We live as long as we fly
I often write about the city where I've lived 18 out of 23 years of my life – Daugavpils. And I'm going to write about it some more now, but not just like that, but with photos taken from a heck of a height. To make it easier to understand, you can also take a look at Wikimapia. Sergey Perevalov took the shots, but who the pilot was - I have no idea. All photos are clickable, the originals are on myphoto.
Half a kilometre from my window, there is a railway marshalling yard. It looks like this (HIGH TRAFFIC!). My building is the long, ribbed one in the centre of the rectangle marked "Richnet".
On summer nights, the finest ambient music in the world drifts over from there. It consists of the high-pitched, piercing metallic sounds made by the wheels of railway cars rubbing against the rails as they brake. This song is especially beautiful at dawn — it brings a feeling of utter psychedelia and the unbearable brightness of existence. From time to time, the high frequencies are interspersed with mid-range sounds—the clatter of empty railway cars and the ghostly voices of dispatchers. Sometimes they are joined by the deep rumble of a train passing in the distance. Occasionally, one can hear dogs barking in the residential neighbourhood, the engines of passing cars, and the footsteps of early pedestrians. But the cosmic half-screech, half-moan of the wheels is beyond compare. Only recently did I realise that I grew up with this sound. To me, it is intoxicating and beautiful. It is a pity that I cannot describe it in words as I hear it. Recording it would require a good microphone, and even then there is no guarantee that outsiders would understand its beauty. Those raised on Brian Eno's languid, amorphous passages do not appreciate genuine, "industrial" ambient music.
In winter, the music grows slightly quieter, but something else becomes much more noticeable. The smell. The smell of the substances used to treat the sleepers, the smell of oil and fuel oil, the smell of smoke from the small factories beyond the tracks. It is as sharp and piercing as the screech of steel wheels against the rails. The uninitiated would call it bitter smoke. But it stirs my blood and makes my heart beat faster. It is exhilarating, powerful, and lets me feel the fullness of the universe. Yet only my favourite music—the music of the rails—allows me to understand its beauty.
As a kid, I used to read the magazine "Tramway". It was one hell of a psychedelic read. I was a sensible little guy back then, way sharper, calmer, and kinder than I am now. That's why the surrealism-packed texts from the magazine sent me into a prolonged stupor. My processor jammed, as the comedian Zadornov puts it. But then again, trying to grasp the unfathomable wonders of the magazine, I acquired a sense of humor (I hope) and the ability to digest "lyricists" and their literary jokes. And then I grew up and started devouring the publication that my older sister used to read - a teen magazine called "We".
And now some kind souls have scanned and uploaded "Tramway" to a special website. Those for whom this word doesn't evoke sweet nostalgia probably shouldn't bother downloading it.
For them, I'd rather drop a quote so they can appreciate the vibe.
The Moonfish is floundering in the sand, unable to swim away.
– We'll fish her out right now, – the Panda rejoiced.
– Where are you, cough-cough, planning to fish me out from, – the Moonfish coughs, – if the sea dried up ages ago? Look at how the sun is blazing!
– Can you really live without water? – Kolya marvels.
– You can't, – the fish sighs. But I just kind of adapted . . .
I saw the painting "Truth" in an encyclopedia, and it was awesome, but who knew the rest were just as good!
Feast your eyes on high art