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Friday, December 9, 2016

Dead-end humanity


Try to say that the constellations do not determine the course of life! No, the coincidence of earth and heaven — not fiction! Last year, the year of the Horse, was declared the Year of culture (is it culture, not draft Pegasus?). Last year — the year of the Goat, was named the Year of literature (isn’t she bleats helplessly and does not stand in the center of many artistic works from the tale of the seven goats to the “Constellation Kozlotura” Fazil Iskander?). And this year, the year of Monkey is Year of movie: did the actors and the screen does not mimic in monkey reality?


photo: Alex geldings

The devaluation of eternal values

It is difficult to survive the artist in the era of overproduction of cultural values. Written, produced, shot on film, is placed on the stage more than the human brain can absorb. The devaluation of eternal values. Enhanced rejection of personality in art. It seems (based on what we observe today): boring, terrible will be the gloomy world of the future! Still, dull languish — not literary masterpieces (why do they need their rational sense?), without the usual theater (the one that stretches the heart and not turned into a chain of rough circus theme), with no compassionate of painting (but with a predominance of exclusively geometric constructions and formal portraits). What to remain in this optimized to the last drop and the production plant on the planet that manufactures of the last remnants of natural commodities?

But, it could be something irrational will invade a well-oiled pipeline purely “gesamtnote” and break the cycle of freedom (albeit relative) in the bleak routine and widespread terrorism? Stupid terrorism after all is the climax, the goal to strive for (perhaps unconscious) of modern society.

Pushkin called his age is cruel. “In my cruel age I praised freedom”. What would he say about the subsequent time? Stalin’s purges? Nazi concentration camps?

Guide

In my younger years, I wanted to do (for themselves and people close to me) your personal guide to Moscow, where he outlined would be memorable only to me attractions: places of meeting girls (and Mature women), partying with friends, the trails of childhood and adolescence, prominent figures of the Penates, with whom was lucky enough to be the acquaintance and who was a guest (or walking with them on city streets and alleys)…

Now instead of all the romantic reverent report on the lived and prochuvstvovanii suggests a very different directory, narrating the editorial office (not a memorial), where Dima Kholodov was blown up, the house which killed lawyer Markelov (I have not seen him ever, but watched the documentary Chronicles the murder, it is imprinted in the consciousness), here, shot Politkovskaya, then — Listyev, on this bridge struck the Germans, from the old mansion was kidnapped and taken the old lady to getting rid of the last resident of this ancient abode, to seize possession of it.

Such substitution has occurred over time in my fantasy guide.

It is the same on a global scale (you can create your customized Atlas): Tunis, where I wandered around the amphitheater, the Roman equal, are now associated with dead on the beach by tourists, the promenade in nice, ‘ve read so much about, forever painted in bloody hues… Spring Paris, where I was touched by the friendly grin of the Negro, sells stuff, will not return to the blessed deteriorations era, to tenderest recollections are adjacent photographs shot in the cozy restaurants of visitors. The police with their throats slit will forever remain on the Prim and proper streets of London, which I’m so exciting strayed.

Jack the Ripper — sunk, obsolete, alien to me age is seen only in the Museum Madame Tussauds. And new today, a witness and participant of which I involuntarily became is ripped open uticacribia cruelty, in the footsteps of Hitler’s concentration camps walking the world.

Opilochnaja slot memory

What is the memory? Which substance it is? Perceptible if at least some mechanical locators? And what (and who — besides me) needed? Not the memory of animals, which, based on the experience, helps to survive and to overcome natural attrition, and impractical — optional, but useless if the human memory is… Because for some reason it is as long as her carrier (now this term denotes a USB flash drive or floppy disk), there is… And then when he dies, what becomes of her?

…Entered the bus mother and son. Both ugly, bad dressed, glowing with happiness. She was confused, didn’t know how to use the driver bought a ticket, I taught her to put the card to the validator. The holidays brought the boy to Moscow to see the capital, and were so proud and taken the journey. Was unaware of alcosta his miserable impoverished existence.

“Only with the sorrow I feel solidarity,” wrote Joseph Brodsky. It is this unity with trying to join in the holiday capital of the whirlwind mother and son I have experienced. I remembered a nondescript own childhood and how happy mom is when she was able to teach me some simple joy.

