×àðëüç Áóêîâñêè
ãèòàðû
ê ñ÷àñòüþ
ó íàñ íå òàê óæ ìíîãî
ãîñòåé
íî êîãäà ìû èõ ïðèíèìàåì òî
ìîæíî çàìåòèòü ãèòàðó
ìîåé æåíû
ïðèñëîí¸ííóþ ê ñòåíêå
è òîãäà íî÷ü
ïðåâðàòèòñÿ
â ðóèíû.
"î,ãèòàðà!"
"äà" - ñêàæåò ìîÿ
æåíà.
"âû íå ïðîòèâ?"
"êîíå÷íî íåò!" -
ñêàæåò ìîÿ
æåíà.
ãîñòü
ïîäîéä¸ò ê
ãèòàðå
âåðí¸òñÿ îáðàòíî
è íà÷í¸ò
áðåí÷àòü.
"î, âû èãðàåòå?" -
ñïðîñèò ìîÿ
æåíà
"÷óòü-÷óòü".
òîãäà ãîñòü
íà÷èíàåò
èãðàòü.
ãîëîñ è ãèòàðà
íàõîäÿòñÿ
ðÿäîì
ñ âàìè.
ïî÷òè ÷òî ó âàñ
ïîä íîñîì.
ýòî îðèãèíàëüíîå
ïðîèçâåäåíèå,
êàê ñëîâà òàê è
ìóçûêà.
ìû ïîëó÷àåì âñ¸
ñàìîå ëó÷øåå.
ãîñòü
çàêàí÷èâàåò.
"áûëî ïðèÿòíî!" -
ñêàæåò ìîÿ æåíà.
à ãîñòü ñðàçó íà÷í¸ò
èãðàòü è ïåòü
äðóãóþ
âåùèöó.
ìåíÿ ýòî
îáåñêóðàæèâàåò
ïî÷åìó
ÿ íå
çíàþ.
íó, âî-ïåðâûõ, ïîòîìó ÷òî
ïåíèå íåâàæíåöêîå,
à âî-âòîðûõ
â ãèòàðå åñòü ÷òî-òî
÷òî ïðîñòî íå
íðàâèòñÿ ìíå.
òåïåðü îäíà ïåñíÿ
èä¸ò çà äðóãîé
ãîñòÿ íå îñòàíîâèøü
ó íåãî î÷åíü áîëüøîé
ðåïåðòóàð.
ñíà÷àëà
ó ìåíÿ íà÷èíàåòñÿ
ãîëîâîêðóæåíèå,
ïîòîì íåìíîãî
ïîäòàøíèâàåò.
íàêîíåö-òî ÿ
ãîâîðþ:
"ÏÎÆÀËÓÉÑÒÀ!
ÕÂÀÒÈÒ!"
ãîñòü
ñïîêîéíî
êëàä¸ò ãèòàðó
íà
êîôåéíûé ñòîëèê.
"Õýíê" - ñêàæåò ìîÿ
æåíà - "÷òî ñ òîáîþ
ÑÒÐßÑËÎÑÜ?"
"ÿ íå âûíåñó
ýòîãî" - îòâå÷ó
ÿ.
ãîñòü
áóäåò óæå
ó äâåðè.
îíè ñòàíóò
ïðîùàòüñÿ.
"ìíå î÷åíü æàëü" -
ñêàæåò ìîÿ
æåíà.
"âñ¸ íîðìàëüíî" - îòâåòèò
ãîñòü
ñ ë¸ãêîé óëûáêîé.
ïîòîì îí èëè îíà
èñ÷åçíóò.
"òû" - ñêàæåò ìîÿ
æåíà - "òû ëþáèøü
ðàíèòü ÷óâñòâà
ëþäåé!"
"ÿ íåíàâèæó ãèòàðû!" -
ãîâîðþ ÿ - "ëèøü îòâðàòèòåëüíûå
ëþäè èãðàþò íà
ãèòàðàõ".
"ìû òîëüêî ÷òî ïîòåðÿëè
äðóãà!"
"íó" - ãîâîðþ
ÿ
è ñ óäîâîëüñòâèåì
ïîäíèìàþñü ïî
ëåñòíèöå.
from:"Night Torn Mad with Footsteps"
18.12.19
guitars
luckily
we don’t have many
visitors
but when we do
sometimes one will
notice my wife’s
guitar
propped against
the wall
and then the
night
will turn to
ruin.
“oh, a guitar!”
“yes,” my wife will
say.
“do you mind?”
“of course not!”
my wife will
say.
the visitor will
go get the
guitar
come back
sit down
and begin
strumming
it.
“oh, you play?”
my wife will
ask.
“a little
bit.”
the visitor will
then begin to
play.
the voice
and the
guitar are
right next to
you,
almost under
your nose.
it is an
original
work,
both the
words and the
music.
we get the
best of
everything.
the visitor
finishes.
“that was
nice!” my wife
will explain.
and the visitor
will begin
right away
to play and sing
another
original.
to me it is
embarrassing,
I don’t know
why.
well, first because
the singing
isn’t all that
good and
second because
there is something
about a guitar
that I just don’t
like.
now
there is one song
after another.
there’s no stopping
the visitor,
he or she
has a very large
repertoire.
at first I grow
dizzy, then a bit
nauseous.
the music continues.
for what seems
a lifetime.
I will finally
say,
“PLEASE!
STOP!”
the visitor will
quietly put
the guitar down
on the
coffee table.
“Hank!” my wife
will say,
“what’s WRONG
with you?”
“I can’t stand
it,” I will
answer.
the visitor will
then be at the
door.
they will be
leaving.
“I’m sorry,”
my wife will
say.
“it’s all
right,” the visitor
will
respond with a
little smile.
then he or she will be
gone.
“you,” my wife
will say, “you like
to hurt people’s
feelings!”
“I hate guitars,”
I say, “only awful
people play
guitars.”
“we’ve just lost
a friend!”
“so?” I
say
and walk
gratefully
up the
stairs.
no man