The Irish ballad of the Russian orphanThere is a wish to write, directly in plain terms, without looking back at prettiness of the invented words and at the fact that others will think of you, indifferent, or even not so indifferent, without hiding for standard, pleasant and accepted, formulations and templates: that is that you also are at this moment. To write simply and nepridumanno about what did not allow to sleep last night and what does not go out of the inflamed mind in the afternoon. (The man has no other problems-).
“Let speak“ with Malakhov. I do not love and do not watch this transmission, for the simple reason of her scandalousness and slopping of vital dirt about which the average viewer so likes to be soiled, comfortably watching others depression from outside. It also is clear: others &ndash dirt; always pain, trouble, are interesting as nothing else. Exposed on a public inspection, on a potreba. And the nablyudaniye behind foreign trouble, as we know, forces to forget about the problems. Eksgibiotsionizm on twelve time zones with detached lectures “after a fight“ from the shining deputies and successful young women - Moscow something - there - types. But it is not it.
The speech in the program went about a certain citizen of Ireland, the person of year there, at itself, helping to adopt the Russian children at home. And as always, the tale of the Cinderella, the poor orphan, - the Russian girl - the slob from semi-poor orphanage which “absolutely is not even worse than the others“, - which turns into the princess, - she is adopted by a family of this citizen, and she now happy and happy with privalivshy happiness, tries to forget the unhappy past very much: successfully forgets the native language, does not remember the brother who was to it on transfer and half-mad mother about whom continues to go on: “ No, I do not wanna see her. No, I do not wanna see her “ …
I do not know, I did not see transfer since the beginning, did not get acquainted with all difficulties of the past of this girl, but pleasure for it, beautiful and safe, - and it is possible to be glad from the heart (it was adopted, accepted, fell in love), - to me one ordinary-looking picture lasting exactly five seconds saddens: the terrible woman with the mad person sticking with the old photo of the daughter greedy to fried and soared to journalists. Her mother. And repeated “ No, I do not wanna see her, I do not wanna see her “ …
One this, such short, and aloof, as one galaxy from another, “ I do not wanna see her “ crumbles such touching picture from a post card of the Dublin sample wellbeing with its material chachkas, and forces to think that happiness will not be. No, there will be everything. There will be friends, there will be a college, there will be the family and the not less happy children. Well, there will be all obligatory of happiness the Western style attributes, but memory and conscience if it nevertheless is, will not release.
If takes in head to me today, in our nice days of the market and the Russian capitalism which is more and more blossoming in the terry color, with all its nanotechnologies, gas and oil, to draw the poster under the name “The Motherland Calls!“, - it is not important where and why, just “calls“, - I would draw this gone haywire woman. In an old kerchief, with umopomrachenny eyes, and with a portrait of the child in the wrinkled hands. Because, for me, the face of today`s Russian mother is the roundish face of the Muscovite of middle class which is not lined with three chins, with a cynical gleam greedy a peephole, under a shock milirovanny in the latest fashion, more - less safely Moscow which is growing old on pension at itself in the center. It is even not strict, with large lines and bloodless lips, the face type of mother known to us according to movies of post-war type, actual and nowadays as in Russia there are still wars and mothers continue to lose the children from where - nibud from Yekaterinburg, Krasnoyarsk or Vladivostok. And it would be such plague face with mad eyes and a gray nose. As a face of mother of the hero of Vasily Shukshin in the movie “Guelder-rose Red“. Small, all in wrinkles, semi-mad from life, the old woman`s face. And at a face her two huge hands spoiled with work - shovels.
How many such maternal persons are scattered - scattered across all boundless Russia - the mother? How many from them are slowly bent in the huts on chicken legs while we work in the foreign land, on foreign uncle, Sam or Hans, bringing closer light idea full, to the western measures, wellbeing? And how many have every chance to become such? And to become, to turn from the person more - less stroked by a rough hand before of the having a kind feeling life, into a face - a muzzle life otkhlestanny and even beaten into blood, mad, with the faded eyes, in great Russia (with big it is not necessary to write), and in all nearby villages and villages, important called themselves “nezalezhny“, it is a duck soup, and it is not even necessary to pound.
Beggarly pensions, official arbitrariness, lonely old age, diseases, alcoholism. And our full of fear and disgust “ I do not wanna see her “ …
On light everything is banal, all not on - book. In it there is no place to Jack London`s heroes and even movies about war - only all cinemas. Life is much more ruthless. Much more pryamy. It has rough palms and an unsmiling face. She did not read our fairy tales.
And we are only until right in the vital theories while we are on this side of barricades. As all those deputies and young women - something - there the Veda, on the program at Malakhov. Our truths sound terribly. We are indignant, we edify, we teach. Or slyunyavo we be touched, substituting television cameras the favorable side. And it only show. Show for us, so far full. So far on this side of the screen. The same show for us, as severe reality for those who on that side.
Oh yes and we were also on that side. But as far as on that? And how long? And the matter is that as soon as we stepped back, in ours more - less cozy wellbeing, we that did not remain. In it everything put. It how to argue on war in past tense, having never visited it.
To live, without reflecting, of course it is simpler. Deeply rejoicing to superficial. Following such simple and convenient templates, removed by others, for us. Mother left me in orphanage: and therefore, I do not want to know it. The father - the drunkard: and therefore, I, nowadays safe, do not want to have with it nothing in common. The former love - in the past. And in general, I have other life now. More interesting. Another. But life is more than ours about it representations. More widely. And therefore we are always mistaken, choosing ourselves easy ways. So far, it is unimportant who, it is unimportant when, once, in thoughts, directed to us on a meeting, and we did not answer it, or answered with indifference, or rejection, we it is in danger. It is in danger to become unhappy.
There is a wish to mention still, along with the opinion on completeness and a schastlivost of this history which is unambiguously imposed by transfer, about imposed by silly heart, and not less silly conscience, feeling of civil inferiority and shame. Inferiority for the “great“ homeland (with big it is not necessary to write), with all its nanotechnologies, oil and gas, great literature and music, with all her rhetorical nonsense which is spat out to us in a face daily by mass media. That as if as in the medieval market of slaves, peering at faces and figures (read - looking in teeth and feeling muscles) boys and girls, orphans from different houses, successful Italians, Americans and Irish choose to themselves future Luigi, Pitov, Beans today. And for some reason are not consecrated by pleasure of the person of the Russian public when to them as to the trained dog, do not give a sign to clap and rejoice.
For some reason the girlfriend of the main character, Zina adopted by the Italian couple and obryadshy the dolce vita, who did not hurry to forget the native language and all that “such awful Russian life“, does not hurry to rejoice together with all, and somehow incidentally gets into the shot, saddening the lovely picture of a general radostnost a little.
And for some reason the Irish mother of the main character, before so on western smiling and full of all enthusiasm, in the end absolutely ceases to rejoice, and turns sour though she is so vigorously rumpled in the hands by glamourous Andrey Malakhov, and the public drenches with splashes of the pleasure for Zina, her Irish daughter. For all Russian orphans.