is it True that you have in new York, the hell of hell?
it gets Worse: the double ad – from within and without. Outside: a frightening curve davidnyc of illnesses and deaths – ahead of the rest, overcrowded hospitals, refrigerators-morgue on wheels, mass graves, unclaimed dead in wooden boxes, economic stagnation, unemployment, lack of livelihood, queues, threats of hunger and other risks and dangers. And inside? The feeling of loneliness and hopelessness – anxiety, fear, panic. Depression on the outside and the depth inside the mind and in the subconscious. So I say – two hell. Some of them are nightmarish?
somewhere, thank God, the fire!
My favorite city yellow bitten Apple has become the epicenter of the epicenter of a global disaster. Reset obtrude extinct, as after a nuclear disaster – as beautiful as ever in life. Came true the old curse, this another my city, the city of my childhood, adolescence, love, resentment, humiliation, revenge: this place will be empty. The emptiness is new York city like a storm the ocean, like a flood of St. Petersburg, as the mourning electra. I recognize and don’t recognize this city, familiar to tears, though again it is said about Peter, and I write from new York. They have one sample on which they were: Peter stole the idea of his future capital of the Netherlands, and the former name of my current residence – new Amsterdam.
For whom is now changing their colors traffic lights? Except for the wild beasts that freely roam the streets of the city-the phantom instead of the missing people and cars. Ground Zero? Return to nature? Handmade in the miraculous? Natura naturans? Natura naturata? The great city has gone into hibernation in this never-ending, infinite, eternal spring.
Spring this year is late, cold, rainy, subtle and lingering, and only sent forth her messenger tricolor – Narcissus, hyacinth and Tulip – marked the color of her late coming. Fruit-berry, which I at yesterday’s docosanol life had allergies, do not count – Apple, pear, plum, peach blossom by themselves, not as a symbolic trees. Sakura? A kitsch symbol for our provincial bureaucratic capital with which our metropolis has entered into a duel to the death because of the means of survival, including medical, coronavirus in the Holocaust. Initially, all of new York has dismissed the one and only lilac – white. But hopelessly behind acacia, Wisteria, and honeysuckle.
the Hope for our hot sultry humid unbearable summers that the crown Nostra retreat before the Inferno did not materialize, and new Yorkers continue to sit cooped up, listening to unfamiliar sounds – coldicania wild turkeys, the bleating of lascivious goats, the grunting of fanged wild boar, Fox barking and other animal yell, interrupted the monotonous sirens carrying��contains soon. And only once I was in consolation raced fire somewhere, thank God, the fire. DOE be on his toes and biting trees with green foliage, on the trees, like monkeys, roam rukuni, smeyatsya snake on the asphalt, shameless mating a couple of skunks in the yard next door climbed up out of nowhere who took alligator in a running Neznamov for whom the fountain is splashing Hippo, and to whom dismissed his gorgeous tail of the peacock? Not yet reached – the person in front of me. Taking over a female? This time I remained faithful to the Lena Klepikova.
All of these fantasmagorie apocalyptic pictures I see eyes wide shut during my routine forays into the Necropolis, when I leave my shelter and on padded feet go out on the street in violation of the guidelines on quarantine lockdown. But I’m the exception that proves the rule: the Ghost of the place and the hour and the Ghost a fictional intentional city, a ghoul vsedozvolennost to leave his tomb and invisible to roam the cemetery in the place capital of the world.
I live in Queens. A few miles from me, the putrid lane, on the fateful match is officially referred to as Crown – a record for the number of crown diseases and victims. There are reasons: the density of the population, mainly African-Americans, Latinos and illegal immigrants-emigre, and among them, according to statistics, this damn bug going around and mowing two times times higher than among white new Yorkers, where I live. But everything is so close, side by side, closely interwoven as parallel lines in neevklidova space, there is some distance, when none of us is immune!
a Potential victim, I also witness, spy, voyeur, kibotzer, chronicler – the chronicler necessarily in the service coronavirus era. Nestor “of bygone years”, who knows how long will last – weeks, months, years? Kovid-19 caught me in the midst of working on my Swan song the song – book on Russian new York under the name of the only “Diagnosis” that, regardless of the author, became impregnated with coronavirus, performatives semantically, story, metaphorically.
Being in the center of the cyclone, judge of his imminent artistic effects and affects not only subjective and not only Mercantile, opportunistic, although for me it is the feed supply and a source of inspiration. Me is Nude Muse naked girl, but in the muzzle and gloves. Slightly coughs – not the initial if it marks the ill-fated virus? Dystopia of dystopia has become the most that neither is reality.
I Doubt that the Crown will be limited to the 20th year of the current century, will go away and life will return to normal as if nothing had happened. Although, of course, can only envy the optimism of imyarek, catwho ignore the immediate and long-term effects experienced (not experienced!) human tragedy: blessed are those who believe, we elevates deception and other quotes on the case.
It is necessary so to fuck up our present, we should desire the future, cloned from our past. Don’t know what lies ahead of us, and behind – the Golden age. What would in the past was not bad, the present is worse than past and future only predictable unpredictability. Only in new York? Read my favorite Moscow poet Evgeny Yassin, who holds a hand on pulse of time:
the rest, no peace, no war,
And there is no strength to hope and to be angry.
Longs quarantine capital
And sees tuning dreams.
do not Think about health and not even an economic or political traces in the future, but about the historical significance of this cataclysm for the foreseeable future – not only in the close confines of our lives, but for generations to come. Talking about our entire earth civilization, including culture.
if There is light, though the light at the end of this endless tunnel?
What inspires some hope, so it is touching the signs of the new human community based on empathy and compassion for one’s neighbor. Again, judging by my favorite city – well, “New York, New York” as in that great song of Frank Sinatra. The same new York from which it was distanced many of my current fellow citizens: “new York is not America! America is not new York”. But then came the General attack, new York was the worst, and the whole country turned to the unloved city. From all over America come to us nurses turn provincials in disguise to new York hospitals, the girls rise nurse. In Central Park me unknown Christian group “Samaritan’s Purse” (“Trick of the Good Samaritan”) set up tents with beds for the city’s famous Mount Sinai hospital sent the excess patients. The help was not needed, but the rush was – and how! And who are those anonymous Samaritans volunteers, who leaves at the door of an elderly new Yorkers of plastic bags with breakfasts, Lunches and frozen dinners?
the Wonderful stirrings of a new human solidarity. I hope they will survive and germinate when the Crown finally retreating.
in the meantime my literary task is not easy – it’s like that to describe a bullet in flight and headlong to pass between the jets, without getting wet to the skin. So in the midst of the crown of the tsunami. Deadly risks: where is the guarantee that my life track is not interrupted in mid-sentence? If I have time to put the last point in this my last book in extremis? If not me, then more no one to write it.
Die a natural death and not from the coronavirus.
Vladimir Solovyov, new��Orc may 2020