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Луна по имени Джордж Харрисон - Семь шагов за горизонт [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
roomd

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Луна по имени Джордж Харрисон [Aug. 31st, 2015|11:29 pm]
roomd
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[Current Music |Iszoloscope][The Audient Void]

Arlington Blvd в районе Ферфакса абсолютно прямой, но очень холмистый; свернув на него, прямо от середины дороги не торопясь оторвалась огромная кровавая луна шириной со всю дорогу; повисела немного и неохотно спустилась обратно. Напомнила мне о странной книжке "Dhalgren" [?/5], которую я начал читать в феврале, а закончил только в самолёте BWI->KEF.

Столько времени на неё ушло не сколько из-за длины в 16000 киндловских позиций, сколько из-за перенасыщенности, плотной, как жидкость, которую ещё немного сожми, и она кристаллизуется. Заканчивая страницу, часто сложно впомнить, чем она начиналась. По этой причине мне сложно читать поэзию, потому что я стараюсь относиться к ней рационально, хотя надо -- как к запаху, в котором нет информации, только эмоции.

Действия там на произведение в 10 раз короче. Говорят, что это похоже на Улисса Джойса (которого я не смог читать). Перескоки с философии на бессмысленное насилие в городе выпавшем из причинно-следственной связи на гомо/гетероэротику на распавшиеся воспоминания на расовые проблемы на цикличность философии. Иногда мне думалось, что за претенциозную ерунду я читаю, и зачем я дальше трачу на это время. Пару раз откладывал её на месяц-полтора. Часто -- на недели. Но иногда казалось, что это гениально, и просто моего слабого разумения не хватает. Самое правильное отношение к таким книгам как ко сну.


“You have no purpose?” “Mine’s the same as everybody else’s; in real life, anyway: to get through the next second, consciousness intact.” The next second passed.
///
“Charcoal,” he wrote down, in small letters, “like the bodies of burnt beetles, heaped below the glittering black wall of the house on the far corner.” He bit at his lip, and wrote on: “The wet sharpness of incinerated upholstery cut the general gritty stink of the street. From the rayed hole in the cellar window a grey eel of smoke wound across the sidewalk, dispersed before” at which point he crossed out the last two words and substituted, “vaporized at the gutter. Through another window,” and crossed out window, “still intact, something flickered. This single burning building in the midst of dozens of other whole buildings was,” stopped and began to write all over again: “Charcoal, like the bodies
///
What have I invested in interpreting disfocus for chaos?
///
“I wonder sometimes if the purpose of the artistic community isn’t to provide a concerned social matrix which simultaneously assures that no member, regardless of honors or approbation, has the slightest idea of the worth of his own work.”
///
Sometimes, when I’m walking around, I think maybe my heart is going to stop. So I feel it, just to make sure it’s going. Which is funny, because if I’m lying down, about to go to sleep, and I can hear my heart going, I have to move into another position, or I get scared—” “—that it might stop and you’ll hear it?” (это просто как ножом точно мои мысли)
///
“I’ve never wanted to kill myself,” he said. “Never in my life. Sometimes I thought I was going to—because I’d gotten some crazy compulsion, to jump off a building or throw myself under a train, just to see what dying was like. But I never thought that life wasn’t worth living, or that there was any situation so bad where just sitting it out wouldn’t fix it up—that’s if I couldn’t get up and go somewhere else. But not wanting to kill myself doesn’t stop me thinking about death."
///
I cannot have a home where I hear the neighbors shrieking. I cannot. Because when the neighbors are shrieking, I cannot maintain the peace of mind necessary for me to make a home.
///
There’s something wonderful about engineering, you know. I mean, you go in and you solve problems, you make things, with your hands, with your mind. You go in, and you have a problem to work with, and when you’ve finished solving it, you’ve…well, done something with real, tangible results.
///
I let my head fall back in this angry season. There, tensions I had hoped would resolve, merely shift with the body’s machinery. The act is clumsy, halting, and without grace or reason. What can I read in the smell of her, what message in the code of her breath? This mountain opens passages of light. The lines on squeezed lids cage the bursting balls. All efforts, dying here, coalesce in the blockage of ear and throat, to an a-corporal lucence, a patterning released from pleasure, the retained shadow of pure idea.
///
Three people tried to say nothing in particular at once.
///
Brandy sips dropped in hot knots to Kidd’s stomach and untied.
///
I realized something. About art. And psychiatry. They’re both self-perpetuating systems. Like religion. All three of them promise you a sense of inner worth and meaning, and spend a lot of time telling you about the suffering you have to go through to achieve it. As soon as you get a problem in any one of them, the solution it gives is always to go deeper into the same system. They’re all in a rather uneasy truce with one another in what’s actually a mortal battle. Like all self-reinforcing systems. At best, each is trying to encompass the other two and define them as sub-groups. You know: religion and art are both forms of madness and madness is the realm of psychiatry. Or, art is the study and praise of man and man’s ideals, so therefore a religious experience becomes just a brutalized aesthetic response and psychiatry is just another tool for the artist to observe man and render his portraits more accurately. And the religious attitude I guess is that the other two are only useful as long as they promote the good life. At worst, they all try to destroy one another... During the Middle Ages, religion was often able to redeem art. Today, however, art is about the only thing that can redeem religion, and the clerics will never forgive us that.

