It ' is my life. That are our life.

Part six. Camp workers. Tagged with the competition "Children's camps"... Now I want to bomb one of my classmates a little, because he has already really annoyed me with his actions... Used as an epigraph. Taken from the first two sentences from the blog “Well, he’s just a walking red flag” by KoshkaDark21. The large pines breathed a cool, resinous spirit. The breath of the forest reached the porch. And no wonder. Immediately beyond the threshold of an ordinary two - family detached house, a centuries-old pine forest began. The spruce litter rustled underfoot with all its rotted and not yet rotted needles. Conifer needles on the pines were replaced infrequently and very gradually. Therefore, the needles that fell to the ground managed to be covered with leaves and herbs, as well as the ubiquitous and thin stalks of strawberries, which were scattered in abundance throughout the forest and grew in the clearing. And in the summer season, bright, red, bloody beads lay scattered throughout the forest. It’s thicker and more crowded in the forest clearings. Fewer drops of strawberry sweet blood were found in the thicket of the forest, near straight and mast pines, next to centuries - old trees, which in the forest, competing with each other for sunlight, always grew smooth and tall. And the branches that went to the side and at all angles in all the trees constantly withered and died. Pine is a light - loving tree. She, like strawberries, can tolerate forest partial shade. But it does not tolerate complete and strong shading. I went out onto the porch and breathed in the impossibly delicious forest air. And I thought that if I had my free will, I would now go down from the porch, slowly wander through a clearing free of trees, reach the edge of the forest and plunge into exciting teenage activities, picking small but fragrant berries of ripe fruit. where in the forest there are strawberries. And their immediate eating, on the spot, without moving far from the clearing, from every strawberry bush. I noticed that only those berries become tasty which, when picked from a bush or stem, immediately go into the mouth. But with this approach, if you go into the forest to pick berries, the bottom of the jar or can that you take to pick berries always remains bare and not covered with berries! And if you get carried away and temporarily refuse to eat berries, then the berry collection in a can arrives quickly. Then the sun begins to burn stronger, then you get tired, then suddenly the can imperceptibly fills to the brim, with the neck filled. And when you get home, you try to take a handful of berries out of the mouth of the can to eat them. Now you can! Now we’ve already brought a lot of berries home! And any berry brought home seems sour. Now all that remains is to sort out the small and fragrant strawberries for jam or other winter preparations! But I looked into the distance, at the forest moving away from me, its blue green tops in the distance, which appeared to me in the gaps of a lonely highway, I went down from the porch, and went in a completely different direction. Today I had a regular school detention awaiting me. I didn’t want to go to the school garden. Timka was there. A tall and blond boy is a teenager. Now, today, in an adult, ordinary life, I would say that he, my classmate Timka, always had a good and smooth blonde hairstyle. Then I thought that he had pale and slicked hair growing on his ugly head, to his forehead and to the top of his head. We recently moved to this small village, forgotten by God at that time and inhabited by people. The only monastery in the entire district of villages and villages, at that time, lay on the outskirts of the village in unkempt ruins and complete ruins... I went to school and changed it in the middle of winter. I went to a new school for myself, accustomed to constantly changing village or city schools, moving from school to school, arriving from one village to another, moving with my family, following my father. I wasn’t very worried when changing schools, because I never had time to get used to the new school relationships. Because the family took off over and over again, following the village veterinarian, my father, without even having time, like flies, to sit and settle in the living and new place allocated to us. And I habitually dragged myself from place to place, like a puppy in its puppy basket. Just think, tomorrow a new spring will come. And I will never be here again, in this village! We might take off in a fine spring and ride off to another village. We'll go at night, on a long trip, in trucks. And under the wheels of the truck there will either be a road, or a rough forest path suitable for a truck to pass, only slightly illuminated by the flickering and trembling glows of light from the pillars of light, from the beams of electric headlights that break the complete darkness of the road two steps ahead in front of the vehicle. And Timka was the first of all the students to meet me on the porch. Not just me, but everyone else, students and teachers. Timka stood on the school porch, on the threshold into a rustic and wooden school, low and dark, cut down a long time ago from the round trunks of straight pine trees. And Timka tapped his felt boots on the Russian snow and sang a song: “She entered her carriage, smiled from the window...” With her cunning mind, replacing the syllable “ly” in the word “smiled” with the letter “e.” And the song turned out not to be ordinary, but immediately became indecent and obscene. And when there were no teachers nearby, Timka folded his palm in a special way and cracked it with the finger of his other hand, in a universal and generally understood village gesture, a man’s village gesture, showing how strongly and immediately he wants to reproduce. Now six months of studying at the new school have passed. Spring came and went. The early berry summer began. And I didn’t really want to go to this stupid school detention. There will be a dull school hoe, heavy and unliftable, and there, in the school garden, there will be unkempt school land. On this land, poorly cultivated by constantly changing generations of scientists, like generations of hereditary and hereditary slaves to the sybarite and the Ancient Roman latifundist, nothing worthwhile could ever grow except stunted bushes of greenery, of unknown appearance and purpose. Because the plants grown by schoolchildren during compulsory school work, without much love, felt such a disregard for them. . And they didn’t try either. School plants could never grow, flourish and ripen in this way. And they remained a fake picture of the Great and Worthless School Feat of all Lazy Schoolchildren without exception! And Timka will run between all the rows. Not to harm or take away the hoe from me or my friend Inga. But this kid, overwhelmed by his bad character or his own spermotoxicosis, which just won’t come out of his ears now, will again sing vulgar or obscene songs, crack his fingers, putting them together in an indecent gesture, explaining popularly and with gestures about how he I want a lot of everything at once, indecent fucking. Or suddenly Timka will begin to recite the next obscene and previously unknown poems to me, announcing that these are Yesenin’s early poems: “Girl, don’t be afraid, I’m not rude, I haven’t become a libertine in the distance.” I came to you from afar, let me press you to the girl’s breast! And my cool hoe will hardly bite into the soil of the school garden, trampled down to the strength of asphalt. And this poem, inappropriate and vulgar for compulsory school study, will gnaw into my ears independently and independently of my consciousness. And stay there, in my head forever, with lines of your own terribly indecent content! And some part of my consciousness, a completely disobedient part that is not subordinate to me, will enthusiastically listen to this “La Poesie”, because it is impossible to get rid of the vulgar Timka during school-camp detention, even temporarily. And my school hoe will hardly bite into the soil of the school garden, trampled down to the strength of asphalt. And this poem, inappropriate and vulgar for compulsory school study, will gnaw into my ears independently and independently of my consciousness. And stay there, in my head forever, with lines of your own terribly indecent content! And some part of my consciousness, a completely disobedient part that is not subordinate to me, will enthusiastically listen to this “La Poesie”, because it is impossible to get rid of the vulgar Timka during school - camp detention, even temporarily. And with the end of the verse, which makes my cheeks and ears turn red with deliciousness, it will no longer be possible to accurately determine what kind of attitude I now feel towards Timka in addition to complete rejection of him and disgust?... And I felt like a seasoned camp girl from somewhere from near Karaganda! While she was walking leisurely, slowing down with each step towards the school site, as she approached... Where could Zek’s poor subordinate go? I don’t want to work through the norm, like an unbearable and stupid, daily lesson. But I still have to, whether I want it or not! And from the lesson of this almost camp, from all sides forced or prison term of labor, no one will ever free me for anything!...