Где-то я об этом писал. Или собирался. Post-AmeriKa?

Я знал, что бегство из России подобно самоубийству. Я и думал так -- или умирать, или умирать тому, что я есть.

А что было потом?

... anatolant or anatoly.org


... Defection as a norm, required act. How often?

The difference between defection and betrayal -- film600?

Self-negation [Self]

Tech *
filmplus.org/tech NEW: Tech Title Page

... There are some texts floating between my writing projects. The notes on this pages could be placed in PostAmeriKa, I guess. At least, as far as the timeline is concerned. My problem is that the story of my life and the story of my thought can't coincide. Perhaps, I do not read my own biography to see it.

Why would the defection in 1980 fit the pages about technology?

In PostAmeriKa? Transition from Father-Russia. The love story is already there.

"Vika" story in SELF.

When you return to the same time-event, it has to be narrated differently! Because of the changed subject!... But I am not surprised that I came to the story of my defection -- that was the closest to death moment in my life. If was my death. Death of everything mortal in me....

2004: plans


This is about my last and final defection....


No, my final defection is not from Life. Everything what was our human existence leaving Life, I must get all what is rejected by them...


K: "I have no single connection with a single other person: I am the most solitary of persons, the (understood in a worldly sense) most powerless" (from the Journals).


Yes, I am kidding myself and you -- I should write about defecting from this world, from life. Of course, I am not ready -- who is ready to die? I had 55 years to prepare myself, enough? I had no other task in life. This is the only purpose we had in the third millennium.

Oh, you don't understand. You are in a better position; I don't understand and I am afraid to understand.

I know that I make no sense. I do not write, I just think...

У маленького человека свои победы. Обычно это поражения. Трусость требует уважения. Бегство превращается в протест, вызов. Предатель и перебежчик -- звучит как звание и почти профессия.

Я говорю а себе. Я говорю об отношении к себе.

Возможно, я что-то не понимаю, или даже не чувствую. Как, например, "выбор".

Даже не знаю, выбирал ли я что-нибудь. Не о мелочах речь.

Особенно, когда говорят об "историческом выборе" русского народа. Дело в понятии "воля" (свободная). "Осознанная необходимость"?

Такой уж я, задолбленный марксизмом человек.

Вот так можно жить ничего не понимая. И прожить всю жизнь, не понимая что делаешь.

Тайная мысль : чтобы оставатся верным себе, надо предовать себя.

А как еще расти, если не прощаться, не забывать, не оставлять?

Безжалостность эгоизма = жизни.

Когда смерть будет побеждена, кончится жизнь.

... american.vtheatre.net [American Book 2]


I have "webster* dictionary" at the bottom of my pages; I myself have to check the meaning of the words I am using. "Defect" -- does it "defective"? Broken, non-functional...

What is my life if not the series of endless departures? I don't even know how many I went through. Should I? I try to write them down.

I need to do it. For myself. For my sanity.

1. a : an imperfection that impairs worth or utility : SHORTCOMING b : an imperfection (as a vacancy or a foreign atom) in a crystal lattice 2. [Latin defectus] : a lack of something necessary for completeness, adequacy, or perfection
My father died past Christmas. "1925 - 2003" will be on his grave. I came to Moscow before the New Year and this is how this year began for me. With the old thought about where is my grave?

... I have to back, way back in my narrative.

[ the old story ] The Year of 1980: A DEFECTOR

Moscow -- Rome -- New York... The World.


Story of One Defection
(from my three books -- African, Russian and American)

What was it? My life.
I write the books I would like to read before my defection.
What difference would it make in American life?
Did I think about America in the camp?
I ran.
"Death or America" -- what's the difference? I didn't immigrate. Why should I?

... I miss being a defector. Almost a title. Something to be proud of. Only once I wrote about it (in Russian for the paper I had in NYC). Now, how does the story of defection fits into topics? I ran away from the extremes of century to find them fully accepted and institutionalized. Communism was old news for European mind. The Russians were still experimenting with the idea when the West saw it as history.

