Ass - A patient's story.

Ilya Falkovsky

 F. Pakovich

 ASS


Patient's story.

 One of my friends pestered me
hugged, kissed. Then I told her
affectionately: “Come on, without antimony, immediately in
ass." She cried and ran away.
 Another insisted: "If you
someday you'll get yourself a permanent one
girl, then it will definitely be me." "If
I will get a permanent girlfriend, -
I answered thoughtfully, “then I’ll become her all.”
time to bug the ass..." She was offended and
left.
 My friend's wife once told me:
"I saw in a dream that we would be together." "Ah
was there anything about an ass?" -
I asked eagerly. She is also very
upset.
 This is how this story began, this torment,
this disease. Gradually the ass eclipsed everything.
Once upon a time, in childhood, I wrote about my
an inescapable longing for a woman’s soft breasts.
Once upon a time, as a child, I dreamed of
dreams of beautiful eyes. I didn't know then
Yes, and could not know This. Only now I
guessed - all my visions, dreams,
feelings, texts, dreams were only
sketches, a prelude to one great and
the eternal theme that now completely captivates me
theme of the Divine Ass. Once upon a time
to a circle of friends my old friend said:
“To these Chechens,” he said, “for everything
It's time for the priest to crocodile their affairs."
This is similar, close in meaning, but
still not entirely accurate, or rather, not at all
right or wrong, the definition given by them,
this substitution he mademeanings, so
struck me unpleasantly, jarred me,
surprised that I shouted: “No, no,
you can’t, you can’t distort the meaning, distort
the name is not a butt at all, but an ass,
ass, ass!" Friends looked in surprise
at me, and I became quiet, embarrassed and
turned his eyes to the side. Since then in
in company I became quiet, thoughtful, almost
silent to all the questions asked of me
answered a little, or rather, two syllables, but
short and clear: “ass”. Occasionally I tried
support the conversation, by the way and inappropriately, and
then again he repeated the word dear to me -
here I could hardly resist
write the name... And only once, while drunk
in a frenzy, lost his temper, "ass" - screamed,
yelled furiously, waving his arms absurdly,
rotating the eyes, whites, pupils,
etetera.
 With one, one, but fiery passion I
was driven through life. Along the streets, along
wandered the boulevards in search of Ass.
Beautiful Ass. Looked closely, caught
outlines with his gaze, tried to get lost in
crowd, disappear into the crowd of the market,
the bustle of the stream and kept searching and searching, so
I hoped, but in vain.
 On that memorable day in the morning I, like
usually, I ate three tablets of sydnocarb and
six cyclodol, smoked a little - head
I wasn’t sick, my mood was, as always, in
this time, this autumn, this dull
sometimes, romantic, a little
sentimental, such sublime sadness,
something comparable - in my opinion
alcoholic neighbor, we have been with him more than once
compared our feelings, so, inthis is
time my state of mind, oddly enough,
practically coincided with his, and he already
managed to take three hundred grams, no less, and
fell not only into melancholy, but we,
By the way, we met on the staircase,
where both of them went out to smoke, he - cigarettes
"Smoke", which I gave to him, I generously
gave him a gift, gave him twenty packs of old ones,
fallen over, I found them in plastic
bag under the wardrobe in the room
sisters, got it from someone, so to speak,
inheritance, it’s difficult to understand from whom,
there used to be a lot of people in the apartment - and
our own and our visitors, and now almost
no one, emptiness, everyone has disappeared somewhere,
resolved, maybe happened
diffusion of bodies with air, and perhaps
is there any other reason for me
it seems that I was late, delayed, and they
managed to escape and move to another
platform, change to another train, and
that new level they smoke completely different
cigarettes, very good quality, top quality
varieties, everyone smokes, including those who
never smoked before, say my aunt
or cousin, he lived in the fifth
room of our vast apartment, in this
the house that my grandfather built for me
I think not, I'm almost, almost sure
they smoke Marlboro cigarettes there, or
even Castalian tobacco, or in a circle
Jamaican cones - food of the gods; so,
I had no use for this inheritance, because I
I didn’t smoke cigarettes or cigarettes, in short,
we stood together and he pulled his "Smoke"and I inhaled the sweet aroma of the Chuya valley,
and - before I forget - this is the feeling
which enveloped us then, this is the very
for some reason he feels quite strange,
but, at the same time, absolutely
named, called, dignified, yes, exactly
called it the Renaissance.
 We smoked and he came back for
iron door - it’s unclear why he
iron door, although, by the way, what’s there
incomprehensible, the more withdrawn a person is, the
he puts more doors at the exit - exactly
just like at the entrance - my apartment, mine,
for example, three doors, two wooden and one
iron - and I went to the metro, honestly
speaking, without any particular purpose, just to go for a ride.
 I sat in the carriage, absorbed in myself,
thinking deeply, he looked at his feet, but
suddenly something made me look away
from the floor, something pulled me, some
persistent, irrepressible force, as if
with a magnet, chaining it, I drove it from its place - I
noticed her - though, from the back - her, already
a girl getting out of the carriage. I shot up
to the door, like a wild sandpiper, heart
I shook a lot, there was a pain in my chest - I