///
“I want wonderful and fascinating and marvelous things to happen to me and I don’t want to do anything to make them happen."
///
"All poetry is about love, death, or the changing of the seasons. Well, here the seasons do not change. So I’m leaving.”
///
...all the aesthetic diseases of the times which cause the worthless to be praised and the worthy to be ignored.
///
Having chosen, I am free.
///
“By every big city there’s always some sort of large swamp nearby, usually of about the same area. It keeps the smog down, supplies most of the oxygen, and half a dozen other absolutely essential things. New York has the Jersey Flats, San Francisco, the whole muddled-out Oakland edge of the bay. You fill the swamp in, the smog goes up, the sewage problem gets out of hand, and the city becomes unlivable. No way to avoid"
///
Someday I’ll die, turned irrelevantly through his mind: Death and artichokes. Heaviness filled his ribs; he rubbed his chest for the reassuring systolic and diastolic thumps. Not that I really think it might stop, he thought: only that it hasn’t just yet. Sometimes (he thought), I wish I couldn’t feel it. (Someday, it will stop.)
///
“Most of the time in my life is spent lying around getting ready to fall asleep.”
///
I go down a street: buildings are burning. I go down the same street the next day. They’re still burning. Two weeks later, I go down the same street and nothing looks like it’s been burned at all. Maybe time is just running backward here. Or sideways... if this burning can go on forever, if besides the moon there really is a George, if Tak kicks me out for a glass-eyed spade, if days can disappear like pocketed dollars, then there is no telling. Or only the telling, but no reasoning.
///
Free of name and purpose, what do I gain? I have logic and laughter, but can trust neither my eyes nor my hands.
///
Adjusting the frame to accommodate the day, I am swollen with terror at my inability to distinguish, at any action, what differentiates time after from time before.
///
“that’s a funny thing about privacy. If there’re two or three people in a room, it’s really hard to be by yourself. If there’re nine or ten, especially if you’re all living together, if you want to be alone, all you have to do is think I want to be alone and everybody else has somebody to pay attention to, and you’re alone. I had two roommates in an apartment my first year at Columbia; we had four rooms and it was really impossible. A couple of years later I spent December, January, February and March in three rooms on East Second Street in New York with about ten guys and ten chicks. Cold as a motherfucker, and we were in there all day. All we did is eat, ball, and deal dope: Nicest time of my life.”
///
“I’m not a male chauvinist pig,” Kid said. “I’m a commie faggot pervert.”
///
Lots of people do things lots better than lots of others; but, today, so many people do so many things very well, and so many people are seriously interested in so many different things people do for their own different reasons, you can’t call any thing the best for every person, or even every serious person. So you just pay real attention to the real things that affect you; and don’t waste your time knocking the rest. This party—it’s ritual attention, the sort you give a social hero.
///
"When somebody uses strange words to you that you just do not understand, you have to listen for the feeling and get at the meaning that way!”
///
"The fact that you even like me, or look at me, or brush by me, or hug me, or hold me, is so surprising that after it’s over I have to go back through it a dozen times in my head to savor it and try and figure out what it was like because I was too busy being astounded while it was happening.”
///
"So I hung seventeen paintings upside down—“Come on! Stop…” she insisted, but I did anyway. Because, I explained, anyone who comes along will notice them like this, frown, maybe turn them right-side up again. And will end up looking at them a little longer. “I’m only doing it for the ones I like.”
