суббота, декабря 31, 2005

welcome to this special holiday edition of sub-space

wed like to welcome you folks to this special holiday edition of sub space live, so to speak, were still alive, from buddy's head. what do you say to the folks, buddy?
- welcome buddies! welcome and merry new year!
-thats right little buddy, new years is coming!
-bah humbug! as they say.
-come on buddy, tell us how you fell then, dont hold back.
-i feel like berlin in the eighties; i feel like a glass roof in a train station; i feel like a man!
-yeah! applause for buddy.......
-and i feel like dvds!
-oh, come on now buddy, easy up on the dvds...
-i feel like a tornado with no mother! a potato with no brother! a child with no game...
-wow! applause for buddy on this special edition of sub-space.....
-no! i feel like a wicked wicked tom cruise has done; i feel like bears in mini skirts eating honey to russian folk songs and dancing on their hands in late july when NOBODY should be eating honey! i feel like a miracle of modern science! long live the king! long live the king!

суббота, декабря 24, 2005

take my picture

take my picture, make me famous, take my picture. put my face in the tabloid press and tell children about my name and what it means.
everyone stood around and took my picture, and some people pointed their fingers; one lady smiled and smiled, she was loving it. she didnt know who i was at first, until the photographer started to take my picture, then she started to smile. before, when she didnt know, and i said: take my picture, make me famous, and she just frowned and said nothing, but laughed under her breath and off to the side in a mean, bragging around way.
but in the end, they took my picture, and everybody smiled, even the other ones.

четверг, декабря 22, 2005

A Question of Upbringing

Anthony Powell’s first installation in his ‘A Dance to the Music of Time’ series sets the standard for the subsequent eleven novellas. Given it was written some twenty years before the final novella, it is a standard curiously consistent throughout the series. One wonders whether Powell diligently planned every miniscule detail of the series before embarking upon the actual process of writing.

Like all of the novellas in the series, ‘A Question of Upbringing’ is notable for possessing one extremely strong feature – a tender, almost obsessive, attention to the craft of the English language – and one extremely weak feature – a refusal to countenance the deeper philosophical questions of our existence, indeed to construct a storyline of any kind other than ‘this is life’. This is not to say that Powell completely ignores human existence – a series entitled ‘A Dance to the Music of Time’ could hardly fail to comment on this subject. Rather, Powell’s observations on human existence are frequent but fleeting. Often they ring true, sometimes they are banal. Powell is not seeking to solve any ethical dilemmas here.

The great strength of ‘A Question of Upbringing’ is Powell’s attention to each carefully constructed sentence. His writing is elegant and often ornate – at times even pedantic. Indeed, many of his sentences are extremely long and permeated with an abundance of punctuation; yet they are read clearly and easily. It is an unusual and perhaps old-fashioned style of writing, but one that appeals, at the least, to me.

Though I may, of course, be completely wrong, I do seem to recall Powell’s work coming under some considerable criticism from Salman Rushdie. My recollections of Rushdie’s criticism are vague, but seem to revolve around a general complaint that Powell’s novellas are boring. I was not at all bored by ‘A Question of Upbringing’, but I can sympathise with Rushdie’s criticism (or at least, with my recollection of it). Upon reading the final page of this first novella, the reader is left with the feeling: ‘is that all?’ The answer, of course, is: ‘no’. There are eleven more novellas to follow, but nonetheless, reading the entire series does not entirely rid the reader of this uneasy feeling that perhaps they have wasted a large amount of time. Unlike Dostoevsky, Powell’s intention is not to ponder over the larger moral paradoxes of our existence, but rather to feed a whole series of reflections into our minds, presumably that we may bubble over them at our leisure, and extract from them what we will. He certainly has no blatantly ideological wheelbarrow to push, no sermon to deliver, not even any confusion over the vagaries of life. He simply depicts the lives of the narrator and his contemporaries, without passing judgment or seeking further enlightenment.

Frankly, at times I found the prudishness and conservatism of the narrator to be quite off-putting, but was magnanimous enough to put this down to the context of Powell’s own upbringing, and indeed the historical context of the novella. From this point of view, it can be said that Powell has done well to so accurately capture the concerns – mundane and childish as they may be – of the early 20th century English upper-middle class.

On the whole, I recommend ‘A Question of Upbringing’, if only because Powell’s writing style is unusual enough to warrant reading, and it is such a short novella (only 200 pages) that the reader has little to lose and much to gain.

вторник, декабря 20, 2005

driving is for buttheads

i cant drive! i dont even want to see driving! when i see people, in their little car machines, i turn my head around and look at the ground, and not at the stupid asshole car machines! i hate them! they are for little chicken brains. they are for the marginalized and the abused who like to feel power instead of life. i dont like power. i like life. i like the rain. i like the warmth of friendship. i like being with you, and i like being alone. but not power. oh no, not me.

I luv da machine

Because we don't have to beat the shit out of one another. We can just be little chicken afraid of telling what we really think over the Xmas turkey and give meanings to the definition of humanity. Darn cowards little beings. Instead of that, we're here, typing this bile and spread the humor over the world. Go on ! Good job chicken !

its an answer

thats a typical mistake, really just typical; sitting around, braggin around about how you make mistakes and everyone has elastic in their jeans and its not your fault, its not you mistake. well, thats your mistake, you just made the biggest mistake - being a stupid asshole with wings on your shoes and stars in your eyes! shame on you! shame! how dare you! brag around like that!

I'm not responsible for your family mistakes

If you don't like your name, really, there is nothing I can do.
If you don't like the way you wear your jacket with your funny elastic shoulders, there's nothing I can do.
If you don't like the way you sound when you speak around about these little incidents of life, I can just listen to you and notice that and give you reasons to hate your parents.

четверг, декабря 15, 2005

another bi-monthly salary

In fact, these guys eat money or they put it into socks or under a cheap persian-style carpet, they put it aside for one day, when it would be sunny and bright enough to burn it on pina coladas and havana cigars, or between two wide spread silicon legs of some robotic prostitutes, because, here we are, we don't money, what we is love.

But here we go again

-Gave some money back
-a card for the internet cafe
-food : Hawaiian pizzas, chicken fingers, barbecue sauce, cranberries sauce, bananas, beer
-a lot of soap, enough for 4 months

and of course nothing for the charity, nobody deserves nothing.

one bi-monthly salary

'i dont have any money left?'
'pay day was last week...?'
'what did you spend your money on?'
'i bought twenty dvds, a belt thats useless because its too big, food...'
'what kind of food?'
'oui. and champagne and martinis. and i bought a card for the internet cafe and sausages.'
'anything else?'
'i bought shampoo. and dried fruit.'

