“Kotik Letaev” White in short content
Here, on a steep-cutting line, I throw long and dumb gazes into the past. The first moments of consciousness on the threshold of my third birthday – they rise to me. I am thirty five years old. I’m standing in the mountains, amidst the chaos of cliffhog rocks, bulky blocks, gleams of diamond peaks. The past is known to me and the clubs of events. My life rises from the gorges of the first infancy to the steepness of this self-aware moment and from its steepness to the death gorges – the Future comes running. The path of descent is terrible. Thirty-five years later my body will break away from me, the runaways will escape, the glacier will pour out waterfalls of feelings. Self-consciousness is naked to me; I stand among the dead fallen concepts and meanings, rational truths. The architectonics of meanings was comprehended by rhythm. The meaning of life is life; my life, she – in the rhythm of the year, mimicry past flying events. The rhythm was illuminated by a
I remember how the first “you – you” was composed to me out of ugly delusions. Consciousness was not yet, there was no thought, no peace, and there was no I. There was a growing, whirlwind, fire stream, scattered by the fires of red carbuncles: flying fast. Later – the likeness was opened, – the ball, looking inward; from the periphery to the center it rushed with sensations, trying to overpower the infinite, and burned, exhausted, without mastering.
I was told later, I had a fever; For a long time I was ill at that time: scarlet fever, measles…
The world, thoughts, – the scum on the become I, has not yet formed consciousness to me; there was no division into the “I” and “not-I”; and in the ugly world the first images were born – myths; from the breathing chaos – as from the water clumping masses of land – the reality came through. I thrust my head into the world, but my feet were still in the womb; and my feet snaked: the world was moving around me with snake-like myths. It was
Imagine a temple; the temple of the body that will rise in three days. In a swift run from the old woman, I burst into the temple – the old woman remained outside, – I enter the altar part under the arches; under the unique twists of the dome of the skull. Here I remain, and, I hear screams: “It’s coming, it’s near!” He is walking, the priest, and looks. Voice: “I…” It came, it came – “I…”.
I see the wings of outstretched arms: we are familiar with this gesture and given, of course, in the spread of the open arch of the superciliary…
The apartment was clearly pierced by the outside world; in the first moments of consciousness arise: rooms, corridors, in which, if you enter, you will not return back; but you will be covered by objects, it is not yet clear what. There, among the armchairs in gray cases, my grandmother’s pouring rose in tobacco smoke, a bare skull covered her with a cap, and something awful in appearance. In the dark labyrinths of the corridors, Doctor Dorionov approaches there, and he seems to me to be a small-headed minotaur. The world is swarming with the fluttering of flying lines in the drawings of the wallpaper, surrounding me with snake myths. I’m surviving the catacomb period; walls are permeable, and, it seems, they collapse, – the desert appears in the edges of the pyramids, and there: Leo. I remember clearly a cry: “The lion is coming”; shaggy mane and mouth grabbed, a huge body among the yellowing sands. I was later told that the Leo is St. Bernard, He approached the children’s playground for playing children. But later it was thought to me: it was not a dream or reality. But the Lion was; shouted: “The Lion is coming,” – and the Lion was coming.
Life is growth; in outgrowths life becomes, in disgrace the first build-up to me was an image. The first images are myths: a man – he contacted me with his grandmother, – the old woman, it seemed to me something from a bird of prey, – a bull and a lion….
The apartment was pushed through to me by the outside world, I began to live in the reality that had fallen away from me. Rooms – the bones of ancient beings, to me led; and the memory of memory, of the body dwelling in me; light it on everything.
My dad, flying to the club, to the university, with a red face in glasses, is a fiery Hephaestus, he threatens to throw me into the abyss of ugliness. In the mirrors, Aunt Doga’s pale face gazes, endlessly reflecting; in her – bad infinity sound, the sound of drops falling from the tap, – something te-ti-do-ti-no. In the nursery I live with my nanny Alexandra. I do not remember her voice, as a silent rule; with her live according to the law. In the dark corridor I make my way to the kitchen with her, where the furnace is open fire flames and the cook our poker fights with a fiery serpent. And it seems to me that I was saved by the chimney sweep from the red chaos of fiery languages, through the pipe was dragged into the world. In the mornings I look out of the crib on the brown locker, with dark knot creases. In the ruby light of the lamp, I see the icon: the wise men bowed, – one black at all – this is the Moor, they say to me, – over the child. I know this world; I continued our apartment in the Arbat Trinity Church, here the Golden Hump was speaking in the blue clubs of incense smoke, Gray Antiquity broadcast and I heard the voice: “Bless, lord, censer.”
