It's good that someone is flying. It's good that cows don't fly

“That’s not how planes fly” At the very end of April, the entire Russian Internet was agitated by shocking videos and photographs depicting the flight of a Tu-154B-2 (RA-85563) aircraft with a failed control system at the Chkalovsky airfield near Moscow. "That's how planes fly

I want as much as possible
so that what I have given does not disappear,
and lived all the days of my friend’s life.

Seneca =

And it’s good that cows don’t fly)))))))

Guy Pene du Bois. American, 1884-1958
Mr. and Mrs. Chester Dale Dine Out, 1924

Gift of Chester Dale, 1963

Pene du Bois's portrayals of New York's high society
between the wars frequently record the telling body
language of his protagonists. This commissioned
work depicts Chester Dale (a wealthy investment
banker and prominent art collector) and his first
wife, Maud (a painter and writer), seated stiffly in
the fashionable Hotel Brevoot. In the early 1920s,
their collection featured American art (including
twenty-five paintings by Pene de Bois). Subsequent
acquisitions, however, focused almost exclusively
on French painting, from the late eighteenth to
the twentieth century. Several important paintings,
including Salvador Dali's 1954 Crucifixion, were
given to the Metropolitan Museum; the majority
of the Chester Dale Collection is now at the National
Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

A humorous poem from the cycle === MY DRAWINGS ===

IT'S GOOD THAT COWS DON'T FLY =

Thinner nail, thicker nail...
So what about which one comes in?
No matter how you beat, my heart,
and the picture will fall.

Once upon a time one grandfather
Looked at grandma
Susi-musi-trimpapusi
True, there were also geese

Once upon a time we lived with grandma
Wonderful geese
Susi-musi-trimpapusi
Just a miracle, not geese

Once upon a time we lived with my grandfather
Geese are also difficult
Susi-musi-trimpapusi
Just fabulous geese

And then my grandfather decided
Offer to one granny
Susi-musi-trimpapusi
So that geese live together

Only a kind granny
The evil grandfather is no match
Susi-musi-trimpapusi
Or was there not enough vodka =?=

Neighborly behind the fence
The old men looked at each other
Was it my grandfather's imagination?
Did grandma smile?

It's a pity that the old swing
They creaked so inappropriately
Tears of the morning drop
Like a memory of loss

The bird flew into the sky
There is a miracle left on earth
There are bread crumbs on the palm
Only people without each other+

Reviews

The daily audience of the portal Stikhi.ru is about 200 thousand visitors, who in total view more than two million pages according to the traffic counter, which is located to the right of this text. Each column contains two numbers: the number of views and the number of visitors.

Let's start with the fact that I can't say anything special about myself (or so it seems to me). I write fan fiction (less often poetry) only because it’s interesting to me. I’m interested in people’s opinions, whether I am mediocrity or whether I still have a small amount of talent. I like to describe a person’s emotions more than relationships with others. Therefore, all the stories that my stupid brain comes up with are told (most often) in the first person.
In general, I am the most ordinary person with my cockroaches in my head. I don't bite or scratch. And quite friendly :)

Contact information:

• http://angi8210.beon.ru/

Latest works:

Butterfly effect 1

What will happen if you raise a person alien from this whole world, a person who knows nothing about life, who is not familiar with the very concept of “man”? Who was fenced off from the whole world behind a huge wall, which he himself would later have to destroy. What then can he become? And will he even be able to find himself in this cruel world?

The day was approaching evening. Vera Maksimovna redid all her affairs. The stove was burning, dinner was on the stove, the dog was fed, and three stray cats were sleeping peacefully in their usual places: Barsik in the chair, Bunka on the ottoman in the corner, Walsok on the wide windowsill.