…In the Church crowd was the funeral of the dead: in the number were several coffins, covered with white veils, like blankets. Coffins, respectively, seemed cereals horses. It was, so to speak, shared, brotherly-sisterly herd memorial service. Likely, it cost cheaper than individual ones. Then came the personal service: the old lady from a wealthy family father admonished last pilgrimage exclusive. Hard to tell what the advantages of giving this separation and selection. Arrive at the light is not public transport, and in particular limousine? Will be noticed by the apostles and in particular blagopriyatno order to warm and taken to heaven?

Maybe I remember that Liturgy is for I there, he was thinking about her and about the private and common ways of pretknoveniya to the afterlife realm?

Stowaway

Here’s a collection of sunken copylocal in the slot memory.

I drew attention to it, when were walking in the Park virgin’s field. He stood near the temple of Archangel Michael and running a hand through his half-mast pants, rubbed his thigh. Istykana pants, faded baseball cap and expensive, with someone else’s feet, I suspect, boots fashionable configurations were talking about extreme promiscuity and financial troubles of the media (talking now not about camouflaged in the brain of the flash drive) of the clothes.

His buddy, meanwhile, was urinating near a booth “Ice-cream”. Soon they were joined by their third friend, they sat on a bench, sitting in a row, and gibberd.

After an hour in the bus, I again ran into him. He climbed into the cabin at the bus stop near the temple. Ducked under the outstretched metal tentacles validator and sat on an empty seat. The driver did not touch the bus. Opened the window, through which was selling tickets, and asked:

— You gonna pay?

— No money — surely ottarabanil dashing stowaway.

— Then go on foot. Or go by taxi.

— If not on the bus, the more there is by taxi — launched into a philosophical debate hare.

The driver was resolute:

— You when you come to the store and say that you have no money, your bread and sausage free offer? So fare you have to pay.

“I’m only one stop….

. Young legs close.

— I’m tired. I work in the temple.

Then I remembered his scratching, and his pochivshego other, and the third, apparently, companion. If these three worked in the temple, on the porch.

Politely need to ask, is settled by the driver. He tired to stand and argue. — And not to steal!

— I don’t steal… Well I’ll take… please, ” with an effort forced the owner of a beautiful Shoe.

It was not easy for him concession to good manners. He did not want and could neither pay nor thanks.

The bus moved off. The stowaway really went to the next one. For me remained a riddle: why not to walk along the evening streets? Where is he so tired?

Or spoiled so that was too lazy to move?

Dead-end humanity

How many times did I otpaivala and waved from this definition, and suggests in the title of any of my publications… dead-end humanity… And each time it came back and stubbornly (and helpful) nemaliales in the first line…

…Girls drinking beer at the big table in the buffet restaurant. There were seven of them — different, dissimilar as seven raznoobraznyh notes: blonde, brunette, slim, plump, short-haired and long hair… the General was rallying the drink. Although the beer is also different: bottle and draught, light and dark. Slurped from cups and bottles, empty containers and buy more new portions. The company — not to say hilarious, rather frantically-unhappy — dejected stoked dissatisfaction with fate, luck into a frothy oblivion. Yes, the meal I did not like a holiday, birthday or office party. Thought: they have nothing to do, they don’t have Affairs and lovers, husbands? Apparently, it was not. And if there were, we lost, lost beer. That is, did not answer queries and was more disappointed than inspired. What was the conversation? I wasn’t listening, but heard about nothing full salabue. Tersely mumbled, exchanging terse remarks, did not laugh. Maybe if it picked up a good book and immersed himself in the world — I apologize for the banality Natasha Rostova and Pierre Bezukhov, brewer’s view of the world would change?

At that time I was pomagala that the literature consistently and meaningfully cast out from life.

Dog

Each has its own, private memory. Its fullness (landscapes, faces, words) that distinguishes one person from another. Put individual else’s stuffing — it will be different… Maybe not like his former self. This is how to pull out a book from the native cover and paste someone else’s cover.

Does not disappear, does not escape from storage memory, the dog probably lost the collar, tossing through the streets of a small town and from time to time stayed and started lingering, heart-rending, plaintive wail. One called the pain and tragedy wanted to take away?

Human memory seems to me to be the howling of a lonely dog.

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