam.
It seems like it's impossible to listen to "GROB" - they wind their nerves and brains on a skein of barbed wire.
And then why is everything?
- moxibustion on the living - outlined, slobbering with a chemical pencil, poured gunpowder into a hole in the meat, struck a match, howled, grabbing a glass to the brim, - and into the whirlpool.
In the morning - what God will give.
Either retreat, or cut off.
Approximately so we slipped from Light to Dark.
Here we stand.
We look around wearily.
We breathe nervously and heavily.
“There were no relatives, there were no more beautiful,
It was not more painful, it was not happier.
There was no beginning, there was no end
The detachment did not notice the loss of a soldier ... ".
Both Diaghilev and Letov came together for us in September, in order to remind in the autumn of red and rusty red: little children, sit quietly, lead well, don't let the wolf, drive away the evil thought ...
What kind of clowns Dovlatov ?!
What is the chronology of window life ?!
What's the tall style on mold and sawdust? ..
People.
But what are you - in fact?
Or are you not brothers and sisters?
Or do we no longer understand human things, but have only learned to howl like a wolf howl?
A new time ...
"A polite feat of global times,
Plush roar of great names
The festive babble of an avalanche of colorful banners ... ".
Go to gallery page
Time to take the train tickets home.
To live at the station is roughly what is harmful: you can pick up anything, don’t get the food in your horse, and your thoughts are all over your head, from ear to ear, an ambulance train with tattered carriages.
Time to take the train tickets home.
Not suitcases pohvatamshi - 12 books in 12 years, but poems folded in four sheets of paper.
Or have we forgotten how to add four?
Not knapsacks, baskets with lapdogs, with scum - a bag without a bottom - from it and GOELRO, and all the construction sites on which we are standing, got out.
Including, on occasion, the atomic weighty club.
What else to say?
What for?
Yanka and Yegor said everything.
They said everything and left.
And we - as cut off.
Time is to stitch.
“And my soul wanted to rest,
I promised her not to participate in the war game
But on my cap on my hammer and sickle and star,
How touching it is, the hammer and sickle and the star ... ".
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.