понедельник, декабря 12, 2005

Cuty Cuty Cute


This Bleak State of Abandonment 2 (with apologies to Andrew Lang)

Ah! leave the smog, the opulence, the screams
Of Moscow, and the black-clad street.
For still, by the Australian shore,
The warmth of the wind is narcotic.
Still, still the suns of summer greet
The backyard of Seth,
And yobbos still their songs repeat,
Where breaks the blue Australian sea.

суббота, декабря 10, 2005

fine me please, find me please, find me please, find me please, fine me please, fine me please, fine me please

Peter Forsberg 9 (unassisted)
Minnesota power-play
hooking - 2 min
hooking - 2 min
tripping - 2 min
hooking - 2 min
fighting - 5 min
fighting - 5 min
tripping - 2 min

good job buddy

i cant stand on my hands in the shower
i cant find the oboe you left under my pillow
in agony
in despair
at the leaving
i would say
at any leaving

i cant eat my own fingers
because they arent chocolate covered
and i certainly cant invent a machine
to cut my two hands off
and maybe my feet
because im just not the creative type
though im sure if i could everything would be alright
everythings gonna be alright
everythings gonna be alright
if i can just finish that damn machine

Song dedicated to my former lover

I can't fuck
the wall facing me
the wall behind me
the wall beside me
the ceiling
the floor
I can't
fuck you
fuck y'all

вторник, декабря 06, 2005

Brunswick Depot

I was so damned caught up in finding the right angle that I didn’t realise the security guard was talking to me.
‘What’s that, mate?’ I asked.
‘Who are you?’ he repeated with some impatience. ‘This is private property.’
‘Just a local resident.’
‘What are you doing?’
I’da thought it was obvious.
‘Taking a photo,’ I said.
‘Well, you need a green or orange vest if you want to be here,’ he replied.
‘A what?’
He struggled to overcome his impatience.
‘A green or orange vest,’ he repeated.
‘Righto,’ I said. ‘I just want to take a photo, mate.’
He edged into the shot, swept a hand through his hair, and said: ‘You need a vest.’
‘Listen mate,’ I replied. ‘Can I take a photo or not?’
‘If a tram comes around the corner, it’ll hit you,’ he said. ‘You need a green or orange vest.’
I tilted the camera slightly to exclude him from the shot.
‘Okay,’ I said, and the camera went ‘click’. ‘Thanks for that.’
He gave me an obliging nod.
‘About those vests…’ I said, and his patience ran out.
‘Get out of here,’ he said, but I’d already got what I wanted, and a smile to boot.

понедельник, декабря 05, 2005

this bleak state of abandonment

and if life helps now and then with terrors that transcend the parrot-wisdom of banal experience, the the petty bourgeios mentality despairs.
candidate A despairs. we wont name his name, but we might be called upon to add that he hails from somewhere in the general direction of the antipodes. and as we said he despairs because he has no reason to say what he says nor believe what he believes. to be quite accessible: though he should say he believes in his cultures altruism he hates everyone and is nice only when in fear or awe. and in wardly he despairs.
candidate B also despairs. neither will we unmask his name, but we will note that judging from his speech he seems to be from the nearer corners of the european continent, possibly from the parts that speak a pure romantic tongue. and he despairs because to unfocus is to find hilarity and to focus is to find emptiness that needs filling and practice at a pursuit. in other words, that the cistern of his is empty at the moment and to focus is to start again from zero. it is a situation rife with despair.
and finally candidate C. does he despair? of course! but his situation is much closer to the one in which the patient tells the doctor he is sick. it does not mean he necessarily is. though to find he werent would be tantamount to despair. so naturally he is. and he is from nowhere.

пятница, ноября 25, 2005

13 days ago

13 days ago i watched a hundred lives die; i watched a window die; i watched a building blow up; i watched everything happen. first they evacuated the memories, then they closed all the doors for the last time, then they pushed the button and the crowd cheered. the building blew up and the people cheered again, and the memories came and the people started to cry. 'i'll never close that door again,' someone said, and wept like a little baby. 'i'll never be beaten in that room again,' someone else said and wept in the same manner. most of the people said things like that: i'll never this again, i'll never that again, and they cried and cried and cried. some people didnt cry or care at all though. they just stood there and laughed at the crying ones, and pointed fingers and said: ha!

четверг, ноября 24, 2005

t and a

'sex and news,' he said, 'sex and news. thats all anyones interested in anyway, and thats all anyones a fan of. sex and news, and fornication and ideas.'
'fornication and the news, sex and ideas. dig?'
he lifted his head up off the rock and then promptly dropped it again. he wasnt in the mood for lifting his head.
'sex,' he cried, 'news,' his body shaking, great big bushy tailed tears pouring out of his shaking shoulders.
'no,' he said, 'i refuse to believe it.' but his tears told another story. his tears told that he believed it. and in his heart he knew that it was true.

четверг, ноября 17, 2005

Disillusionment set unacting as cheerleaders to keep


gutsyCBS clamored for more product
artists such as Vanilla Fudgea long illness
The UK Subsa long illness
a long illnessa long illness
a long illness
a long illnessa long illness

воскресенье, ноября 13, 2005


Allo Allo Allo Allo Allo Allo
Ich Will zwei bier

Berliner, ja ja
Ich liebe

Danke goethe

I like germany again
but I don't know why
(I don't know much anyway)

среда, ноября 09, 2005

except for the aussie

so alright, how about this then: two hunchbacks are walking through the park and they run into...no forget about that, thats not whats most important. how about this then: two men with heavy limps are slouching their way through the astroplane - no, again, not the point. so lets take a little look at this, maybe this will do, maybe this will be ok: one hunchback, one lame heavy limper, and two women with lip cancer are rowing a boat through the centre of town - but what kind of rowing in the middle of town, you ask?! rowing has more to do with water and less to do with hunchbacks and midgets and diseased women, you say?! but i didnt say anything about midgets, and i certainly didnt say the women were diseased! i have to ask - are you even paying attention to what im writing down here?! are you even caring and interested?! the point is just this - dont we all feel a little bit like the hunchback and cancerous lipped and limping once a while, dont we all feel strong and brave in the face of it all?! (except of course for the aussie, you say, in his perfect isolation and anit-sociosociety! he has no need for bravery, because he refuses to admit that he too has a bit of the hunchback in him, that he too has a limp like the rest of us!)