rushed after her like a hound dog flew
on the trail.
 Metro station, I recognized it already at the top,
finding herself under the arch - she turned out to be old
Kropotkinskaya. For the first time in my life I forgot
about the beer stall, the one on the right hand,
if you stand with your back to the former swimming pool,
now to the temple. She walked forward very quickly
along the boulevard, without turning around, without
stopping, the tails of her coat are windy
scatteredon my own, I flew after.
At times she disappeared, I lost her from
I see that the snow covered it with whiteness, the rain
hit me on the cheeks, the sun hit me
in the eyes, but soon she appeared again,
not far in front of me, like a phoenix bird,
reborn from dust and a whirlwind of sand. I remember
that he said hello to Gogol, he, bitch,
I habitually stood at my post, whom I don’t like,
so this Gogol, always grinning, and when
we were celebrating graduation, he snitched,
bastard, to the cops, that we are car
they turned me over, and I was in the 46th department for a long time
fucked, my nose was broken. Then
"Artistic" she dived into the underground
transition, slipped past just as
indispensable, like Gogol, details of the landscape -
metal party, and surfaced at three
stalls on the corner, near the Cappuccino cafe
rolled into a short sausage
Suvorovsky, directly opposite the wooden
table with benches, where before
former journalists were finishing their lives,
expelled from Domzhur. Thank God
flew off the pavement not near the Nikitskys,
and a little further - saving me from
the need to say hello to the scumbag and
pervert Timiryazev. But on this
boulevard of love, wide bed of Tverskoy, I
nodded to the scoundrel Yesenin, he stood, sad,
proudly towering among the chess players, they
didn't pay any attention to him
attention, absorbed in the sound of the clock and the game
figures, and once upon a time, I remember, we tried
promote this poor fellow for booze, and at least
he, such a nit, refused to respect us anddidn’t give money, squeezed, bastard, money, everything
the three of us drank equally - purely from
pity - and who was the third, for the life of me, not
I remember, I only remember that it was after San
Sanycha, who is sad all alone, is there,
in a shady courtyard near the mansion
Ryabushinsky. Although no, it seems
I remember the third was a strange person,
either a winged donkey or a flying horse,
small and kind, in her appearance I imagined
I want a pegasus, a pegasus with fiery wings.
Then we rushed past the ancient
tree, as it seemed to me before - still
Peter's times, but recently it became clear -
fuck - much younger, but I loved it so much
piss on him, under this oak tree, I used to go out
from the "Russian Bistro" and piss to my heart's content, like
follows. Don't say hello to Pushkin
wanted, turned away, he's a complete nit,
scammed prostitutes, all sorts of dirty tricks
pandered to the mafia of the deaf and dumb
patronized. Ever since school days
I hate the bastard. Who tell me who
He worked as the chief snitch for the cops, huh? Who's on
Did you rive denunciations to the dissident bastard? Who
was it quietly dripping onto the souls of innocent poets?
Who, I say, pawned Yakir and Krasin?
Gogol, or what? Or is it Pushkin?
Right? Pushkin! Pushkin! He's the one!
 Pretty tired, exhausted, I ran after
her, rushed like a spring beast, but still
still could not catch up, overtake,
She didn’t slow down, I shouted to her, calling:
“Tatyana, Lisa, Natalya,” she gasped
I didn’t respond, there weren’t enough names, I completelyexhausted. We were rushing past
Passionate, Petrovsky, Rozhdestvensky,
Vysotsky.. Vysotsky - the drowned man - was
green and terrible... Griboyedov fell on his face,
kissed his knees... Even though he was a total idiot
Chatsky, but still, I love the bastard! Yes and
Chatsky has nothing to do with it, but Griboed has so much
once covered, stood up for defense with his chest,
when I left my hippie youth
from the cold pursuit, broke out of the solid
cordon of angrily whooping, cheerful and
daringly whistling, dashing rotten-toothed
Gopnikov. With his forehead he counted the granite steps,
marble railings. Whose hand did not tremble,
timely removed that steel pipe that
tried ominously to break my young
head? Mine or his? I was getting closer to
"Jaltarangu", which no longer exists...
“Contemporary” is on the contrary, but
There is no "Jaltarang". On the way I saw pidertsiy,
faggot, Viktyuka. Or no, it's already happened
second round? Or maybe not the second one? Which one
then? On what circle, I ask you,
did this happen? Lost count. Really,
I think, laugh, joke - on the ninth?
 I remember that I was walking on water, on
The Moscow River, along the Yauza, or by land. Chestnuts
they shouted, the linden trees sang, the lilacs bloomed. Three
I saw the filthy pond and three black swans.
Sometimes it seemed to me that it was not me who was running after
her, and she follows me. And who can
understand within the circle, inside zero?
 I tried to calm down, come to my senses,
come back, went through the names, fiddled with
memory, the most important thing was missing,
the main thing... Finally, somewhereapproximately in
area of the now defunct "Dzhang"
suddenly, swiftly, unexpectedly, all of a sudden
she turned around. Immediately weakening, losing
strength, immediately going limp, I realized: “This is him,
yes, it was him, it was him, it was finally him,
him!" Oh, miracle, oh, blissful moment! Lord,
after all, it’s him, he, I recognized him, I saw
him!
 Beautiful Ass shined in her for me
face!


