Book: The Part Of Improvisation. Page 10

But when you sit down to write, think: what do you want to tell the world. No matter read you, or your words will not be heard, only one thing is important - you have, in your ideology, in your hard-won experience, your Outlook on life, layer by layer Stripping the clothes off of Genesis, exposing those parts of him that others overlook, but the desire to talk and Express themselves, is common to most. Because the beauty of words - nothing, it's a skill that comes with experience, which is not capable to cover the emptiness of ideas.

I'm tired of politics that can be called all familiar with the phrase "most importantly from the heart". This phrase is a parasite, the phrase killer. No, I do not dispute the fact that his creation need to invest the soul, heart and feelings, otherwise it will be flat and one-dimensional, but that's not the only thing that should be on it.
There is good and bad written, no graphomania, but there is no literature. The key to the soul. In fact, this form of blindness and egoism, "from the heart" is what fits into your ideology. If tomorrow I write how I happily steal the gold of the people, it will not be from the heart, it will be across that little weak little world in which he lives, the viewer. But limited to the separation of what I like and what I don't like, we kill literature. We complain that books are losing their value, the print business is dying, and young people prefer computer games. But everything that happens is nothing more than a continuation of us. We do not teach your children to appreciate literature if they themselves forgot what it means.

Now it is no longer next to me. I won't lie to add to these words the veil of tragedy, she is not dead, we just broke up, even friends. And I started to look at all that has been with us from the side. People in General tend to weigh and consider the events after the fact, we are all strong in hindsight, but sorely naive in the present tense, while we are still participants, and not detached spectators. And now I understand what is not understood then. She was an actress? She has changed so many times? No, no, no, I changed it, changed me. And then, in Berlin, that's exactly what I got throat gray sky, and she just looked up and caught the lips given to her by destiny dream and then, during an argument, that I saw the whole absurd grotesque scandal that has forced me to change my attitude... towards her. And exactly what was happening in me - determined what it will be today, what I am, in their blindness, in your egoism, you see her.

And the man loved his great immortal soul. Because what we don't know what you don't see every day, can't what to touch, what not to find household banal flaws, it's so easy to idealize, turning into a miracle - love the easiest.

To be honest, I don't like to celebrate the holidays, be isolated from the total environment of being special days in order to forgive or begin to shake or kiss. Valentine's day, an occasion to confess his feelings, a chance to say a dear person, that it is expensive, a reason to do nice things and arrange a small party for two and an occasion to remember that we have someone else other than our representatives, who we are also not less important, whether that be friends, family, or just a favorite cat, lazily sprawled on his knees. But if you're in love, if you like, this reason is in each day of your life. And you don't need Valentine's day, don't need one single day of cold February, to pick flowers, bring Breakfast in bed and go on a crazy extravagant date with someone just met or shared with you many years and familiar to each word, to each line. Or to tell friends that they make your life brighter simply because they are precisely what you are. Or dial the number and say, just like that, without purpose, without reason: "mom, you know I love you. Thank you, mom." I don't like the holidays. But I like to see my people happy..

Write. Write, because every word is a knife on the throat of reality, because every word is a mirror of a clown, living in the soul of man, write because pity about the inexpressible not enough space accelerating its pace in the world, nor the brief, released you period, nor of the peoples of the wings of the soul, anxious trembling in anticipation of the flight.

I like to talk. About history, about art, about literature, about politics, about philosophy, about life, but... time after time after sketchy "Pref" "NRA" "finally" "as saaaam" "nicho" are the same sad, painful, exhausting, tragic, empty abyss of loneliness of man. Deaf, blind of loneliness, undiluted hues of the vast space beautiful world. Powerless and discouraged, not able to save everyone, and wants to turn away, to smoke and to be alone with ourselves, wearily looking out the window and thinking about something distant, unimportant, but easy and light as the wing of a butterfly over a field of wild flowers. And I want to take the words, paint, crazy feelings - the eternal artist's tools, and to create around himself a wall thickness in the infinite sigh of regret and doomed understanding that where you envisioned a sweet, starry-eyed, soaring infinity, only a scattering of wet pebbles acute pain, the inflamed consciousness to the size of the Bank, which will never be the joyful laughter of children, loving eyes, gentle embraces and somewhere on the edge of the horizon - the singing whales. And devaluates soul heavy body of emptiness, and breathing the salt in the neck, crushing the concrete footsteps of the Chicks emerging ideas and desires, and at some point it begins to seem that there's nothing else left that you are one among the mirages, shadows, ex-humans... But then you wipe the sweat temples, close my eyes, make a vital SIP of the bitter hot tea and again believe: "no, no, dreamed, no, no, no..."

That is the beauty of a woman in the eyes of an ant? That is the beauty of a flower in the eyes of the fish? The beauty of this evaluation is given, the concept of beauty conditional, personal, deep, but not objectively. Beauty is inner experience, feeling, seeing, beauty is eternal beauty for everyone. The act, the flare of life that you thought was beautiful, which was deified and exalted in your heart that pushes you to the exploits and poems, music and paintings, which you saw his God, where he found love... as soon as you close your eyes and turn away, become a reality, the actual element of life, one of the. And as is often the undisputed catalyst of creativity, beauty is not Bovone not around she in you, making any kind of art is inseparable from the Creator, uniting them into one whole, to the extent of reach that it becomes impossible to say: "this poet, and his poems" or: "he is a musician and his music", leaving only crumpled "it's all him, and his body, the soul crushed look on the aching, trembling shoulders, the words, the sounds remain on the canvas system swabs." And that's a huge dwelling in the heart, absorbing the mind, you continue focuses on the eternal search through the stormy conflict of the soul, which easily explains any pangs of creation, but which always remains the personal secret of the author. .