четверг, ноября 03, 2005


freedom is bullcrap
i like dogs

dogs like me
i like three
just like God
God likes three dogs
dogs like me
does that mean God likes me
or is it just me?

Picture this

A speechless man is feeling kind of down
moving and rolling down thinking of leaving this town
cause I don't think I can get up again
bring this life to an end like any other man
try to understand what is it to fail
to fail
to fail
though I can breath and I can walk
I'm still unable to talk
my mind is only smoke
my heart is nearly broke
why is it so hard to stand
mouth to mouth
and hand in hand
Well i don't worry about you
you'll find another man
leaving me far behind
and my case is such a delicate one.

вторник, ноября 01, 2005

End and start again Mix (IC2)

Air_Le voyage de Penelope
Alex Gopher_The Child
General Electrics_Tu m'intrigues
Syd Matters_End and Start again
FC Kahuna_Hayling
Air_People in the city
Daft Punk_Around the world
The Hacker feat. Miss Kittin_Masterplan
Meinrad Jungblut_Sonnendeck
Tricky_Makes me wanna die
Gorillaz_November has come
Underworld_Born slippy Nuxx
Placebo_The bitter end

Johnathan Richman lies about it

He's got the flue
He probably won't stop bragging around
with this little accent of his
Don't get me wrong I am a lover
and, man it's pretty something..

The 21 st century



понедельник, октября 31, 2005

yea max!

because of the cd
max gave to me
i want to be free
like people in america are free
i want american freedom

do you mind having three legs
instead of two maids?
do you mind having forty days
instead thirty rays(of the sun - sun rays)
can i say it? - max, if you ever need someones firstborn
you know where to go

воскресенье, октября 30, 2005


In university girls didn’t take to me immediately so I started using the pages I had written my stories on to either roll cigarettes or for toilet paper. I felt that smoking them did me more honour than using them to wipe my ass but I did both. It didn’t change the way girls acted towards me right away. But I would say that in the end it did. It definitely did.
I wanted to eat every day, but only once a day. Sometimes I didn’t eat at all. I was busy smoking my stories. I spent all my money on tobacco and sometimes people bought me lunch. Lunch is the meal you need if you plan to eat only once a day, because, obviously, it is strategically located. Though, of course, it’s even better if it’s a late lunch.
So what else does a person need besides a late lunch, tobacco, and stories to smoke the tobacco in?
Not a lot, really, though a beautiful true love affair would have been nice. But not vital.
Life is possible without love. Life is infinitely more complicated without tobacco.
For a while I wore a beard. One day as I was walking to the school I attempted to light one of my stories, which I had rolled very poorly, and the flame went running up the paper and onto my beard. I was mostly displeased because I was closer to the school than home and I didn’t feel like walking all the way home. When I finally made it to class that day, with my beard shaved away, the girls all started noticing me. (That is a horrible lie, it’s very untrue, I just wanted to say it because it seemed so clever to me, because I had already said that the stories would help me get their attention, and this seemed so really hilarious – that they had helped me by burning my beard off! But it’s a lie, it’s not true, and what’s even worse it’s so obvious you probably guessed right away and it’s not that clever after all.)

среда, октября 26, 2005

What Collar and Jonesy Wanted, and What It Means

Collar had invited Jonesy around for a drink, and what the hell’s wrong with that, by God? I don’t often take the Lord’s name in vain, but too often these days people run about with their whatting and whying and whereforing. A man can hardly think for all the blasted jiggerypokery purveyed by people with too much time on their hands. Back in my day, when photographs were sepia and all, there was no time, and so there were no damned questions. If the world was sepia, we’d be better off for it, I tell you, and do you know, I’ve even heard of a place, up near Norway or thereabouts, where the world is cast in tones of grey. Actually, I heard it makes people depressed, and they invite each other around for a drink to discuss whether there is any point in carrying on or whether they should just end it all now and be done with it, but that’s all Collar and Jonesy wanted anyway, wasn’t it?

She didn't know what i meant

‘I can stop the whirlwind,’ she said, ‘before it destroys us all.’
‘Haw!’ I replied. ‘Woah up there, mama princess. You’re speaking to a past-master of fast-blasting disasters. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Why do you speak like such a fool?’ she asked. ‘Nothing’s easy with you. Why do you have to make life so hard all the time?’
And she turned away, and I still thought I was in love with her – and maybe, you know, maybe I still am – so I said:
‘Well, some say that’s just the way it is, but me, I’m a little peculiar. I dig self-vexation. Big time. Life doesn’t have to be easy, little one.’
She yawned and said:
‘I think I might talk to that one over there.’
And she tilted her drink in the direction of a production line coolsy chat who was sitting further down the bar and preening his moustache.
‘Don’t do that,’ I told her. ‘At the very least, stay here with me forever. I’ll buy you another drink – this time made out of peacock’s eggs. I’ll be ever so good, and I’ll even shut up from time to time.’
Her face turned scornful.
‘Snapcat! You offer nothing he doesn’t except gobbledegook about melancholy angels. Always with the angels. What is it about you and angels?’
And I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.
‘I was one once,’ I told her. ‘But that was long ago.’

вторник, октября 25, 2005

Of Dead Greeks and Profundity

I suspect it was one of those insanely intelligent Greek pricks who once said something like: ‘man is by nature a social animal’. Firstly, I think it behooves the progressively-minded and disconsolately-single young man to point out that in this particular day and age, we feel obliged to include women in the broad generalisations which diminish us all. So, at risk of offending the gnashing spirits of Greek pricks, let us reconstruct the statement, and say that ‘humans are by nature social animals’. Even still, I feel this does not get to the nub of the matter. In making such a claim, I boldly defy the wrath of every Greek who ever lived. After all, if the silly bastards couldn’t keep their civilisation ticking over until today, they must have been positively incompetent: just look at the misery perpetuated by our own yet-extant culture. If the Greeks were worse than us, their devotion to self-indulgence most have been fanatical. Perhaps we should all take a moment to be thankful we are not Greek, then leave the matter.

