Coronavirus NOW

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Coronavirus has thrown the world’s political clique into the throes of the camp. Naive Bulgarians want our political gangs to unite, but when they unite, it is not for the better. If unification made the force, twenty parliamentary fools would make a clever man; the sum of the professors of physics, cosmology and mathematics – one Einstein.

Before pathology, the various microbes, bacteria and viral strains there were literary masterpieces:

“Love in the Time of Cholera” by Marquez,

The Plague by Camus,

“Feast during the plague” by Pushkin,

The Scarlet Plague by Jack London,

The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton,

“Kalki” by Gore Vidal

and the pearl in the crown, the ten days of extravagance

– “Decameron” by Boccaccio.

And they are all artistic immunizations against the fear neuroses that Mutafchiiski’s “headquarters” pathetically instilled in us.

Caught in the world trade networks as “Danone”, lactobacillus bulgaricus, Turkized under the name “yogurt”, fades and slowly dies (did you see who changed whose name?).

For the last “hurray!” I heard: “distance performances”, “distance learning” and “flu vacation”. Thanks to the coronavirus ….

Hell of a funny virus, hey! The Attorney General can’t arrest him, another genius wants the armed forces to intervene, but we don’t have an F-16 yet, the virus is flying. It took me back to my childhood when I was told to wash my hands and sneeze in my handkerchief, not against people. Like a time.

Then, after the national mourning for the anniversary of the hanging of Levski, came May 24, the most Bulgarian holiday. We manifested the children in the Kingdom of Bulgaria; we waved Bulgarian flags and sang:

“Go, revived people,

go to a bright future,

with literature, this new force,

you have renewed your destinies!

Forward! Science is the sun,

which is gray in the souls! ”

The kids in the kingdom knew that the words were by Mihajlovski, the melody of Pipkov.

I lived on September 9, 1944 and November 10, 1989, so I lived in three lines. I rolled away, but I did not see funny miracles like the coronavirus, although I saw all sorts of nonsense; for example, when a misunderstood democracy erupted, America’s first primary school teacher, the new Kiryak Stefchov, handed the girls on May 24 instead of flags, canes, and pompoms, and the girls jumped like American cheerleaders.

In the Kingdom of Bulgaria, we, seven-year-old first-graders with diligently bitten tongues and inked hands, wrote with pens with pen ink, thick and thin lines, hooks and canes in our notebooks with wide and narrow lines, and covers with Botev’s embossed faces. and Levski. The American invention of the ballpoint-pen was not yet widespread, and we preferred the pens because you turn a broken pen into the blade of a funnel that you fire with a sarbakan (the tube of a weapon, the forerunner of a bow and arrow). We had spelling and calligraphy classes. We learned “letter and reading” at the age when today’s children do not read, but chat (they chat like chatterboxes). And the secondary is massing, ie. functional illiteracy; after three seconds, they stop understanding what they are reading and what they are hearing.

We, the fast-paced readers, knew by heart what Botev and Levski had said, but we read whatever we could. We came across Robert Burns, the Scots poet, who acted as a single malt scotch when Vlado Svintila translated the poems “Findley” and “In the Blossoming Rye” and Bulgarian singers attacked them like a horde of bashibozuk, not realizing that Burns was not for their mouths spoon and without asking Vlado Svintila, they treated him like a lyricist in their disgusting videos.

When the grateful Scots posthumously sculpted a monument of expensive black granite to Robert Burns, his poor mother said:

“Robbie, Robbie, we asked for bread, they gave us a stone.”

Recently, the anniversary of the hanging of Levski was celebrated with various initiatives; students read their infantile talentless works, which they called essays and poems, mayors and mayors recited parrot-learned banalities. But verbally weak children’s leagues came out strong Russians, singers, bagpipers and guslars. Why this is so, I do not know. He claims to know Gotthold Lessing (Laokoon: Oder, Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie).

Levski biographer Mercia McDermott was also quoted, whose name (empty English phonetics!) Is pronounced Marsha McDermott. Young people who did not read but chatted said what they would ask the Deacon if they met him.

I, the old man, would ask him where his grave was and why he wrote in his notebook “People” with four question marks, resembling gallows. What does this puzzle of four questions mean ????

Where is his grave today, no one knows, today no one knows; Nikolai Haitov pointed to the basement of the church “St. Petka” in the subway between the Central Department Store and the Sheraton, historians said “Who knows”. And I don’t know, and I’m powerless in the face of the puzzle with the four questions. Only Dr. Daritkova and the whistleblowers Yordanka Fandakova and Tsveta Karayancheva know everything. The people who spat on the hopeless nurses are politically skinny, hissing and spitting.

It seems to me that a single PR Slaveykov solved the enigma with the four questions of the Deacon:

We are not a people, we are not a people, but a carcass,

people who can’t do anything.

Everything is difficult, everything is difficult for us!

“I do not know!” “I can not!” – a common voice,

And we don’t know, we can’t, we won’t

to work for ourselves over time.

We only know and can and will

each other viciously eat …

Between them, peaceful, submissive …

We are always trampled on who came back from here,

because we are tutkun, because we are not capable …

Everyone cries out: Yaman is our hall,

and to everyone the measure is a ruin …

We are not a people, we are not a people, but a carcass,

I will say it again and I will finish with that …

PR Slaveykov reproaches us for inaction. But he incited the Sofia youth, who was not reading but reading, to action, and she vandalized and stole the cane of his son Pencho from the monument on Slaveykov Square.

End of this Easter egg.

/ DI copyright



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