The forest was nearby. “Kind” people threw away extra kittens in the forest. They somehow survived in the summer, but in the winter they sought salvation in the village. IN different years This is how all three cats appeared in the house. They appeared and took root. They were very neat. They asked to go outside in silence. They simply walked up to the door and stood there, patiently waiting for the moment when the old housewife would come out into the hallway to get coal or firewood and open the heavy oak front door.
In the evening, Vera Maksimovna herself opened the door to the street and called her pets. Although according to the calendar it was still autumn, winter came early in these parts. At night the thermometer dropped to minus twenty-four degrees. Cold.

The house was almost empty. Once upon a time a lot of people lived here. The children grew up and went their separate ways, and Vera Maksimovna’s husband left this world five years ago. And now it was sad and lonely at home. At night it was filled with rustles and sounds. Sometimes the elderly woman even thought that someone was walking around the house in the dark.
When the cats strayed to the house one after another, the nights became less alarming.

“It’s the cats being naughty,” Vera Maksimovna said every time she heard strange sounds.

Life would have been completely unbearable if Vera Maksimovna had not found something she liked. She wrote her first poems in early childhood. She was called a young talent. But the gift of it remained a childhood hobby. Studying, working, then having my own family and raising my children took up all my time.

An unexpected terrible illness deprived her of her favorite job. Disability at forty-five. Sentence. And then with her left hand, which has not lost mobility, she uses the old typewriter I wrote my first story and sent it to the editor of the regional newspaper. And it was published within a week. And since then, for many years, Vera Maksimovna went to the computer in her free minutes and wrote her essays. She has a page on Prose.ru. Readers greeted her favorably. She didn't expect anything bad.

This year, the site added the opportunity to write personal messages to authors without leaving the author’s office.

Vera Maksimovna sat down at the computer and opened a page with correspondence.

For a minute it seemed to her that someone had hit her right in the face. A certain author under the pseudonym Good Samaritan 2 burst out with an incredibly offensive message. From Kozlov's surname he made a nickname - the goat woman. And he wrote that she surrounded her with cats. For some reason, he accused her of once ruining children's souls. The message was monstrous. Its author was immediately blocked, so Vera Maksimovna could not even ask him simply what she did to him. With shaking hands, the seventy-year-old woman dripped some heart drops, drank them, sat in a chair, and caught her breath.

Then she remembered that in such cases you need to mentally surround yourself with large mirrors with the mirror surface facing outwards, say simple words: “Let all the evil that was intended for me return to the author as a reflection.”

She said everything very loudly, and she felt a little better.

Then she lit a candle and cast a spell. She poured pure salt into a spoon, heated it over an open fire, poured it into a grater, covered it with a linen napkin, and placed her right palm on the napkin. The salt cooled and warmed my hand.

“Lord, cleanse my soul from filth, do not let me stumble! Save and preserve! Amen.”

Prayer helped her. It became a little easier.

The old woman sat in the dark for a long time. The stars lit up outside the window.

But a man also wrote. How did he live in the world if he accumulated so much anger? Overflowing with it. Is there no one to love for the poor? Nobody loves him? Poor and sick? Maybe his mother was bad? Didn't you caress your son? Maybe he is a loser? Untalented but with an inflated ego? By humiliating others, is this how he asserts himself?

Worldly wisdom told Vera Maksimovna that one cannot keep the feeling of hostility in oneself for long. Laughter is what saves you in such situations.

It came out of nowhere!

Vera Maksimovna laughed. For some reason she remembered one story about Alexei Maksimovich Gorky. He was walking down the street, and it landed on his hat.

Birdie! - said his fellow traveler.

It's a good thing cows don't fly!

But that’s right - good!

For thousands of well-wishing messages and reviews - one lump of dirt. It's not that much. Long live Proza.Ru! I'm staying with you.

From the book "Tales of the Hunting Row" Beta version.

