Photo by Oleg Mokryakoff
Imagine an odious musician that lives somewhere in the yard near the highrise containing your flat. Leaning against the concrete wall of a transformer substation and propping a detuned guitar up by his knees, the musician sings an odious song all day long, every day. For years. The musician has no style and no imagination.
Every morning when you leave your apartment, the odious musician is already awake.
He plays his guitar and sings the words: “Vei-bei, proruha sud’ba”
You throw a sleepy glance at him and pass by. Then you hum the song all the way to work: “…razbudi slov ryabinoviy slog…”
By the afternoon, your morning memories are almost erased, and you have even stopped thinking about how odious that musician was. But then here you are, returning home from work. You enter the yard where the musician, leaning against the concrete wall of the substation, is plucking the strings of his detuned guitar. His odious voice sings: “postuchis’ v dver’, poraskin’ sneg… “
Even though he doesn’t bother you–he just lives by himself, just sings, almost doesn’t smell, almost isn’t drunk, and puts cigarette butts carefully in a tin can–you decide to dispose of the odious musician.
“How long can it last?”–you think.–“Not a single new song in two fucking years!”
Imagine. You compose a detailed complaint against the odious neighbor and send it directly to The Homeless Musicians’ Repertoire Selection Department.
In a few days, you receive an answer. It says that teaching that guy a new song is impossible, so it has been decided to move him to the neighboring yard. “Thanks for contacting the Department” …sort of.
You think: “How nice!”
You crumple the envelope and throw it to the ‘middle-class issues’ trash box. You forget about the odious musician… For a while.
As you leave your apartment, you meet silence now. Only doves (the local lodgers as well) are flapping wings in the rush from one place to another. You sort of smile at the changes.
You return to your apartment and meet silence now.
…and the next day too.
…and the next…
Meanwhile in the neighboring yard, the odious musician sings: “Po lesam vverh, da po polyam vverh…”
You can’t hear him anymore. Viva The Homeless musicians’ Repertoire Selection Department!
So, days pass. One day, two days, a week… You return to your apartment, and meet silence.
You think: “Why not to take a detour through the neighboring yard?”
“Vei-bei, proruha-sud’ba! Razbudi sloooov ryabinoviy slog…”