Hi Everyone! My name is Vladislav Khalyavkin (Ufa, Russia). Being the student, I was a hippie. Now I return again in that day when I left Ufa and went to a way.
I remember how you looked back on a scattering of far lights on the horizon. Their electric shine melted and shook in immense space of a night rain. The city stayed somewhere there, in the north, and you already were on the road. And all was quite so, but not differently. And nothing could stop you any more. You not simply arrived, but had a ball according to the classical scenario. You kept company with Caroline, left your parents, university, had hair cut bare because of hopeless love to Nonna, Irka and Ladka and in completion of all ornamented a police car with green stoned face of Yoda. There wasn’t any other way, and that one was in a high. In one pocket of your jacket there was Jack Kerouac's book of On the Road, and in the other one three rubles rested. And you hoped at good luck to have breakfast already in Orenburg town (350 km).
Do you remember the wind, as it tore low clouds and shook trees as impetuously it was whipping the rain as dazzling lightnings blew up, as wet cars were rushing by.
Do you remember how you were standing on a roadside, smiled and, having slightly covered eyes, inhaled a smell of night, foliage and gasoline. Probably, you were happy, looking back where there still remained something ghostly significant... And you, probably, would stay in that haze of imaginary love, but you were already being waited by Bombay city, Marrakesh and Paris; that was, really, strange time where trucks were rumbling, crazy Krishnaites were dancing and night planes were flying high, and there sounded alien ragas, and Tangerine Dream, their Green Desert, and Manfred Mann, or Zeppelin or Uriah Heep. But all that was later, when all the whilom had already passed, and all the new was to others. - Just a tangerine grade Clementine, just forgotten names, and you as you remember yourself. And you are still running, running like the Last train to Lhasa. Here the Russian threesomes! - Ah what an exile! You know, I have been thinking for a long time. Everything is correct, but do not be conducted, because the chasm is sweet, its sting feels sorry for itself, - you not a lemming there, and there you are not a whale and to catch sator, - the merit is not very great. As one my friend said, - I’d better go to plant potato than catch amphibolic sators.
You remember how you spun mats from fresh herbs, as you were sitting near ancient Cambodian temples? Do you remember long winters in concrete Ufa suburbs, waking up from a booming gnash of sweepers of janitors in the mornings, - the sukha-dukha, sukha-dukha*. Ça va, ça va, mon cher ami. Everything is all right. [* (Sanskrit) the sukh, a bough, - happiness; the dukha, – suffering.]
And now I return to that faraway winter when you stayed with Priscilla. Do you remember her? She liked to go to night supermarkets and to buy there some exotic features like ikkursky coffee and the raberranskikh candles. At that time shops were usually peopleless, only sleepy shop assistants and blue air in long passes between racks.
You used to go after Priscilla and stand behind her back when she plunged into trance in front of the next shelf.
That time she suddenly turned to you and asked:
- Do you know, what time is?
- No, - you answered.
She sustained a pause, as if being going to tell you something, but at the last minute deeply sighed and came up to a showcase glass. Through her reflection there was visible traffic lights and a part of the street on where some homeless man was limping. And that was such a still night, and that was such a distant night.
- Shall we go? - you suggested.
She nodded. You paid off and went to the exit.