In general, I must say, the state of trance is familiar to me from the very early childhood. The thing is that I suffered from "sleepwalking", which only added extra touches to my odious image of a "very strange boy". My somnambulism sometimes caused very curious and frightening parents of incidents.
One autumn of 1980 (it was November 16th, for some reason I remembered this date well), my classmate and friend Igor Kupriyanov, whom I will talk about a little later, gave me just one day to read a unique book about astronautics and the conquest of the moon. It was a chic, beautifully illustrated edition, where the author, a very knowledgeable man, called "in the subject," allowed himself to dream about the future of mankind on the path to the development of the distant and near cosmos. I was so carried away by reading that I did not notice how deep the night had come. My mother was already quietly snuffling in the next room (my father was already serving in Khabarovsk and was expecting my graduation from Karaganda high school), when I decided to go to the "side" too. What happened to me further, can be called a state of deep trance or somnambulism - I think that it is unlikely that these definitions will fully explain the nature of this psychic phenomenon. In short, as soon as I got up from the chair and turned off the floor lamp, my mind went out. A quiet male voice ordered me to take the scissors, to go to our large Persian carpet hanging over the bed of my mother, and cut out a large piece of it. I started to work, and the thick carpet of my mother's miniature scissors with bent ends cut easily and at ease. Finally, I finished my "black" case, and then came a complete "failure" in my memory. I woke up from the loud cry of my mother in the morning, sitting on the bed with a large piece of carpet in my hands. Mom looked at me in horror, not understanding anything. Later, she told me that I was really scared at that moment - my blind eyes in pink povoloka made me look like a real zombie. Without saying anything, Mom only sobbed softly, took a gypsy needle and with great difficulty sewed a cut piece to an unhappy carpet. Only the next day she dared to ask me: "Why did you do this?" "I do not know, Mom, there was a voice, there was no possibility to resist!" - I answered. "And if this voice next time orders you to kill me, huh?" - Mom asked nervously. I did not answer, because I was shocked by what I had done. The existence of some powerful influence on my consciousness from the outside, to admit, I was very frightened myself then. Although intuitively, from the very childhood I sensed that There, Above, (for some reason I immediately mentally called His Ra), there is a Living, Loving Being that has clearly put an arm or some other part of its body to my birth; Always protects me and helps me Live! This time, apparently, It arranged for me another, somewhat exotic "communication check". It's an amazing fact, but on November 16, 2010, I read on the Internet a message from NASA scientists that they were able to open the youngest "black hole" in our universe using X-ray telescopes. With the help of these telescopes, it was possible to "detect" the birth of this "black hole" only 30 years after the explosion of the supernova. Having made some simple calculations in my mind, I came to the conclusion that on this day on November 16 30 years ago I made a big "black" hole in our family carpet that is still hanging in my children's daughters' room and has long become a family legend ". Well, now it's time to talk about music and the place that she occupied and occupies in my life. Since my childhood with music, I have, frankly speaking, formed a complex and very contradictory relationship. My mother, the teacher herself in a children's music school in piano class, tried to send me to her school at the age of seven. From the very beginning, this attempt was doomed to failure. From the very first moments I hated the school, the initial lessons of solfeggio, which were led by a bearded young man, from whom was blatantly bluish and an obvious complex of male inferiority. The tasks he gave us on a musical score were evaluated on a six-point scale, with two grades: one for correct writing of notes, a violin key and signs of alteration; Another - for "calligraphy", i.e. Accuracy and elegance of the task. The highest score "6/6" according to the established "blue" tradition was rewarded with loud applause of the whole group, consisting mainly of girls.
Since I was retrained "left-handed", I was particularly hard at giving small marks and musical symbols; However, as well as uppercase letters and numbers. On the musical camp, huge freaks in the form of a curved violin key danced and lived their strange life; Strongly crumpled, as if with a hangover, "notes" that did not fit on two or even three lines of musical staff. It is clear that my stable estimates because of this quite rightly varied in the range of "2-3", so I did not threaten to hear applause in my address in the foreseeable future. But my envious nature every time desperately rebelled when we clapped the next happy girl who received the cherished "6/6". But the cup of my patience was overflowing, when my esteemed competitor and my contemporary Kostya, the son of my
