Ilya אש Ash
@ashcomco.bsky.social
169 followers 583 following 201 posts
Poet and journalist based in and around Jerusalem. A Moscow transplant, worked in two media outlets later banned/closed in Russia. Shooting daily JLM life. Please, call me Ash. Mostly on Mastodon: zirk.us/@ash Moar: ash.com.co
![A passage from a recent theatrical review from Moscow:
Before the curtain rose, [actor and director] Vladimir Mashkov’s voice issued a warning:
“This performance presents British values that are alien to us. Please note that some of them are punishable under the laws of the Russian Federation. We wish you an unforgettable evening.”](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:wz6ryuhpl5i57kub4r3bbs2b/bafkreiejh3de3zoo7v27y2jlyuluqja34fuwbx2zrevvv6zlvnjhrvsaka)
![Near Moskovsky Train Station [in Nizhny Novgorod] we fell into the clutches of a police patrol. [poet Evgeny] Lesin, staggering with a bottle in his hand, for some reason rubbed them the wrong way.
“Let’s see your papers,” the chief thug said with an ugly grin.
“You’re an asshole, a piece of shit, and a bitch,” Lesin replied, as usual [, quoting a well-known Russian explicit poem about the toughness of poet's life].
“Well, well,” the chief thug smiled even more coldly as he examined our passports. “Moscow and Petersburg, is it? And what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“On tour!” I blurted out.
“Oh, is that so!” the man brightened up completely. “And who exactly are you, then?”
“He’s a poet, and I’m — his manager,” my subconscious answered for me.
The faces of our tormentors fell and grew bored. The passports were handed back, the tickets too, and they stopped beating Lesin over the head with a truncheon.
“Sorry for the trouble,” the chief thug snapped a salute. “Do come again!”](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:wz6ryuhpl5i57kub4r3bbs2b/bafkreif3sds24pvwtr6auroeu32dki7khz2efmzwrtmbq5suhkrmahurqa)
![THE RED ELEPHANT
The red elephant, my son's toy, you'll be the first invited into my book, so all the other wouldn't be vain.
The red elephant squeaks and whines. All the rubber toys should be squeaking, otherwise why would the air came out them&
So, despite the writings of [Alfred] Brehm, the red elephant squeaks and whines. And I'm writing in my nest high above Arbat street.
A rare bird would reach me without losing its breath. My nest braked my habit of long breaths.
My son is laughing.
He laughed when he saw the horse for the first time. He thought that it made itself four legs and a long face as a joke.
We all manufactured in different shapes, but we all have the same voice, if we're squeezed.
— Move aside, red elephant. I want to see the life without a jest and to tell it something with my voice through the squeaker.
This is the end of a feuilleton.
VICTOR SHKLOVSKY. THIRD FACTORY (1926)](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:wz6ryuhpl5i57kub4r3bbs2b/bafkreihpgfxkwycakra45p6zpculnzkqnyye5obuhfech2eb4ke5smwwp4)