It is true enough to say that we humans are social animals, insofar as we feel the need to interact with one another. Yet why should this be? What vital resource is it that we are all so ravenously harvesting from one another? Why can a person not simply arise in the morning, stand naked before an assembled crowd, and shout: ‘I spurn you all! I shall walk this earth alone and be content!’ and then, by God, do so? The intent is one thing – any of us, when in the throes of a casual fit of pique, can reject the human race, but to actually carry out the threat, and to do so without a single regret for the rest of our bedamned lives – well, I think we can all agree that this is impossible. And I also think we all know why. Old Man Hermit can spend a night successfully ignoring those little red or blue demons – the type with pointy ears and forked-tongues – who pop up and cavort about when no one else is around, chanting: ‘Your life means nothing, your life means nothing!’ Old Man Hermit, should he be strong and determined and in possession of a hefty stick, can probably fend off the dancing demons for some time, but ultimately they will prevail: he will go mad; his body will shut down; and he will die lonely and sorrowful. What Old Man Hermit really needs is another Old Man Hermit living in the cave just up the hill, upon whom he can pop in now and then to share a cup of yak’s blood and reassure himself just how right he was to spurn everyone in the first place.

It is, you see, all about overcoming self-doubt: perhaps the most difficult task to confront us all. Imagine standing on the tundra in a ragged wolf-skin cloak, armed with nought but a fishing spear, and confronting the cackling shadow of Self-Doubt in mortal combat: it would eat your lungs and smear your brain into paste.

Clearly, the purpose in life is to strive, to struggle, to thrash about in a fit if need be: anything to distract ourselves from the awful realisation that there is no purpose in life. And, in one of those delightful ironies which punctuate our brief and tragic lives, in doing so we create our own purpose. We will do anything so long as we are not asked to consider the emptiness of our existence. We will associate with anyone so long as we are not asked to walk alone through the fields at night.
So, with due respect to dead Greeks, let us once more rewrite that which they so woefully messed up in the first place, and state: ‘humans are by nature animals so tormented by self-doubt, they will do anything to pass the time until they die, so long as they do not have to do it alone’. Me? I see nothing wrong with such a purpose in life. Who said it has to be profound?

Probably some dead Greek prick.

seth dont go, by john trubee

seth dont go
seth dont leave
blowfish blow
because they want to
and because they are blind

seth dont go
seth dont leave
whats your damn problem
dont be an asshole
dont be a jerk


‘Does anything exist with no purpose, just because?’
‘Yeah. There was this mythological creature, it had a lion head and an ant body, cause its father was a lion and mother an ant, and the lion part wanted meat and the ant part wanted grain, and because it couldn’t decide it died from starvation. Actually, it died because it couldn’t eat either, because its two parts contradicted each other, but I like it when I think it was indecision too.’
‘So basically it exists just to die for lack of sustenance?’
‘Yes, exactly. And also for indecision.’
‘I’ve just been drinking some wine. My new roommate is coming over tonight so I should be plastered by the time I get home and meet him.’

понедельник, октября 24, 2005

and the real star is...

I’d been bitten by the dogs before so I already didn’t like them a whole lot. They didn’t scare me so much when I was already home inside looking down at them from my window on the top floor. But on the street Todd always said, ‘here they are little buddy,’ when one would go strolling by looking for garbage or another ass to sniff with the stray dog look. ‘They’re coming for you. They must’ve heard you were here.’ And he would laugh and giggle.
To tell you the truth for a while I absolutely hated them, no two ways about it. And I can honestly say that one day I even wondered, with that creeping feeling inside that comes at very serious grave revelation, if I was a bad person. Only bad people could hate stray dogs.
When we walked to the metro there was a drunk out cold on the grass and a few steps farther on a stray. It was the stray that got me. ‘That must be a sign,’ Todd said. ‘Stay far away from that grass. I bet there’s a bird up here too.’ He wasn’t so far off though. In the winter the snow on this grass always melted even in thirty below. But that wasn’t what got me, it was the dog. I really hated them. And then further on there was a dead bird…
Later I was cutting through the park to Ben’s and in the centre two strays were up on the flower beds. One of them was eating the yellow pansies that had just been planted that morning and the other was pissing on the blue ones. That made me really angry. Cheeky bastards. Even angrier than when they barked at me for no reason, but just because they were assholes. I looked around and there was no one on the benches that were usually surrounded by people drinking and no empties on the ground. And I got the feeling of foreboding. But I started to run too late. And that’s when they bit me the first time. And I had to get the forty shots in the stomach, though I knew they weren’t rabid, they were just assholes. I swear to God, the next time I walked by they were laughing at me because I swear they understood the forty shots, and they also understood, just as well, that in this city stray dogs are protected by law and can’t be destroyed. If they could have smoked they would have been leaning against the flowerbed smoking and laughing their stray asses off.
So I never laughed when Todd said, ‘ooppah, here they come little buddy.’ Though it really was funny. I just ran. But they didn’t bother him. I guess there was some truth in what he said, ‘animals and humans respect strength and not you.’ Then he giggled and pointed at a pigeon that was all scraggly and limping and ostracized by the other pigeons and said, ‘look little buddy, it’s you! It’s pigeon you! Jesus Christ!’ And he just about exploded with the laughter.
Winter rolled around, the snow by the metro didn’t melt, the news reported that a pack of wild dogs had attacked an old women who died on the scene, and a middle aged man who managed to fight them off but was then taken to hospital with some pretty serious wounds, and as usual I had to walk home from work every night.
Sometimes I saw Todd.
He was happy. He laughed. We stood in the snow and drank beer and I always caught colds after though he never did. And this made him laugh too.
After one such incident, on the day before catching the corresponding cold, I was walking home, towards my house, towards the window where I could look out at the dogs and listen to them howl and be hungry; it was about eleven o’clock at night.
There was a lot of snow, and under the snow it was icy. Anyone who has lived in Russia will know how it works. The temperature rises, the snow starts to melt, then the temperature drops and freezes, and nobody does anything with the ice, just like nobody did anything with the snow. Walking down the sidewalk is carnage, like Vietnam, Grannies go down left and right, and your occasional Brit.
As I was saying it was about eleven, or later, and I was walking down the sidewalk, sliding down, breathing in deeply while I could, before the cold came tomorrow with the cough and the ticklishness in the lungs, and I heard the howls. Big empty things that said, ‘here we come little buddy,’ and I looked up and there they were. There were about thirty of them. All different sizes. And that was all I could see before the first one, a little black mutt, came whipping towards me like he’d been shot out of a mean shotgun with his teeth bared and the thrill of the hunt on him.
I never would have noticed how close I was to the really slippery ice if he hadn’t gone flying past me on it, making a last ditch attempt to close his jaws on the sleeve of my coat, but understanding as well as I that he had failed. Then I turned and looked at the rest, who were just behind him. Though the first three or four followed in his footsteps, they couldn’t all miss me, and in the end they would come up from behind, sobered by defeat, and more vindictive for it, planting big vindictive bites in my luck. But it was funny. They all went flying by. Whoosh. I thought of Todd and I laughed. I felt bad for him because he would feel really bad when he found out the dogs had done me in. ‘Don’t worry about it, buddy,’ I said out loud, ‘it’s even funnier that way. You’re prophetic, that’s all. Nothing shameful in the truth.’
And as I was preparing to cross myself and cry and lose my cool I heard something and looked up. There was a granny out and she had a stick and a three legged dog on a leash. She lifted her stick in the air, the dog lifted its one foreleg in the air, and they both shouted together, and the effect was the same as “by the castle greyskull,” or whatever it is he-man says, and the most important thing – the dogs were gone. I looked and they were gone. Not by magic, there was no magic, they just ran away so fast it seemed like magic, and they all went in different directions, every man for himself.
I stood there and the old woman came walking towards me, and when she got close the three legged dog started to growl and wanted to jump all over me. I tried to thank her, but the three legged dog drowned out my words and she just scowled and walked past, yanking the leash and pulling the three legged dog with her. He wasn’t happy, he wanted a piece of me, but he went anyway.
I was afraid on the way home that the dogs would come back, so I hurried through the snow, but they never came.
That night I couldn’t even hear them howling in the street. They didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night, and I didn’t hear anybody screaming as if they were being attacked. They seemed to have left the area.
Todd didn’t believe me about the three legged dog, he didn’t believe any of the story but he said the three legged dog part was just stupid.
‘It’s not stupid,’ I said, ‘how can you call anything that’s true stupid?’
He thought that was stupid too.
For the summer I went away and rented out my apartment to a friend. In September I came back and my friend met me at the airport with a car and took me home. We were standing on the balcony talking about the summer and way down below the old woman was walking by with the three legged dog. I pointed at her excitedly. I could hardly speak.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know her.’
‘What do you mean? She saved my life. I owe her my life, she saved me.’
‘Yeah, well, she came after mine. I was walking home one night from the bar, not really sober, and I passed her and the next thing I know I’m lying on the ground and the three legged dog is jumping all over me snarling and she’s shaking her stick. She knocked me out with her stick. She’s crazy. I’m serious.’
‘I’m not sure that really fit’s her character…maybe you did something to make her believe the three legged dog was at risk? Perhaps you were swaying all over the place and accidentally swayed into her?’
‘The three legged dog can take care of itself. Sure I was swaying, that’s what I do, but I don’t think that gives someone the right to try and crack me on the noggin with a stick. That’s a big stick. And as for her character…’
I told that story to Todd and he said it was much better than my story and that now he liked the three legged dog. He didn’t really like my friend.
‘Lets go walk around your area and see if we can find the three legged dog,’ he would say every time I saw him, ‘I want to meet him.’ And he would start to crack up laughing. But we could never find him when we went looking for him and after a few months we gave up.