The fairy tale continued with a fairy tale, Petroushka’s booth. There is no nurse Alexandra, governess Raisa Ivanovna is reading about kings and swans. In the living room they sing, the half-sleep interferes with a fairy tale, and a voice enters the tale.
Concepts have not yet developed consciousness, I think with metaphors; I faint: then – where they fall, fail; probably, to Pfeffer, the dentist, who lives under us. Daddy’s stories, a terrible bu-bu-bu behind the wall of Christopher Pompul, he’s all looking for statistics in London and, assures the pope, he’s breaking the landau of the Moscow cabmen: London, probably, is a landau, scares me. The voice of premature antiquity is still intelligible to me, – the Titans turn around the memory of her, the memory of memory.
Concepts – a shield from the titans…
Feels of the cosmos, I look at the world, on the Moscow houses from the windows of Arbat our house.
This world collapsed in a moment and moved to the vastness of Kasyanovo – we are in the summer in the village. The rooms have sunk; stood up – a pond with dark water, a bath, a thunderstorm experience – thunder – an accumulation of electricity, calms the pope, – Raisa Ivanovna’s gentle agate look…
Once again in Moscow – our flat now seemed cramped.
Our father is a mathematician, Professor Mikhail Vasilievich Letaev, his office is set with books; he calculates everything. Mathematicians go to us; their mother does not like them, they are afraid – and I will become a mathematician. He throws back the locks from my forehead, says – not my forehead, – the second mathematician! – her premature development is frightening of me, and I’m afraid to talk with my dad. In the mornings, fooling around, I caress to my mother – Tender Cat!
In the opera, at the ball, my mother leaves in the carriage with Poliksena Borisovna Bleschenskaya, she tells us her life in St. Petersburg. This is not our world, another universe; empty his dad calls: “Empty they, Lizochek…”
In the evenings we hear music from Raisa Ivanovna’s drawing-room; Mom is playing. The rooms are filled with music, the sound of the spheres, revealing the hidden meanings. I continued to play the music.
In the living room, I could hear footsteps, a “den”, and Ruprecht’s figure from the canopy of green spruce moved to the locker; She looked at me from the locker for a long time, then lost herself somewhere. I continued to play music, Ruprecht, a clown of red and yellow, donated to me by Sonia Dadarchenko, a red worm bound by Raisa Ivanovna – jakke – snake Yakka.
My dad brought me the Bible, I read about heaven, Adam, Eve and the serpent – the red serpent Yakka. I know: and I will be banished from paradise, Raisa Ivanovna will be taken away from me – what a tenderness with a child! We would give birth to our own! “Raisa Ivanovna is no more with me.” “I remember the leaked days – not the days, but the diamond holidays, the days now are only everyday.”
I marvel at the sunsets, – in the bloody splits, the sky filled all the rooms with red. To the horror of the recognized disk, the great sun is drawing our hands to us…
About spirits, confessors, spiritual I heard from my grandmother. I was aware of the breath of the spirit; as a hand in the glove, the spirit entered the consciousness, grew from the body with a blue flower, opened the bowl, and a dove circled over the cup. Left Kitty was sitting in the arm-chair, – and fluttered above him in the trembling of wings, illuminated by the Light; there appeared the Instructor – and you, my unborn king, was with me; we met after and got to know each other…
I carried a spiritual garment: I clothed myself in clothes from the light, two semicircles of the brain flapped with wings. Spirit consciousness is inexpressible, and I was silent.
The world became unintelligible to me, empty and cool. “I heard about the crucifixion on the cross from my dad, I’m waiting for him.”
A moment, room, street, village, Russia, history, the world is a chain of extensions of mine, before this self-conscious moment. I know, crucifying myself, I will be born again, ice of words, concepts and meanings will break through; the Word will flash like the sun – in Christ we die, so that in the Spirit we can rise again.
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