Doctor's comment.

 An author, especially a modern one, would be
not the same author at all if he had resisted
from the desire to comment on my own
text. So is a real doctor, scientist,
a psychoanalyst simply must
comment on dream, text, oral
patient's story. Issue raised
here, it seems to us, has become the last
time is extremely relevant. Individual,
passionate about the search for Ass, capable of
a lot. Inflationary processes that affected
individual, embraced society as a whole, for
which is characterized by an arms race,
interethnic and interfaith
conflicts, thirst for accumulation of material
values. At the same time, completely or
almost completely lost interest in culture,
to spiritual creativity. Under inflation, by
According to Wiley, one should understand the constant
growth of the male ego due to
assigning them the functions of the Self. Processes
these turn out to be contagious and can
transmitted from individual to individual.
A personality absorbed in an endless search,
"searching for ways to restore
unconscious", is doomed in advance to
defeat. However, the interpretationthis
search as a search for the "lost phallus",
seems to us absolutely groundless. (K
representatives are inclined to this interpretation
Larsen schools, including
J. Wiley cited above)
 In our opinion, the general position of scientists
our school is much more consistent. K
Moreover, we consider it unacceptable
free use of the ideas of the late K.G.
Jung, characteristic of colleagues from the Larsen school,
which nevertheless also classify
himself to the disciples of the great thinker. All
facts and evidence we have collected
testify: this search is not something
other than "the search for the lost Ass." This
not a hypothesis, but scientifically confirmed
conclusion based on dream analysis
several hundred patients and successful
methods of using psychoanalysis.
(Thanks to treatment, the patient gets rid of
his characteristic overestimation of himself,
false possibilities attributed to oneself,
such as controlling the stars, talking with
monuments of art and antiquity, meetings with
celestials, moving objects
glance, contacts with the soul of things through
poltergeist, penetration into the second world
and reading underwater inscriptions. He also
freed from obsessive states,
incoherence of speech, excessive pomposity and
false rhetoric.) Winter's statement,
Knight and Larsen about "primary priapic
cult" allowing them to insist on
archetypal background of this cult,
carries a number of clearly expressed
inconsistencies.We have carefully studied
almost all surviving sources
ancient Greek and Roman origin
and we can confidently say that
In ancient times, the cult of the Asshole prevailed.
 Our careful calculations
(all mentions of this cult have been counted -
including in other transcriptions,
something like: butt, popendron and just an ass)
showed - Divine Ass mentioned
tens of thousands of times, which is an order of magnitude
exceeds the number of all messages about
cult of the god Priapus. Just one example:
it's just funny to see misadventures
Encolpia is a manifestation of the phallic quest
(Knight, 1992). Anyone sane
It’s obvious to a specialist - Encolpia drove along
life's search for an Ass embodied in light
the appearance of the boy Giton. Possessing it
slave boy - this is the main unattainable
the goal of the suffering Encolpius. (Same thing
true of Death in Venice as well.
Thomas Mann - isn't he charming?
ass Tadzio - mini-likeness, reflection
Ass Divine, isn't it the search for it
the ass drove Aschenbach to a state
physical impotence?)
 For lack of space and time we will not
talk about the periodicity of history, about
revival of this cult in the medieval
Italy, about its development in our years.
 Here's what I want to say in conclusion -
psychoanalysts beware! Protect
your science!