A mi chemin

Aujourd'hui, a mi chemin entre hier et demain, que reste t-il ?
Assez de place pour suffoquer, maugreer, tempeter et subir les outrages, les injustices, les petites faiblesses du destin. J'ai passe mon week-end a souffrir, a me triturer, a ne pas me distancier, a coller de pres aux pulsations morbides qui bon an mal an irriguaient de sang ma machine infernale. J'ai aussi pense, a coller un pistolet sur ma tempe, et d'appuyer, pour disparaitre, pour faire taire cette voix qui me suppliait de l'apaiser, de lui montrer autre chose que ces murs vides et cette grisaille. Pour liberer cette masse pesante, pour avancer, pour marcher, pour respirer, pour avertir machinalement les muscles engourdis des actions a venir, je me suis leve et je suis parti bosser car maintenant est aussitot passe que dit et que dans l'immense malheur de ma jeunesse estropiee par l'amour, je suis encore capable de voler, de me separer des contingences, de rever et de me surpasser, pour faire de moi ce que d'autres ne seront plus jamais; un etre vivant.

пятница, октября 21, 2005


Strange to say, but walls trembled and concrete heaved from the force of billions of little legs. Swarming from under wreckage, climbing on rubble, higher and higher, until a sea of antennae fluttered in poisoned wind.

They can’t weep, but they can sing, and sing they did, in joy and lamentation.

среда, октября 19, 2005


max is back back is max
give me facts! give me facts!
if max is back and i am black
does that mean max has got my back?
max is back!

The First Deal

He’s sharp now, oh yes. I found him in the old woodshed, among spongy fragments of wounded trees. And he was wounded too, he was dying, but slowly. He was too sad to see, all covered in slime and black, so I tenderly raised him up, all the way up, until I could smell base, certain, fucking metal. We made a deal: I’d bring him back to life if he’d join me. So I scraped the muck away and brushed his head, dried him down, sanded and polished while the rain dripped through jagged gaps in corrugated iron. I ground his rough patches away til he glimmered and sang. Now he’s sharp. It took me hours, I feel so terribly exhausted but we made a deal, didn’t we? It’s time to go back to the house.

воскресенье, октября 16, 2005

i dont know what she meant

'thats a nice colour,' she said, 'it goes with your face.'
'hows that?' i said. 'egg shell? is my face colourful enough to tell a thousand stories? if it tells you anything its just this - what its like to sleep beside my wife, but thats it.'
'forget about it,' she said, 'just forget about it.'
'naw,' i said, 'i wish i could say something about yours but im afraid the only thing that comes to mind is cruel and defeatist. i wish your face was more melodious, we could think about it and feel musical.'
'whatever,' she said. 'a melody is cheap. im glad my face is too angular, a melody is the cheapest.'
'whatever,' i said in turn, 'lets get past that, shall we? a face is a face, melody or not, i was just saying i wish your face had better taste in music, as it is i could care less what music people think of when they look at your face even if it is choppy and lacking rhythym. dance. if thats what you like just do it, who cares what other people think...'

