On a dump with Grandpa Vasil. Toxic environment and personal space

Greetings, my dear readers. I’m sorry that yesterday morning didn’t start with coffee. It never starts with this city drink, I'm more of an ivan tea to taste. First, a perfumed infusion from the ground, literally collected with your own hands. Secondly, my cyprus is not empty, and there must be dried mint, currant leaf, ripped right at the porch, or a handful of dried raspberries from a cold. I do not recognize your expensive espresso in capsules or tea bags, since I remember the name of this gastronomic miracle in the early 1980s: someone aptly called this tea substance in envelopes dust of Georgian roads.

But I got distracted. So, the morning started with car horns. A large black car infamously spread its belly in a puddle not far from my fence, and its driver in vain pressed on the horn, afraid to get out of the clean cabin into the dirty green slime. I don't know what I wanted. Either I, old grandfather, had to push his wagon with a heroic shoulder, or I expected that the villagers would take him out of the car in their arms. My neighbor Mityai and I built a whole “road of life” from boards so that the visitors could at least walk out of the car to us. Then the tractor waited, grabbed it “Audi”, pulled it. Then I asked him, “How did you, dear man, get into our quagmire?” You know what he said? He shrugged his shoulders and left: “He was on the navigator.” Here I discovered the depths of the abyss into which the city dwellers, blindly relying on all sorts of devices, fell. They are already turning off their senses, replacing them with electronic crutches. Why look at the road when there is a box with an arrow leading them into the most impassable wilds? When I was young, people could easily navigate the sun, we could see which side of the tree the moss grows from, we could find our way along a barely visible track, and we never got into such shameful situations as this driver. Now what? Without a satellite hanging somewhere in space, modern man will not find a way to the well, will get lost. And most importantly, the real life of such voluntary blind people does not teach anything: not a week goes by so that the next city owner of the navigator does not stumble into a dead end near my shed, does not get stuck in the mud near the village cemetery, does not stop helplessly at the shore of our river-perfection ... Strange, he says, there's a bridge on the navigator! It was literally three years ago during the icebreaker.

There's a lot of weirdness in town these days. I'm still, I've told you before, working on my son's laptop. And I was surprised to read on the network that you have a new fashion in your city: almost so, you need to immediately run to a psychologist. And complain to him about the “toxic” environment, “abuse” by his spouse or superiors, violation of some “personal boundaries”. Like little kids. Psychologists understand that this topic is only a joy. But why do you not value yourself so much, trust the solution of personal problems to some girls from social networks who just yesterday broke away from the nipple? In the village, personal boundaries were always easily and simply marked by a border on the fields or a fence between the plots. And if anyone was wrong, then the same uncle Mityai could directly explain, without any "abuse." It is bitter to watch how people have forgotten how to normally perceive ordinary everyday criticism, how they fall into the childish denial of their obvious mistakes, how they seek support for their whims and childish views on the side

And I see that everywhere. How, for example, has communication changed? I used to correspond with my mother from the army, one letter from the Far East to our village took almost a month. Every letter weighed in gold. A hundred times before you write anything. You put your soul into any word! And now they have replaced human emotions with your yellow faces (smiley faces), in their eyes it rumbles, like you look at any message.

In short, we are further and further from the simple, human, human. There are more and more electronic “assistants” around us that don’t really help as much as make us robots. Increasingly, we (or rather, you) become subject to strange winds, which we pass off as trendy trends, although in fact it is only whim and whim.

To be honest, my grandfather is upset. I’m going to have another tea, maybe it will get better