Here, on a steep-cutting line, I cast a long and dumb look into the past. The first moments of consciousness on the threshold of my three-year-old - get up to me. I am thirty five years old. I stand in the mountains, amid the chaos of steep cliffs, piling clumps, gleams of diamond peaks. The past is known to me and is swirling with clubs of events. My life rises from the gorges of the first infant years to the steepness of this self-recognizing instant and from the steepness of it to the dying gorges - the Future escapes. The descent path is terrible. Thirty-five years later, my body will break out of my body, escaping along rapids, the glacier will pour out with waterfalls of feelings. Self-awareness is naked to me; I stand among the dead fallen concepts and meanings, rational truths. The architectonics of meanings was comprehended by rhythm. The meaning of life is life; my life, it is in the rhythm of Godin, facial expressions past flying events. The rhythm lit a rainbow on the water-dropping drops of meanings. To myself, a baby, I turn my eyes and say: "Hello, you, strange!"

I remember how the first “thou art” was made up of ugly delusions to me. There was no consciousness yet, there were no thoughts, no peace, and there was no I. There was some kind of growing, whirlwind, fire stream scattered by the lights of the red carbuncles: flying fast. Later - a semblance was revealed - a ball directed inward; from the periphery to the center rushed sensations, trying to overpower the infinite, and burned, exhausted, not overpowering.

They told me later, I had a fever; I was sick for a long time at that time: scarlet fever, measles ...

Peace, thoughts, - scum on the become Self, consciousness has not yet formed for me; there was no division into "I" and "not-I"; and in the ugly world the first images were born - myths; out of breathing chaos - like from the waters of a crumbling mass of land - reality emerged. Head I went into the world, but was still in the womb with my feet; and my legs snaked: the world surrounded me with serpent myths. It was not a dream, because there was no awakening, I have not yet woken up to reality. It was looking back, behind a runaway consciousness. There I spied in the bloody spills of red carbuncles something running and sticking into me; I got in touch with the old woman, - fiery-breathing, with eyes contemptuous. I was fleeing from an overtaking old woman, painfully trying to break away from her.

Imagine a temple; a temple of the body that rises in three days. In a swift run from the old woman, I burst into the temple — the old woman remained outside — under the arches of the ribs I enter the altar part; under the unique twists of the dome of the skull. I stay here and now, I hear shouts: “Comes, it’s close!” He comes, priest, and looks. Voice: "I ..." Came, came - "I ...".

I see the wings of outstretched arms: we are familiar with this gesture and, of course, given in the scatter of the open arches of the superciliary ...

The outside world distinctly wandered into my apartment; in the first moments of consciousness arise: rooms, corridors into which if you enter, you will not come back; and you will be covered by objects that are not yet clear what. There, among the armchairs in gray covers, my grandmother was pouring in tobacco smoke, her naked skull was covered with a cap, and something terrible in appearance. In the dark labyrinths of corridors, Dr. Dorionov is approaching with a pounding sound - he appears to me as a headless minotaur. I swarm the world swaying flying lines in the drawings wallpaper, surrounds me with serpent myths. I'm going through a catacomb period; walls are permeable, and, it seems, they collapse - in the edges of the pyramids a desert appears, and there: Leo. I remember clearly the cry: “The lion is coming”; a shaggy mane and a jaw grin, a huge body among the yellowing sand. Then they told me that Leo was a St. Bernard, on the Dog’s playground he came up to playing children. But later I thought: it was not a dream and not reality. But Leo was; they shouted: “The lion is coming,” and the lion walked.

Life is growth; life becomes in growths, in disgrace the first growth was to me - an image. The first mythical images: a man — he contacted my grandmother — an old woman, I saw something from a bird of prey in her — a bull and a lion ....

The outside world came to me in an apartment, I began to live in a reality that had fallen off from me. The rooms are the bones of ancient beings, led to me; and the memory of memory, of the bodily, is alive in me; its reflection on everything.