пятница, октября 14, 2005



Regardez les accents, bande de malandrins







voilà, c'est beau, comme le Bordeaux, les amis, je vous raconte pas, le Rocher de Cancale, tout ça, cela serait trop long, je vous dis juste; un demi -pichet, c'est bien peu mais quelquefois c'est suffisant.

четверг, октября 13, 2005

please dont pass me by(a disgrace) by L.C.

I was walking in New York City and I brushed up against the man in front of me.I felt a cardboard placard on his back. And when we passed a streetlight,I could read it, it said "Please don't pass me by - I am blind, but you cansee - I've been blinded totally - Please don't pass me by."I was walking along 7th Avenue, when I came to 14th Street I saw on the corner curiousmutilations of the human form; It was a school for handicapped people.And there were cripples, and people in wheelchairs and crutches and it was snowing,and I got this sense that the whole city wasAsinging this: A E AOh please don't pass me by, A E AOh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, but you can see,D AYes, I've been blinded totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by.And you know as I was walking I thought it was them who were singing it,I thought it was they who were singing it,I thought it was the other who was singing it,I thought it was someone else.But as I moved along I knew it was me,and that I was singing it to myself. It went: A E AOh please don't pass me by, A E AOh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, but you can see,D AYes, I've been blinded totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by. A E AOh please don't pass me byNow I know that you're sitting theredeep in your velvet seatsand you're thinking"Uh, he's up there saying something that he thinks about,but I'll never have to sing that song."But I promise you friends, that you're going to be singing this song:it may not be tonight,it may not be tomorrow,but one dayyou'll be on your kneesand I want you to know the wordswhen the time comes.Because you're going to have to sing itto yourself,or to another,or to your brother.You're going to have to learnhow to sing this song, it goes: A E AOh please don't pass me by, oh you don't have to sing this, not for you A E A A7Oh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, but you can see, D AYes, I've been blinded oh totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by.Well I sing this for the Jews and the Gypsiesand the smoke that they made.And I sing this for the children of England,their faces so grave.And I sing this for a saviour with no one to save.Hey, won't you be naked for me?Hey, won't you be naked for me?It goes: A E APlease don't pass me by, A E A A7Oh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, oh but you can see, D AYes, I've been blinded oh totally, A E AOh now please don't pass me by.Now there's nothing that I tell you that willhelp you connectthe blood tortured nightwith the day that comes next.But I want it to hurt you,I want it to end.Oh, won't you be naked for me?Oh now: A E APlease don't pass me by, A E A A7Oh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, oh but you , you can see, D AOh yes, I, I've been blinded oh totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by.Well I sing this song for you Blonde Beasts,I sing this song for you Venusesupon your shells on the foam of the sea.And I sing this for the freaksand the cripples,and the hunchback,and the burned,and the burning,and the maimed,and the broken,and the torn,and all of thosethat you talk aboutat the coffee tables,at the meetings,at the demonstrations,on the streets,in your music,in my songs.I mean the real ones that are burning,I mean the real ones that are burning, I say: A E APlease don't pass me by, A E A A7Oh now please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, yeah, but you, you can see, D ABut now, I've been blinded oh totally, A E AOh now please don't pass me by.I know that you still think its me.I know that you think that there's somebody else.I know that these words aren't yours.But I tell you friends one dayyou're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down on your knees,you're gonna get down A E AOh please don't pass me by, A E A A7Oh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, yeah but you, you can see, D AYes, I've been blinded oh totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by.Well you know I have my songsand I have my poems.I have my book andI have the Army,and sometimes I have your applause.I make some money,but you know what my friends,I'm still out there on the corner.I'm with the freaks,I'm with the hunted,I'm with the maimed, yes,I'm with the torn,I'm with the down,I'm with the poor.Come on now, oh A E AOh please don't pass me by, I've got to go now friends A E A A7But please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, yeah but you, you can see, D AOh, I've been blinded, I've been blinded to-, totally, A E AOh now please don't pass me by.Now I want to take away my dignity,yes take my dignity, my friends.Take my dignity,take my form,take my style,take my honour,take my courage,take my time,take my time,take my time.Cause you know I'm with you singing this song.And I wish you would,I wish you would,I wish you would go home with someone else.Wish you'd go home with someone else.I wish you'd go home with someone else.Don't be the person that you came with.Oh, don't be the person that you came with,Oh don't be the person that you came with.Ah, I'm not gonna be, I can't stand him.I can't stand who I am.That's why I've got to get down on my knees.Because I can't make it by myself.I'm not by myself anymore because...the man I was before...he was a tyrant,he was a slave,he was in chains,he was brokenand then he sang: A E AOh please don't pass me by, A E A A7Oh please don't pass me by, D AFor I am blind, but you can see, D AYes, I've been blinded totally, A E AOh please don't pass me by.Well I hope I see you up there on the corner.Yeah I hope as I go by that I hear you whispering with the breeze.Because I'm going to leave you now,I'm gonna find me someone new.Find someone new. A E A E AAnd please don't pass me by.

четверг, октября 06, 2005

Chet and Christmas

Someone once said to me: ‘That Chet – he’s a moody fucker’. Well, and I disagreed then and thought no more of it. But I remembered the comment just now, cos I was thinking about Christmas this year and I suppose I hate Christmas. All the family gathered around in some bullshit display of false congeniality, jittering and jumping, desperate for harmony. I think it’s pathetic. I said so, too, to someone once, and they told me I was a moody fucker. Maybe it was the same person, come to think of it.
I went to the family Christmas two years ago, cos my brother was going. He’s not around much, but he’s alright, and I thought we could catch up. Once I arrived though, all my good intentions just drained away. One moment I was thinking about nothing very important, and the next – well, I just had to leave. My brother never even showed up anyway.
Yeah, me and Chet – we go way back.