///
there’s no place in Europe where you can go in a straight line more than eight hours by mechanical transportation without running into a different language, different currency, a different culture! How do they expect to teach three thousand years of European politics to American kids in American schools, or Russian kids in Russian schools, in a land where you can go a day by car in any direction and not cross a border? You have to have been there to understand.
///
Speech is always in excess of poetry as print is always inadequate for speech. A word sets images flying through the brain from which auguries we recall all extent and intention.
///
I’m not a poet. I’m not a hero. But sometimes I think these people will distort reality in any way to make me one. And sometimes I think reality will distort me any way to make me appear one—but that’s insanity, isn’t it? And I don’t want to be crazy again. I don’t.
///
It isn’t despair. That vanishes with enough laughter and reason. I have both of those a-plenty. I guess most people, when all is said and done, lead lives as interesting as they can possibly bear.
///
“Sometimes I can’t piss in a john if somebody’s staring right at my dick.”
///
Maundy, Tributary, Whitstanley, Horripilation, Factotum, Susquahanna, Summer-fine day.
Summary, Mopery, Titular, Wisdom, Thaumaturgy, Fictive, Samoa and five hands over.
///
What other days from my life have gone? After a week, I can’t remember five. After a year, how many days in it will you never think of again?
///
Apocalypse has come and gone. We’re just grubbing in the ashes. That simply isn’t our problem anymore.
///
one valid purpose of poets is to bring blasphemy to the steps of the altar
///
A word hits my ears and inside my head a sensory recall forms—a memory of an object, dim and out of focus, the recollection of a sound, a smell, or even a kinesthetic expectation. The recalls are unclear—there is always margin for correction. As word arrives after word, the recalls join and correct each other, grow brighter, clearer, become precise: a…huge…pink…mouse! What do I mean when I say a word means something? Probably the neuro/chemical process by which one word sounded against the ear generates one inner recall. Human speech has so little variance to it, so little creativity: I sit on the steps and scan an hour’s conversation around me (my own included) and find once two words in new juxtaposition. Every couple of days such a juxtaposition will evoke something particularly apt about what the speaker (usually Lady of Spain or D-t; seldom me) is talking about.
///
I’m very suggestive. Labile…like they say. I incorporate things into my…reality model very quickly. Maybe too quickly. Which is what makes me crazy.
///
Mental illness is still seen as a scourge of the Lord.
///

‘When you’re paranoid, everything makes sense.’ But that’s not quite it. It’s that all sorts of things you know don’t relate suddenly have the air of things that do. Everything you look at seems just an inch away from its place in a perfectly clear pattern. Only you never know which inch to move…”
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: azbukivedi
2015-09-01 12:59 pm (UTC)
Reading is like living - sometimes it's purposeful, sometimes contemplative, often simply entertaining, and occasionally just white noise. Looks like you've stumbled on a book that can be many of those things at once - just need to find the right chapter or passage to fit the day and the mood. It sounds convoluted, beautiful, original. Most likely, it is not linear and not intended for consecutive consumption in one gulp. You read it right. Thanks for sharing!
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[User Picture]From: roomd
2015-09-01 01:27 pm (UTC)
Well said!
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