My dad, flying to the club, to the university, with a red face in glasses, is a fiery Hephaestus, he threatens to throw me into the abyss of ugliness. Aunt Doga's pale face looks in the mirrors, reflecting endlessly; there is a sound of evil infinity, the sound of drops falling from a tap, - something te-do-te-no. I live in a nursery with my nanny Alexandra. I don’t remember her voices, - as a dumb rule she is; I live with her according to the law. I make my way through the dark corridor to the kitchen with her, where the fiery mouth is open, and our cook uses a poker to fight the fiery serpent. And it seems to me that I was saved by a chimney sweep from the red chaos of fiery tongues, through a pipe I was pulled into the world. In the mornings from the crib I look at the brown cabinet, with dark stains of knots. In the ruby ​​light of the lamp, I see an icon: the wise men bowed - one black one at all - this is the Moor, they say to me - above the child. I know this world; I continued our apartment in the Trinity Church in the Arbat, here in the blue clubs of incense smoke the Golden Hump spoke, the Gray-haired Antiquity was broadcasting and I heard a voice: "Bless, Master, censer."

The myth continued with a fairy tale, the booth of Parsley. There is no Alexandra's nanny anymore, the governess Raisa Ivanovna is reading to me about kings and swans. They sing in the living room, half asleep interferes with the fairy tale, and a voice flows into the fairy tale.

Concepts have not yet developed consciousness, I think in metaphors; I swoon: that - where they fall, fail; probably to Pfeffer, the dentist who lives under us. Dad’s fables, the terrible boo-boo-boo behind the wall of Christopher Khristoforovich Pompul - he is all in London looking for statistics and, says papa, breaks the landau of Moscow cabs: London is probably the landau, they scare me. The voice of ancient antiquity is still intelligible to me, - the memory of it, the memory of memory, is wrapped in titans.

Concepts - a shield from the titans ...

With the senses of space, I look into the world, at Moscow houses from the windows of our Arbat house.

This world collapsed in an instant and moved into vastness in Kasyanovo - we are in the village in the summer. The rooms are gone; stood up - a pond with dark water, a swimming pool, the experience of a thunderstorm, - thunder - an accumulation of electricity, calms dad, - a gentle agate look Raisa Ivanovna ...

Again in Moscow - now our apartment seemed cramped.

Our dad is a mathematician, professor Mikhail Vasilievich Letaev, his office is set in books; he calculates everything. Mathematicians come to us; my mother does not like them, she is afraid - and I will become a mathematician. He will throw my curls from my forehead, say - not my forehead, - the second mathematician! - My premature development scares her, and I'm afraid to talk with dad. In the morning, fooling around, I fondle my mother - Affectionate Cat!

My mother leaves for the opera, for the ball, in a carriage with Poliksena Borisovna Bleschenskaya, tells us about her life in Petersburg. This is not our world, another universe; empty calls his dad: "They are empty, Lizochek ..."

In the evenings, from the living room, I and Raisa Ivanovna hear music; mom is playing. The rooms are filled with music, the sound of spheres, revealing hidden meanings. I continued the game of music.

In the living room I heard footsteps, a nativity scene was arranged, and Ruprecht’s figurine from the canopy of green spruce moved to the cabinet; looked at me from the locker for a long time, then got lost somewhere. The music continued with my play, Ruprecht, the red-yellow clown given to me by Sonya Dadarchenko, the red worm connected by Raisa Ivanovna - jakke - the snake Yakke.

Dad already brought me a Bible, he read about paradise, Adam, Eve and the serpent - the red serpent Yakka. I know: and I will be expelled from paradise, Raisa Ivanovna will be taken away from me - what a tenderness with a child! Would have given birth to their own! - Raisa Ivanovna is no longer with me. “I remember the days gone by - not days, but diamond holidays; the days are now only weekdays. "

I am surprised by the sunsets, - in bloody splits, the sky filled all the rooms with red. To the horror of the disc recognized, the enormous sun reaches for us ...

I heard about spirits, confessors, spiritual from my grandmother. I knew the breath of the spirit; like a glove in a hand, the spirit entered consciousness, grew out of the body with a blue flower, opened with a bowl, and a dove circled above the bowl. The abandoned Kitty was sitting in an armchair, and I fluttered above him in awe of wings, illuminated by the Light; the Mentor appeared - and you, my unborn princess, were with me; we met after and got to know each other ...

I wore a spiritual robe: I put on clothes from light, two semicircles of the brain flapped their wings. Inexpressible consciousness of the spirit, and I was silent.

The world became inaudible to me, it became empty and cooled. “I already heard about the crucifixion from the pope from the pope. I am waiting for him".

A moment, a room, a street, a village, Russia, history, the world - a chain of extensions of mine, before this self-conscious moment. I know, crucifying myself, I will be born again, the ice of words, concepts and meanings will break; the Word will flare up like the sun - in Christ we die in order to rise in the Spirit.