Alexey R. (ILI)

Time is a stream, a river. It flows through us and along with us, changing everything—usually irreversibly. I love watching the flow of passing people; in such moments you acutely feel the passage of time, like the analogy of “sand slipping through open fingers.”

It’s easy to feel the spirit of an era if you have the appropriate props or a book—if you take historical books where a historical epoch is well described. In a film with a convincingly reconstructed historical setting, I feel that time very clearly.

Anticipation of what is to come and the aftertaste of what has already happened are felt more sharply over time than the present moment.

I feel well in which temporal slices (childhood, school…) what was happening. I clearly feel that in childhood there was this and that, at school—this and that… at university—this and that happened. The time periods of childhood, youth are clearly felt. I sense several lives, where one flows into another.

One could say that you live partly in the past.

All sensations and the analysis of understanding a situation come most fully only after some time. It turns out that the past sort of layers itself onto the present, partially pushing you out of the “here and now.” For example, we discussed some problem, and the most competent thoughts about ways to solve it come when you replay the situation in your head—that is, when you mentally move into the past. The same is true of the feeling from rest or vacation—it is always delayed in time; it is not perceived as sharply in the “here and now.” All the time it turns out that in the present you are reliving the most important moments from the past.

My memories are always in motion; there are actions there (I see them before my eyes, on an inner screen): how I lived, how it went—so it goes there. The image—how everything looked there—and my internal state are remembered. The sequence of actions is remembered well.

I can immerse myself in memories by association: you come across something familiar, and by association you begin to remember, immerse yourself, and simply drop out. When I have deep memories, I try to put things that evoke them far away. You can drop out. You’re walking down the street—a bush looks like something, or a puddle with a streetlamp reflected in it—and an image arises.

From my point of view, it is actually visible to the naked eye that, in general, things are getting worse rather than better year by year all over the world. The number of wars, cataclysms, and problems is increasing (this interview was recorded in 2007). A global crisis will definitely happen; even analysts say that oil is running out, and accordingly the modern economy itself is very unstable—any influence can trigger a collapse. The modern world is literally walking along a razor’s edge: one wrong move, and the world will start sliding downhill.

When in New York—I don’t remember what year—they cut off the electricity, there was a collapse there, and the entire city was plunged into darkness, terrible things were happening: looting, murders, and so on. The layer of civilization on the modern human being is very thin, and a very small push is enough for the planet to slide into crisis—you won’t be able to stop it.

The situation is very unstable. Global phenomena—broad strokes—are easy to trace. Smaller details are harder to figure out.

Understanding the meaning of life depends on many factors: upbringing, faith, previous experience. From my point of view, the answer is contained in the very phrase “the meaning of life.” Life over time is evolution. Therefore, the meaning of life is the meaning of evolution, or the meaning of development.

It’s hard to imagine myself without books or movies; these things are very important. I used to love reading Tekhnika - Molodezhi (Technology for the Youth), Science and Life, esoteric literature, and science fiction. When I read, I visualize everything vividly—I immerse myself so deeply it’s as if I’m actually there.

If I’m trying to distract myself from work, I get lost in a book; my state of mind shifts, and I am no longer "here." I love gathering information and collecting knowledge; if something is interesting, I remember it. I have a good memory—it was especially sharp in school. Back then, I only had to read something once to memorize it. While reading, everything would arrange itself inside me like an image or a film. Later, when needed, I would just "replay" it and remember everything. When I read, I am completely immersed in the meaning; I no longer "see" the text in front of me. The main thing is for it to be interesting and informative.

I can sit for a long time, unable to bring myself to start working. Then, in a short burst of energy, I get everything done quickly. It turns out that tasks pile up because you see that as long as there is time, the work can wait. It usually happens that a task either disappears on its own or turns out to be unnecessary in the first place. Alternatively, there is always just enough time to get it done at the last minute. By and large, you always end up ahead.

When things accumulate and reach a "critical mass," that’s it—you can’t stall anymore. You power through them, and then the next cycle begins. Some tasks simply dissolve on their own during that rush. You just have to know how to wait. I know how to wait, and as a rule, I manage to get everything done on time.

If I don’t want to do something, it is impossible to make me. Unless people really pressure me, I’m "as stubborn as a mule"—you won't get anywhere with me.

Career? To me, the amount of money earned is more important. If a career is necessary for that, then I’ll pursue one. I need to earn enough to provide for myself and my family.

The ILI likes to distribute earned money wisely. You can visualize the sensation of a financial resource like this: you take a one-month timeframe and your money, and you see if it covers the month's expenses or not. If you don't distribute it carefully, it might not last. There are fixed costs that must be paid regardless: rent, phone, food, etc.—this minimum must always be covered. The second part goes toward clothes and necessities. The third part is set aside for large expenses or annual payments.

When I have a certain sum, it’s immediately clear how to allocate it and what it can be spent on. I have everything laid out for a year in advance for every month. I always know how much money will be needed and project everything until the end of the year.

In my work, I build action schemes. For example, when buying something: I gather information from various sources, talk to people, and weigh all the pros and cons. I consider the price and several other factors. First, a general range of models emerges, then it narrows down, additional information is gathered, and finally, I choose one.

It’s the same with any task, like finding new suppliers. You line them up, weigh the pros and cons of each, and narrow the list down from 20–30 to 2 or 3. There are always doubts, but the most important thing is to eliminate the most problematic options. From my point of view, you have to choose the optimal variant.

ILIs are economical people. I never throw away old things. Take a screwdriver, for example: if the handle breaks, there’s no point in throwing away the blade. You can make a new handle, or sharpen the blade and use it as an awl. Any item can be repurposed, even a broken one. Usually, I have a large collection of computer components lying around—sometimes I use them, but I don't throw much away because it might come in handy. I only toss something if it has lost all possible value.

I am drawn to technology; I feel it and sense it. I view a car as a means of transportation—a very convenient tool. When choosing one, you have to decide what it’s for. If it’s for city driving, there are several parameters.

I need a bright car color, like orange or yellow—not because I like the color, but because statistically, such cars are highly visible in traffic and get into fewer accidents. I’ve noticed that a yellow car stands out from the "grey mass" from a distance. An important parameter is the price-to-quality ratio. The price must justify the investment. I don’t need an insanely expensive car. I need a vehicle that is reliable, has reasonable fuel consumption, a good trunk capacity, and comfortable seats. I don't have any particular feelings about the way a car looks; I view it strictly in terms of practicality and convenience.