They found no answers before me? No kidding? All what I saw -- more of the same. But deeper, stronger -- monumental. Was the Cold War a "better" war? Is prison better than a firing squad? What do I have to say, what wasn't said about our times? Do I see a future where a man could be heard? This noble man had his chance to rearrange the world. He used it -- communism. They, the people, would live their lives the way they want. He better think how would he live his.

What's happened to proletariat?
Racial instead of class conflict?
Class roots of PC. A cocktail party neutrality where everyone is agree with anything because nothing matters.

They taught you. I can't do it, man. You have to teach yourself. Nobody else can do it for you. You have to find out what you want, you have to define yourself.

There's no school for you. More, everything they taught you should be questioned. They taught you not be yourself. They created an enemy of you in you, the guard to watch you, to stop you from knowing yourself. Make no mistake, you are not free, there's no freedom in their world, only emancipation...

It was over twenty years ago. The skies were blue, as they should be in Italy. It was the summer of 1980 full of sun and air. It was a perfect place to die for somebody from Russia.

And I did.

There were other deaths ahead, but this one I love, because I was young and a rebel. It was right time place to die. You can have only once in your lifetime. You can't repet it. My American deaths are different. Well, my Russian ones too, of course. Each death is different. Like life. The difference is that we have many deaths and only one life. Many think it is an contraire. I wish I could believe it too...

It's easy to die young, when you know that there many more deaths ahead of you...

I do not know why and how this story got into this book. It should be somewhere in PostAmeriKa. Maybe because I write about reckless death. Yes, yes, you will miss it, the death. Life won't be the same without death. I know I will miss it.
Next: go back to PostAmeriKa
I suspect that my death will be terrible as my father's. I have to wonder alone at night and threw myself under the train, because I have to place to go back. We say, tragic, but the graphic death is honest, this is what death is, it's a naked death. Simply what was always there, every day, every minute, while we were living...

I see this night and hear the train coming.

@1995-2004 film-north *

... I knew that I have to run -- and I did. Some places were lovely, the places you wish you can spend maybe a day or life, but you have to run, because you know that they are after you. You sense their presence -- and you keep running, or if you have to energy left in you -- you walk.

I was tired, I wanted to take a train, ban, streetcar -- anything. So tired that you can't even walk anymore. And the place was so flat, you can see everything -- and I saw him coming. Far away, the one who was after me. Hr was a small dot in in the dusk. Me and him on this endless flat land. He knew that I am tired and wasn't rushing. He was after me for many years -- and now I have no place to hide, no direction to go. It was the same -- left, right -- and I kept walking, so slow as if I was crolling. And the ground was gray and dry. I walk look back at him, he was there, but now I knew that he was tired too, so tired...

I never ask myself, why he is after me. It was it, the law, I was running away and he was after me. Maybe I should stop and talk to him -- but every time I stop, he stops. Because it was the rule -- not to talk, but to run. I do not know what I tried to escape, who he was, what the whole thing was about. Only the pictures in my mind, the places and people I wanted to spent some time with, my mother, that corner of the street...

dreams page & dreams directory

... Ну как писать, если не переписывать, а читаю -- вижу ошибки (а сколько не вижу) -- как же писать русские коментарии к моим английским текстам?

Как так получилось, что времени на себя нет?

Что теперь спрашивать?


It was over forty years ago - the gray day with the gray sky, gray waters of Moscow River -- and the gray faces on the gray street. I was in gray school uniform and I knew that my face is gray too. What future? I didn't see any. I didn't want to be or to become anybody. I saw nothing ahead of me. The future wasn't unknown, it was empty. The whole life was ahead, but I didn't want it. Now, this unknown future is my past... Oh, I got more than I expect then, when I was twelve.

... *webster, not webmaster.