вторник, октября 04, 2005

The Second Time

Yesterday I killed a man for the second time, just to see if I could. I mean, I'm not fucking sick or anything like that - I don't go round killing people just to see if I can, it was just this once. The first time, hell, I suppose it was in anger or something like that, and afterwards I found the nearest kiosk and bought a beer and a pack of Belomore - cos I needed to think a bit - and tried to figure out if I meant to kill Vova or not. And, of course, I couldn't work it out, so I had to kill someone else. Well, and I did it, you know? I mean, I'm not bragging or anything, I won't be going round telling people or writing 'can kill on request' on my CV or anything like that, but you learn a lot about yourself when you do this shit. 'I know what I intend to do, I know what I am doing, I know what I have done.'
So, I caved the poor fucker's head in. Hell, there was a handy slab of broken concrete nearby, and it was dark, and he was so drunk he would never've known a thing, poor sunovabitch. I wasn't sure he was dead at first - I mean, heads bleed a lot, you know? I whacked him a couple of times, and the next morning he was still there, and I felt good on the metro on the way to work. It feels good to learn things about yourself.


soon it will snow
and then we could take a walk
and laugh
and print our faces on snow

понедельник, октября 03, 2005

A perfect fish

Once upon a time, there were two polar bears. They were good friends. They lived together, alone. They searched for food together and shared it. But food was becoming more and more difficult to find. One day, out the blue, they found a fish. But not just any fish. A perfect fish. The first bear couldn’t wait to eat it. The second bear thought about it and suggested that it would have been wiser for them to find another great fish to mate it with so that they would have more then enough food for the future. They would have to be patient but the idea was very good. The first bear agreed.
After much searching, they found it. Another perfect fish. While waiting for them to make many baby fish, they kept feeding off smaller fish they found, knowing that soon they wouldn’t have to worry about food any longer.
One day, the second bear had to leave his friend for a while. He had to go see his sick mother. He had to take care of her. He was sad to leave his friend but had no choice. He was away for a few weeks.
When his mother had recovered, he was very happy to be able to go back to his friend. He was impatient to see him and to enjoy with him a perfect meal. The result of their patience and their efforts. But when he arrived, only one fish was left. The first bear had eaten everything that they had worked for together. And he gave no explanation. He simply said “I’m sorry”, shrugged, and went to sleep.
The next morning, when the first bear woke up, his good friend was gone. The last fish had been eaten. Its carcass was lying next to him.

среда, сентября 28, 2005

Peace & Love by John Trubee

"I got high last night on LSD
My mind was beautiful, and I was free
Warts loved my nipples because they are pink
Vomit on me, baby
Yeah Yeah Yeah.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind
It's erect because he's blind, it's erect because he's blind
Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind
It's erect because he is blind

Let's make love under the stars and watch for UFOs
And if little baby Martians come out of the UFOs
You can fuck them
Yeah Yeah Yeah.

The zebra spilled its plastinia on bemis
And the gelatin fingers oozed electric marbles
Ramona's titties died in hell
And the Nazis want to kill everyone.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind ... etc"

вторник, сентября 27, 2005


ive got a friend and he worries me. because hes always so worried about being crazy, and going crazy, and giving off impressions that make people say, 'hey, he's pretty crazy, right?'
and i say to him: craziness is all fine and good, its ok, but you know man, i think youre very close to having something, i mean, to really being bang on - until you start talking about how crazy you are, i mean, you were so close.' and i really think that, i think he is close.
well, yesterday we were hanging out around novoslobodskaya, and we were making funny jokes, and saying things, and hanging out, and then all of a sudden there he goes, bang - man, im crazy!
and all i could say was - man, you were funny, you were witty and bang on, and then you have to screw the whole fucking thing up! crazy my ass! you are fucking crazy - i said - asshole.
and then, geez, he did get a bit weird, i mean, i dont know; some dude walked up and buddy turned around and looked at him straight in the face and screamed and then - fell down on the pavement and started frothing at the fucking mouth. then he got up and looked me in the face and said - nothing. he didnt say anything. but he freaked me out a bit. i dont know.

The Delightful Irony of Metathinking

I have been struck down by a terrible malaise. I hesitate to mention it, lest I inflict it upon others - but these, I suspect, are my last few lucid thoughts. Let them be put down, let them become the kernel of human destruction.
As our metro screamed around the curve and pulled into Krasnopresnenskaya, I watched a filthy, brown-skinned wraith - perhaps she was babushka in years past - screaming obscenities at a businessman. He nodded and gave a weak smile, half-ingratiating and half-pleading. And I thought: 'What am I thinking about?'
And in Novoslobodskaya, I saw a young punk on his heels list over and sprawl across the stones, and I though: 'That's all well and good, but what am I thinking about?'
And on Marksistskaya ulitsa, I saw a car reverse into a woman and knock her to the ground with a crunch, and she let out a pitiful cry, and a man got out of the car and yelled abuse at her, but I had no time to be relieved when the militsiya pulled up - I was too busy thinking: 'Yes, what am I thinking about? What is it that I am thinking about?'
I probably have less than a day, and I will be completely mad, mind broken by this endless litany. And then! O then I will have surrendered control, and my thoughts will become separate from my mind, and never again shall they meet. And, of course, among the shattered remnants of my consciousness, it will be impossible to pose the question 'What am I thinking about?'
But I suppose that is the delightful irony of metathinking, is it not?

пятница, сентября 23, 2005

Pushkin's Blood

Pushkin's blood was black,
But the French were unable
To prove it to me.

четверг, сентября 22, 2005

mon ami le max

mon ami le max
parfois est comme un ours sans une mere
est comme une renard sans la lettre r
parfois je pense qu'il est un grand arbre
parfois mais pas chaque jour
mais pas chaque
mon ami max

среда, сентября 21, 2005

Elegy haiku

The word 'elegy':
I wish I knew what it meant.
'Elegy', that is.

Poor Bastard

It’s not that I don’t like Pierre, I just forgot. My blasted phone hasn’t been working properly – I bought a new SIM card for the beggar, but it’s still on the blink.
Well, and after work we gathered at the kiosk for a couple of beers, and among the throng, I began thinking about my phone again. I guess I was kinda bored. Pierre was standing beside me, back turned, animated in conversation, and on a whim I pulled my phone out of my pocket and gave him a call. He heard the ring and excused himself, but I hung up just before he answered. I just wanted to see if my phone was working, see? He looked a little bewildered, and I admit I had a chuckle at his expense – twice the chuckle when he turned back, only to discover his conversationalist had thankfully departed. Poor old Pierre – he tries hard.
I spied the poor bugger throughout the night, pulling his phone from his pocket from time to time and staring at my number, trying to figure out who had called him. But he never worked up the guts to ring back and find out, poor old Pierre. I figured I’d do the right thing and tell him at some point, but by the end of the night I was riding the metro home, and I’d forgotten all about Pierre. Poor bastard.

shelves and canes

shelves and canes shelves and canes
broken canes and broken shelves
broken hearts and empty wells
empty wells in empty shelves
-listen-he said- the shelves are empty
the are no books in broken hearts
there are no books on broken shelves
there are no canes
to support
this broken
of what once might have been

Croissant sans

Le croissant n'est pas un arbre
Le croissant ne sait pas la difference
L'arbre croit croit sans sans
verticalite, l'arbre bizarre

le bout de pain sesame
dans la nuit blessee de mon coeur meurtri
dans la nuit evanouie de ma tete en essor
le bout de pain


try to rhyme wagon with passion
try to rhyme the letters of my name
with the beating of your heart

How to breathe pollution

Quality cigarettes for cheap purposes
with a crown atop everything loud
pick up edelweisses for a guy called moses
hyped the feelings hidden on a cloud

I'd like to learn another foreign language

I'd like to learn another foreign language
I'd like to eat another foreign sandwich
Then I could speak in tougues...
....roll them round my mouth and swallow.
Hmmm, foreign toungues!

