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Looking round, closing my eyes

I could not make out what is happening in the picture, only I realized that someone was spreading ... ©Jonathan Carroll "The voice of our shadow."

The other day I conducted an audit in my microcosm. Over the past twenty years, five people have changed in me. Five completely different personalities walked through me without looking back. It is not clear from what kind of mold they samozarodalis in me. I, as an honest shell, could only be amazed. They changed my circle of friends and wardrobe, my hobbies and interests, the books I read, music in the player, and food and alcohol preferences. These phantoms, each in its own time, with varying success ruled my life. Some of them still look to visit, passing from nothingness. But not often. And not for long ...

The first was a creature, let's call it the Girl, who was at the same time in a state of romantic excitement and revolutionary concern. She wore dark skirts, light blouses with lace collars and classic vests.No, God forbid, cosmetics, or there brooches earrings. From alcohol - a glass of champagne on holidays. She sang military-patriotic songs in the choir. She loved Vysotsky, Vizbor, Okudzhava, and, slightly embarrassed by this, Ivasey. At night, hiding from their ancestors, who piously believed in the great power of the regime, under the covers with a flashlight, read Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova, Pasternak and their ilk. More than anything, before the cramps and cold sweat, she was afraid to upset her beloved mom. She sat consecutively in the squad council and in the Komsomol committee. With boys she was contemptuous and strict, with teachers she was obsequious and respectful. In general, quite cute, though stupidly infantile child. This “girl” disappeared into the air as soon as the last bell rang. We never met her again.

Less than two months, in its place grew tear off. This character, by golly, was mixed with devils on the bones of hanged thieves. Her first fierce command was to immediately go to the flea market and buy an outrageously short and skin-tight leather skirt. With this skirt all the fun began. Okudzhava with Vizbor went to live out his life in the pantry.Mike, BG, DDT, Yanka Dyagileva settled in my player, a heavy silver ank was hanging around his neck, and in his ear, finally pierced, was a key ring with a photo of Mike. Near the bed with a pile, already not hidden from anyone, settled Lemons, De Sade, the Witch's Hammer and Memoirs of Casanova. In the house began timid and clumsy scandals due to chronic non-accommodation at home. In addition, the “tearing away” with some amazement discovered that we, it turns out, are studying in the pedagogical institute (the inheritance of the disappeared “girl”), which in the light of the last metamorphoses went like a tiger to a muzzle. The professors were afraid to mess with me and, just in case, they were able to shun, waiting for revenge on the exams. Sometimes they managed to take it, sometimes they didn't. In the mornings, Otorva rode on the Elk Island, played on races during the day, if they happened, or locked up in “Lenin” in her favorite department of “literature of emigration”, surrounded by books, and in the evenings went to a concert of some rock-broken, where she sipped from a coca-cola bottle hastily built blade mery. Such is the "Picasso mode" - in the morning - the mass, in the afternoon the bullfight, in the evening - the brothel.We must give all the same to Otorve's due - she sincerely disdained drugs and svalny sin, to which her then-buddies were great hunters, but she had a decent groom, military engineer, and never betrayed him, although she didn’t like ... years - and perished, having scattered in the sky with fiery sparks, at that very minute when Lyubof burst out in my life.

The third phantom was called Woman of Love. She was a woman at about 250 percent. She wore fluttering clothes made of silk and gas, hats with scarves on the crown, heavy authoring rings, listened to ethnic jazz, sipped almond liqueur, sitting in a wicker chair on the huge balcony of the Stalinist house, and was going to give birth to two ( no less) charming crumbs for her lover. The beloved was much older than both of us together))) and was in awe of the complex female self. He loved when the Woman put on his staged tantrums and threw heavy objects into the glass kitchen door, escorted her to the institute during the day, and took her out in the evening (the institute teachers looked at me with relief, supposedly, thank God, went crazy), drove around theaters and jazz clubs , and very, very afraid to lose it. And then he died. From a heart attack.And the woman of Love left with him, as befits a decent widow ...

From depression, black and long, like Indian hair, Kikimora grew to replace her. She led a respectable and boring life, afraid of accidentally doing something wrong. Who needs it - she did not know, but the rules are holy blyulya. Kikimora was a vile and cowardly woman in the female sex. She married me to a good man, went to work at a school where she otrubila four years, what caused significant damage to my already battered nervous system, reconciled with ancestors, on holidays sang Russian romances in the family circle, and not in the family circle indulged in a pseudo-intellectual chatter with pseudo-intellectuals. Kikimora grew a portly bum, wore knitted blouses and plush skirts to toe, drank Pskov cognac, ugly cheated on her husband - a good man, lied to many, and believed that she was always right and in everything. We mutually hated each other and honestly lived in this hatred for about five years, shoving elbows and obscenely sorting out relationships.

Then I was shoved, spun and hit the face on the fence. It was a Passionwhich decided to appear to me at once in all its fatal strength and stupid promiscuity. Ordered a magnificent, all-consuming, manic, fiery? Get it. And the degree of reciprocity, as well as the gender and responsibility of the object you did not indicate in the application, here is your signature, the claim is not accepted. Thus, the object of love turned out to be a woman with a not very stable psyche and character, cobbled together from contradictions alone. I think Kikimora died of surprise. However, there she and the road ....

Out of fear, pain and hormone cocktail was born Woman-Dog. She was well able to do only two things - to suffer from the lack of a love object and to guess the desires of this object, if by chance he was near. Woman dog honestly reflected in everything that the object of adoration felt - she wants to go have fun? I, it turns out, too. Is she depressed and sad? And I somehow something is not on its own. Want to fuck, honey? Well, have fun, I'll wait in the next room. Do you think that I'm stupid and Krivorukov? Yes, dear, of course, as you say. Woman-Dog did not think, did not reason, did not resent, did not choose.I simply wedged the whole world into one person and tried to live like that. And there was no talk of love or there “intimacy”, it’s all baby talk. There was one closed blood circulation for two, and the Woman-dog paid for this single blood flow with her own personality, which she almost completely had to give up. I was numb with disgust, watching all of her acrobatic sketches, but could not do anything. If the Woman-Dog was free for some reason, she became a stray dog ​​and behaved accordingly - put on garbage, occasionally biting passers-by, or rather those who were weaker and more trodden, in one word, multiplied the same dependent “dogs ", As she herself. In the absence of an object of adoration, the Woman-dog wandered through the clubs, drank beer, bursting with it before losing the human species, listened to the Night Snipers to drunken tears and could not find a replacement for the one that did not want to fall in love with the poor Woman-Dog tear) ...

... It was an invaluable experience, open-heart surgery without anesthesia, a vaccine that would protect against the repetition of this brutal experiment ever again.

The female dog was dying long and painfully. I had to kill her, while experiencing everything that a normal person is experiencing, killing a dog - pain, pity, horror and guilt.

Torn off and the Woman of Love sometimes appear easily, drink a cup of tea and potryndet, but run away, not stopping, waving a pen in farewell.

For a while I waited, who will appear on the site of the murdered Woman-dog. No one. Only the dead with braids are standing, and silence. The freebie is over, sir. Own voids will have to fill the only possible now with the content - yourself.

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