The poles of attraction in our "brave" quartet, surprisingly similar to the famous French quartet - D, Artagnan and the three musketeers - were distributed as follows: I was more drawn to Korobkov, and Kolya was more drawn to Korczak. The role of D, Artagnan in this four, obviously, I performed - this, of course, had to match, so the role of the "gatekeeper" - Gascon in our company, I always took the decisive step.
One thing only surprised our gay Barnaul "musketeers", and surprised to the depths of my soul - how did I manage to live without special problems and nervous shocks for 5 years alone, in my two-room apartment ?! I could not tell them that I live not alone, that I live with Ra! I'm afraid that then, as well as now, they would misunderstand me.
I really loved and love my "bachelor bungalow" on Potok (the most industrial microdistrict of Barnaul since Khrushchev's time). This love is not overshadowed even by the fact that under the windows of my apartment on the second floor there is a lively industrial highway along which heavy and heavy trucks rush through the streets and nightly. All my "lair" is imbued with the sounds of the piano "Tyumen", which my grandfather and grandmother gave to my mother on my birthday on June 4, 1964. Thus, we are absolute coevals; He is my brother, friend, wife and mistress in one bottle. On this occasion, my classmate Misha Galtsov devoted me a remarkable epigram that reflects the essence of this phenomenon:
"Do not think that our Serge is impotent.
Saying this, you would not be right.
It's very simple: a tool for Serge - a woman,
A woman is just an instrument! "- Ra has long been careful to protect me from women - these ideal" vessels for sin "; Apparently, I need Him absolutely for another!
We are absolutely matched with him, with this plain black "guy" from Tyumen - a gift from God Ra on my birthday. I could sit for days at the piano in my free time, something softly playing under my breath. Not knowing the musical notation, we had to learn how to fix the music that emerged from nowhere from our old, but robust, like a Kalashnikov rifle, the "Saturn" tape recorder.
One day, in the spring, as usual, I sat at the piano at home and suddenly felt: "She came here as a spring like paranoia!" - as Nikolai Noskov's famous song says. Something in the soul "sang", "whistled", "zasverbilo" and "ziskryabalo", trying to write something like that, significant, - that all the surrounding people are finally "stunned"! In the end, the "peacock" slept the whole winter. It's time to finally wake up and shake this eternally sleeping world with your moss-tailed tail! So the idea came to write a rock opera "Steppe Wolf" based on the famous novel by Hermann Hesse.
And it all began with Andrei Voznesensky's poem "Fragment of a self-portrait" from his 1975 Michelangelo poetic collection. I liked these verses, which corresponded to my hypochondriac mood at the time, that I immediately "put" blues on them. Also has gone, and has gone!
"I'm a poor carrion. I am food for the morgue.
I feel stifling, like a gin in a rancid,
As in the darkness of the spine to the bone marrow!
In my closet, as in the tomb of a dank,
Arachne wove her cobweb.
My Dolce Vita smelt of garbage.
I hear urea talking about the wall.
The gloomy giant of the sacred hose
My house washes away. He's drunk, obviously.
Full in the yard of human slag.
Shit swayed like a cathedral head.
Excess of shit in this world, however.
I'm not your public restroom!
Proud of your confidence. But I'm not an urn.
My fate is modest and miserable.
Now I will describe my appearance from life:
My face is terrible, my beard is like a brush.
Zubariks dance like a keyboard.
Besides, I'm deaf. And in the throat tickling!
The spider inhabited my left ear,
And in the right cricket roars like a rattle.
My voice buzzes like a glass fly.
From the lower throat, archangelsky booming,
The fugue of the captive spirit will not break out.
Where are the blue eyes? Raised burkaly.
But seriously - I'm glad that I'm sad,
I'm glad that I was dressed, how crows were scared.
A great misfortune supplants a smaller one.
The more bitter, the sweeter is the fate.
Now slap in the face of the kisses.
The paradox is cheap, but I'm happy, tormented.
More truly I find pleasure in grief.
In a desperate share there are a number of advantages.
Let the wallet empty. What details!
But in the bladder, like coins
Three stones solemnly zabrenchali.
My madrigals, my triolets
Will serve as a wrapper in grocery
And they will become toilet paper.
Why did you, the artist, soar in empyrean,
To other generations, he raised his tripod ?!
All the dust and vanity. In poverty I'll die.
Such is your result, venerable artist! " The last quatrain of Andrei Voznesensky will become a programmatic, key, and soon will serve as an epigraph to my new rock opera.
Roman Hermann Hesse "Steppe Wolf", published in Germany in 1927, immediately became an epoch-making, landmark event for his time. The fact is that in it, as in a mirror, the unusually increased public interest in the so-called psychoanalysis of Josef Lang, the pupil of the famous Karl Jung, was reflected. In fact, the Magic Theater, described in the novel, is nothing more than a psychoanalysis of Lang. The protagonist of the novel "The Steppe Wolf" Harry Galler, certainly the prototype of the Hessian himself, is in an eerie mental crisis, in strange half-mad rumors
