Biography of Evgenia Pishchikova
Fun and some fraternity. Social variegation. Here, I thought, bearded hipsters with naked ankles will stand and laugh in fur moccasins and a girl of hipsters in a coat with a pezhon bag and scarves in a stop revolution, and possibly rush at each other with a serpentine and confetti. The lady in a mink fur coat is condescendingly grinning pranks of brilliant youth. The accountant in a mink fur coat wrinkles his face in a dissatisfied guzka, a working guy ...
What will the working guy do? In general, this is what. It was a night train of tired workers, poorly dressed, sitting, lowering the hands between the knees, not a metropolitan subway, but a suburban train. On the train, hustling between marble and gilding, lean on plywood gear plywood traveled. Once a natural gypsy passed, tore an accordion and terribly howled: “Is I guilty?!
Homeless people rode to celebrate the holiday in public space. Little China, Little Vietnam, Little Uzbekistan, Little Kyrgyzstan. The beauty of the girls shocked briefly - oriental, decorative, as on the Soviet calendar "with Japanese". The girls, rightly, cashiers in the neighboring "Auchan" - we never look, we do not see the beauties of this Shamakhanskaya. I thought to myself: whether I will forget what I saw once - or in the spirit: “They look, and the hawthorn herself carries lunch!
God knows him. Why was the idea of this text born? Too many wrote that the holiday ceased to be joyful.
They said mainly about what gives rise to a feeling of passing the exam, failure. I crossed it - it’s so difficult, as if it was necessary to cross. It would seem that this is a long -standing philosophy of the New Year, but the joylessness of this exam has become obvious right now. The holiday moved in time - the main rod is still, of course, the circulation and fight of the chimes, but the main festive time was not after the battle, but to the preparation and the table.
Preparing, buying, cooking. There is still a holiday in this. We fry our fear, stew and seize. The fear of the future and its denial of both a specially ordered state and a nationwide internal one - as a fact, as a phenomenon - from the guess of the pen of Maria Stepanova, through the political science texts of Morozov, Schulman, through the folk psychology of Petranovskaya reached the moral -descriptive essays.
This fear was obvious for a long time, but it is necessary to fix it. On the holiday it got out-if massive, Soviet aesthetics, postcards were published now, it would be necessary instead of a boy-a new year, which is always on a sled or ski next to an old man, with a frost, draw a black hole in a ski cap, some kind of hostile whirlwinds, voodoo pouts. One of the inhabitants of Facebook wrote: “I read in the store instead of“ Mass mass ” -“ Alarm mass ”.
As instead of this clothing and driving failure, the householders of their new year complain that they traveled little, bought, they didn’t read it like that, this life exam that doesn’t give up, this hard firm fear would have benefited a comforting Christmas. It is an eternity in the middle of the room, it is about the fact that everything can be experienced, and what only all those who once a year were attached to pray near any Christmas tree, every vertep, every star.
But no, the New Year is with us. Recently I saw a correspondence - one of the newfangled girls who actively climb into a social elevator, shone my girlfriend: they say, why are you taking pictures near the inscription “Merry Christmas”, this is not our inscription, non -Russian inscription, and do you not know that Christmas is a western holiday, but in Russia it is not?
In the status of a young idiot, it was noted that she was Orthodox. New Year can only be transplanted. Trying to pass. And after you partially unwill with fear, try to understand something new. For example: What is really the working class in Russia? And is it really cool - to celebrate the New Year in the subway car, because you are frozen and tired and your friend froze and tired, because you cooked iron beds until 20 pm, and the train spins around the ring, and there are no more wagons in it.
Nobody in all the unbearable underground Moscow