An unforgettable scene from Rogozhkin’s film “peculiarities of the national hunt”, they say had a very real basis... Apparently, the film’s screenwriter heard the same story as me, but changed it, achieving greater artistic truth, vitality, so to speak. Indeed, the story may seem implausible, but...Judge for yourself:
I am telling this story as I heard it, the verisimilitude is not the responsibility of the author, but of my predecessor, for which, as they say, I bought it...
So: Northern airfield. Somewhere on the Arkhangelsk coast of the White Sea - I won’t lie, I don’t remember exactly. Mid-eighteenth.
On the runway, the “cow” slowly unscrews the screws, as in military transport aviation called An-12. The crew, except for the co-pilot, lazily finish their smoke near the lowered stern ramp. And then the “flight mechanic” notices a bull grazing nearby. And the supply in the army of those years, especially in the North, was no longer the same as in the time of Papanin... Simply put, I wanted to eat, the command staff did not often see meat, and even then, it was not meat - tears on the bones

The Khokhlyak enterprising blood of the flight attendant boiled: A COUPLE OF CENTNERS OF MEAT WALKING, AND WE HAVE ONE AT HOME... He immediately shared his idea with the commander. He, scratching his turnip and looking around (no one), waved his hand - “Just quickly!” And our valiant flyers, armed with twigs, drove the animal inside the “cow”, one, therefore, into the other... True, it was not a cow, but a bull, young, but already weighty! And, like any bull, restive! While they were pushing him onto the plane, he walked, although reluctantly. On the plane, he was tied by the horns to some fastening pieces of iron, and left in the cargo compartment, looking unkindly at the back of the crew.

Well, they drove and drove, then... the eleventh is cleared for takeoff, the An-12 runs along the runway and soars into the low northern sky. But bad luck, there was a breeze blowing over the White Sea, it was a little stormy. But they flew, I must say somewhere to the Kola, crossing the White Sea. So here it is. There is a storm over the sea, roughness, the cargo compartment is shaking, but there is nowhere to go higher, since the landing is just around the corner. The crew is driving the car, holding the “wheel in obedient, yearning hands,” and then a mysterious irregular knocking, accompanied by periodic mooing, is heard! The flight attendant (his diocese!) looks into the cargo truck: oh, horror! The bull, whose mood had not been improved by the chatter, broke off his leash and, the bastard, began to slowly disassemble Twelve from the inside, piece by piece.

He used, of course, not a screwdriver, but antlers. The crew quickly (as befits military pilots) makes a decision: overboard! And then the ramp opens, the plane sharply climbs to altitude: life is more expensive than beef! And the materiel, again, will be more intact. The little bull wanted to live, but... I couldn’t get enough of it in the An-12 and went overboard, in short. It's a pity for the bull, but the story doesn't end there.

Falling from a height of a couple of kilometers, the goby with mathematical precision comes to the MRS, peacefully fishing for herring in the middle of the White Sea. The storm is not a hindrance for the fishermen, and then the ship was shaken by a terrible blow, there was a hole in the deck! Truly, Murphy missed a lot in his life by not visiting Russia. The An-12, having completed such a sniper's bull-throwing, is decreasing, the events are already unfolding at sea!

The little bull (essentially a two-hundred-and-fifty-kilogram bomb!) falling from two miles not only pierced the deck of the MRS, but also made a significant hole in the bottom, where it got stuck. Moreover, having mutilated the pump, the beast, what can you take! The seiner begins to slowly sink. Taking into the hold no longer herring, but sea water. The captain yells into the radio, “SOS! Save us, we’re drowning, we’re leaking, we can’t liquidate it ourselves!” The port asks: “Where is the leak coming from? There are 700 meters below you, there are no rocks, The mines were cleared yesterday, What is the reason, so to speak?”

Having heard the captain's answer, they advise him, such a bastard, to have a snack! at least occasionally! But they still send help. An approaching boat takes the fishermen in distress under the side, onto the mooring lines, and tows them to the port. There's leftover ground beef! The captain of the port and the director of the fish farm begin to wonder: why did bulls suddenly start falling from the sky? In short, the stars have flown!

The ending of this story is quite messy, since the listeners (and the author) suffered from abdominal pain, spasms of facial muscles, lacrimation and shortness of breath. It's a good thing cows don't fly!