Silence

Silence


Mikhail Zhvanetskij

How everything settled, I even didn’t expect.
Such variety of images – and there is nothing to watch.
Such variety of radio stations – and there is nothing to listen to.
Such variety of newspapers – and there is nothing to read.
Well, it’s all right.
People’s voices, squeaking of steps, squeals of touched cars are becoming clear.
Inside the shut down tap, the water is running somewhere.
Upstairs, someone eternally and painfully drills something.
Downstairs, underneath my floor, someone suffers from my steps.
Garbage chute is seeing somebody off with a rumble.
These squeaks, screams, knocks and barking are called silence.
We all went to this silence through all telecanalisation, catastrophes, howling of an ambulance, shriek of the brakes, gunshots, sexual and hospital moans.
Through the parliament’s applause, which foreshadowed a bloody aggravation.
Through the endless war in Caucasus, through the falling skyscrapers, through the election campaign dirt, through the tens of analysts, who give a univocal thing significance.
Through the sad sexual life, through a stranger’s moronic private life.
At which a cat’s silence seems to be witty.
And all this is as though it were on our request.
And all this as though for some joy and pleasure of ours.
We went through the humiliating games “you guess a letter – I give you money”.
We saw someone else’s greed, lust and betrayal.
Draws with the participation of the real militia.
Just try not to be sucked into it.
We went through the disputes about everything, except the things we need: how to live and how to survive.
Someone else’s hatred to a husband or wife is creeping into our bed.
Political analysts aimlessly wound all.
With a wild wawl they recite the week’s events which are known to everybody.          
Just recognize me.
Remember me.
I will comment with a cry, wawl, teasing, chuckling, singing along, whining along – but just remember me.
We went through the disputes the deepness of which can be limited by a depth of a pan, and in the end there is a big phrase: “our time is up.”
This is the main conclusion of all the debates.
Their time is up.
They talked and talked and having not reached the idea, conclusion – what is normally expected from a normal person in order to understand what he started this all for – they changed to things what their time ran up for – to dandruff, slip sheets, corpses and guns.
And it seems as though it hasn’t begun at all.
But why did I freeze on the same ones?
Not on them, but on the life, which begins after 8 pm, without art, without invention, and without talent.
In the newspapers, which we are not allowed to talk badly about, the most remarkable thing is the readers’ letters.
There is life, wit, and laconism there– a pleasure.
A newspaper, which has nothing to say, is the thickest of all.
Headers in poems, family names and anecdotes.
Young hussies pose questions to the stars: how they slept, what they ate and what they would have asked themselves if she ran out of questions.
It is forbidden to criticize radio, to criticize newspapers, so they merrily get yellow.
And for the first time it’s becoming clear to us how they become the same on the competitive market.
You can’t wash your face with dirty water.
You can’t eat the chewed food.
I don’t believe it’s on our request.
Even if it is so, I won’t seek another country.
I will just wait.
I will switch everything off and wait.
Everything will find its own place.
A dumb must listen to a dumb on a special dumb radio.
And such a radio will exist or already exists.
Let the ignorant roar with laughter on their channels.
Let the horny hang around with their remotes instead of their wives at nights.
Those who hate their husbands – search for their channels.
The others have to wait.
If I am not mistaken – there is something more apart from sex, chattering and politics.
There even was something already.
What was it?
Maybe talent.
Maybe intellect.
Maybe decency.
Maybe taste.
After all even those who giggle feel that something is missing.
How should I put it so that everyone understands…?
Or it’s not worth it – if everyone…
What is the aim then?
Maybe I should leave something unclear, like the theory of relativity, or Chekhov’s sadness, or one person, in order to be with him. In order to see the world with his eyes, to listen to it with his ears, and for a moment to walk along with his heart.