Habibullo-Eugene Kiselev
A Synopsis of my Life
July 13th, 2017, Thursday, 04:20:30 p.m.
Yekaterinburg, Russia. GMT 05:00
So, as usual, I am in depression, however, this can hardly be called just a depression or a spleen. Rather, it is a deep and, I would say, unhealthy melancholia.
Several minutes ago, a poet, songwriter and prosaist, member of the Union of Writers of Russia and my neighbor, Alexander Drath, came to visit me. He gave me a full knapsack of frozen forest mushrooms and then left. About five minutes later, he came to me again, holding a colorful “Großbuch” dedicated to the jubilee of the SVVPTAU (acronym for Sverdlovskoye Vysheye Voyenno-politicheskoye Tanko-artilleryskoye Uchilishche. English: the Sverdlovsk Higher Military Political School for Tank Forces and Artillery). That is a school, where he had served as an ensign and where my mom had served too. He told me about the celebration of the jubilee of this institution, which, he said, had been colorful and broad. He also told me about the history of this SVVPTAU, the guests, who were attending this jubilee and so forth.
Later on, we began to discuss the poetry of the Urals. Drath complained that one of his best poems, “The Last-year’s Eyes”, which, by the way, was set to music, had been criticized by one poet. This poet said, that “The Last-year’s Eyes” sounded as if these “eyes” had been taken out and canned “last year”. This plunged me into hysterics. A. Drath also showed me the jubilee medal he was rewarded with at that event.
He also told me a great deal of things concerning different poets of the Ural region, namely, Benedict Stantsev(Russian: Венедикт Станцев), Alexander Kerdan (Russian: Александр Кердан) and Vera Sibirëva (Russian: Вера Сибирёва), a widow of a Russian poet from the Urals, Vladimir Sibirëv (Russian: Владимир Сибирёв) , whose book called "The Satyrs" I often return to. By the way, she lives in a neighboring house. We talked about publications, almanacs, literary magazines and publishing stuff. I even mentioned that Lyubov Ladeishchikova, a Great Russian poet, had called me a littérateur. Drath replied, that Luba (as he called her) never talked idly. That was great, though. He praised a set of my poems from the “Voskresenye” (English: “Sunday”) almanac, which I gave him about six months ago. This also encouraged me.
However, then “Uncle Sasha” (as I have called Alexander Drath since my childhood) began to talk about various artists, poets, actors and men of letters from different corners of the former Soviet Union. Judging by his tone it was clear, that he admired those places. I was kind of upset. I thought, “It would be better, if an English-speaking writer would tell me about his familiar men of letters or actors from different places and corners outside of the CIS countries”. I was disappointed, to be honest. Indeed, I am feeling a strong affection towards other countries, tongues, cultures and coasts. Nevertheless, I absolutely have no possibility to get out of my current place of residence and settle somewhere abroad. This makes me sad and depressed nowadays. I do not accept what is called “pochvennichestvo” in Russian. This means affection for the place and soil (from Russian “pochva” – “soil” or “foundation”), where one was born and raised. To the contrary, I used to think globally, and this is my “CREDO”. “Globalism”, “globalization”, “global citizenship” etc. are not just words to me.
Having finished with our conversation, “Uncle Sasha” went to his apartment on the opposite block of apartments of our house. He promised me to go fishing with me in the fall. I, too, went to my apartment.
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