When I asked: "who are you?" I stay silent, finding no answer. Can accommodate all aspects of life in a short word "I", dragging face significant smile, you can indulge in long arguments, hesitantly groping sharp fins the matter of pseudo-philosophers, it is possible to open own soul, to paraphrase it in a conditional response, which in any case would be beyond the size issue, like a favorite childhood sweater becomes small. Because in the eyes of the beholder you will always be different than who you know yourself from the inside out. Because each of us sees himself in the first place, repeatedly reflected in other people's faces. We are like a Symphony in music, divide the world on their own pain points. When I asked: "who are you?" I'll look in the eyes, recognizing the man. A man possessed by faith, I reply that I am an atheist, possessed by loneliness, I will say that I am a husband and father, seeker of answers, I will be called a fool. And then the answer will be equal to the issue but won't say anything about me. When I asked: "who are you?" I confidently answer:" I am nobody. I am a fragment, a shard of the world, flashed in your hands for a fraction of a second before you disappear forever." And you're asking questions, seeking answers, who are you?

Everyone has their own reality. And we, in eternal search of the one truth, squinting at the sight of the mind, weigh in hand the spear of the soul, we can shoot straight and arrow... perfectly honed killer myths, snipers errors of human. And other people's reality does not coincide with our own, wrinkled cloth flying in the ballot box given, wheezing in the shell sharp words, polished by the logic or the intuition or the knowledge or the feeling is... empty, irrelevant, not viable. And the eyes of the people, they lived in these little worlds are tightened muddy shroud. One day they will grow a new world, everything will return to normal, but until then... Smile, you're in sight of the truth. But the truth of it? No, theory. But truth is one, but it's not far, not near, not near, it is not hidden under the transparent veil of words, she comes a stranger in a shroud of dreams, it's everywhere, it's just there. The sum being, in the unity of existence of all theories, the integrity of the world, where nothing is superfluous, where any, even the most wrong, absurd in your opinion a theory, no more than a touch, creating a common system of strokes in the portrait of God. And there are those who are near and those who are on, and there are those who know and those who don't know, and there is no right and wrong. There is an endless debate people, step away from the field where the flowers and leaves where the sky and the earth, who live without seeking confirmation of its uniqueness, not fighting with each other for the right recognition of the fact that they are more important, wiser, better. And again, choosing among the many theories the one, the one that you carry it as a banner of truth is close and clear to you, the one that you want to believe in the only true... walk into the river, get in the water, close your eyes... Listen, breathe deeply, settle yourself by the fire of anger, the grin of a predator, fall in love with this world in all its diversity, take the load off your shoulders the desire to accuse and condemn, crush common reality in shapeless pieces of good and evil, his and others, necessary and unnecessary.. And looking into the face of God, diverse, vast, unfathomable and simple, which incorporates all that you knew he didn't believe he loved and hated that offered up and laughing about... smile, shrug your shoulders and be yourself. In the image and likeness.

When asked what he does, he laughed and said that almost the jeweler. And the neighbors loudly banging into the wall, because the night from his apartment, she could hear. But how to explain to them that every night come to him angels, and they love to sing while he carefully sews the shoulders of their wings. It really is almost jewelry work.

People will never paint the picture that far surpasses the banal pattern of frost on the glass or the ripples in a simple puddle when it rains. People will never compose music that will be better than the birds singing outside the window or the moan of wind in the desert. People never write poems more Frank and anxious than soft light in the eyes of the lover boy or the trembling fingers of the dying man. But we still create... May be because love, dressed in the attire of rage or acute sadness, but always it is love, filled with heart, freezing the black tar in the deep eyes inevitably seek out, splash to the outside, tearing his chest, settling on the tips of the brush, falling in scattered notes. Collecting us all the best with pain and blood taking inspiration from the origins of the naked soul, madly laughing or resting eyes dilated pupils visible only to her deep. And because the poets look sick, red from lack of sleep eyes to the sky, picking up the elusive word, and because the rabid musicians continue to touch the strings already stiff from the cold fingers, seeing nothing, and so the artists go crazy, dropping to her knees near neobychnogo of the canvas and crying... But it is in moments like these strange, living deep inside people are so vulnerable in the space of a solid peace, stitching under the skin of their weaknesses, along with breathing the keen air of the poisonous pollen of creativity... It is in these moments they see God.

Live in the present. Forget the past, it brings sorrow, don't think about future, it brings anxiety, live in the present, because the only way to be happy. Every day someone is definitely telling me these words. It is not difficult to understand, such thinking is now in Vogue, they are full of colorful images, his profound love to repeat bored Housewives. This is useful as a convenient psychology one-day butterfly, psychology the life of the loan. Now take your stub light the human yawn contentedly purring on needs and not think about anything, I will pay you tomorrow and it's so far away from you. I talk to people, bearing this simple idea as a banner, and suddenly realize that the world crashed. In their naive, believing in the infinite goodness of the eyes he went to cracked, collapsed on the scanty fragments of the past, the mosaic of details. Live in the present because living in the past or future hurts so much... And life, because it includes all, it has no boundaries, it is not divided into times. And I say: live, love life, cherish the past, it taught you rejoice truly, it poured love, believe in the future, it belongs to you, not a fraction itself, for days, don't deny the integrity of being, nor lock the soul of the wounded beast, neither in the past nor in the future nor in the present. And be happy, because happiness is not in the selected piece of fate, it is, as beauty is in the eye of the beholder.