I'm planning to buy a new car

I'm planning to buy a new car
with big yellow shining horns
the policeman ask where do u you come from
in this brand new car
with big chalk sparkling exhaust
I am gonna burn some tar
take it with you man, you fake it
I don't have a driver licence

i was looking after my friends cat

i was looking after my friends cat
and now i cant find it
i was looking for a new best hat
i now my friend is wearing a cat
my friend is wearing a cat
my friend is wearing a lost cat

I want to learn to dance the Tango

I want to learn to dance the tango
buy butter buy butter buy a plane ticket
buy a plane ticket, don't step on the bucket
you don't know you don't have a go
I'm the grim fandango, ripened mango
I shake my legs, shark in a thin can
kill the muppet, I do what I can


The great big sky is like a watermelon
they fired it up and they gloom
In the alley, mashed potholes lawn
give credits to the ring I pawn

вторник, сентября 20, 2005


I am still waiting where you left me
Outside the produce section
Halfway between the homogenized milk
And the automatic doors
How can there be such an abundance of colour and fragrance
And so little nourishment for the soul?

Dearest, I’ve dropped the remote control
And its just out of reach
The people are lost in the aisles
And there is no one to change the channel
Where are the French movies about love on horseback?
Where is Pepe le Pue making love to the cat?
Where is the sense of a meaningful sexuality
Our fathers died for in the Great Patriotic War?

Natasha, dearest,
I have lost my sense of time
And fear being late for ALL engagements
Natasha, my love!
My desires have lost all proportion –
I want flags on everything
And a woman with tambourines tied to her legs
I want a floor that creaks
Every time you come back to bed
But with just enough of the indecision
I want trinkets everywhere
To charm you
And a statue of Lenin weeping
For the wicked things he’s done
I want jam pouring from the faucets
And soup cans in the microwave
I want you on the morning after
Your last great love

I want you to forgive me
For being less beautiful than you
And still putting on airs
Like the little dog
With no income
And too much pride

Everyday is A little Life

понедельник, сентября 19, 2005

Vino Grat

Chere Lune,

Je t'ai vu regarder a travers la fenetre et projeter sur mes murs, oui ce sont les miens ne discute pas ! des bandeaux de nuits comme s'ils venaient obscurcir les fleurs en motifs du papier-peint, oui j'ai du papier-peint a fleur et alors ? Bon, alors, je regardais ta magie a l'oeuvre, comme tu sais si bien jouer avec la lumiere et tout ca et je n'etais pas saoul, non non non, trois fois non, je contemplais quelquechose sans savoir vraiment quoi, en tombant mille fois entre la vie et le sommeil, a chaque fois tes bras me retenaient, de plus en plus fort, et je cherchais un grain de raisin qui aurait roule par la, en dessous de la table, mais je n'ai trouve que des boucles d'oreilles et une femme qui dormait dans le lit. Une femme tres belle de pres. Alors ca, mon Dieu, quelle surprise ! J'en suis tombe des nues et finalement j'ai pu sombrer moi aussi.

воскресенье, сентября 18, 2005


my dearest son,
i very nearly wrote nose there, and not son, but you now, thats what age does to a mind, even a mind once sharp, once wickedly sharp, and once very very concerned.
how would you react if i were to say - it serves you right? would you think me very wicked(and not sharp at all)? because it pains me very much to say it, and it pains me even more to admit it is the only answer i can give you.
alas, that is a mothers lot, to raise wicked children, children who simply - can i say it - do not listen.
is it not true that in those years when all others had run past, in those difficult years when all the others had, if i can be so incredibly bold, forsaken you, when a mothers thankless job is at its most tiresome and wickedly thankless, i say, is it not true that even then, you began to show that wicked strain of hardheadedness - even now i want to justify you, after all it is a trait you inherited from your father - that has now, i can say with all certainty, been your downfall.
you cruel stupid man.
but even now, a mothers love is forever, my love does not wane, i find a wave of sympathy yet alive inside me; yes, what is there beside a mothers love? is it not true what they say - he has a face only a mother could love? and is it not true that one could say the same of not only your face - but your character too?! what a foul thing.
i cannot say more right now, i am afraid i am too full of bile and disgust and neither is sitting here to write you doing anything for my legs, i must get up and stretch them.
it serves you right.
your father says hello.
and dont forget to bring those plates you promised(though no doubt youve already forgotten, my wicked son)
love, your mother

суббота, сентября 17, 2005

Women who pass in the street

Dearest Varvara,
I am losing my humanity. Yesterday I saw an old woman sprawled in the snow. Thinking perhaps she was dead, I laughed. Then I thought maybe she was drunk, and I hated her. As I walked past, I shuffled some snow in her face, to see if the cold would awaken her, but she didn't move. A woman passing by saw me and began remonstrating. You see, Varvara, the woman was so cruel that she preferred to remonstrate with me than help the old woman. They have done it to me, these women who pass in the street. I returned later, to see if I still felt like laughing or hating or maybe even helping, but the old woman was gone. Just a filthy rag in the snow, and I was so disappointed that I wandered the backstreets looking for people to remonstrate with, but there were none to be found. In the end, I came across a haggard dog with cunning eyes, and ran at it, waving my arms and shouting, but it just sat and winked at me, and I felt so sorrowful that I sank to my knees and held it's stinking head against my own until it pulled out of my grasp and looked into my eyes and said: 'you are neither human nor dog' and vanished into the darkness and, Varvara, since then I cannot remember my name. What is it again? Do write soon and tell me, Varvara: it pains me greatly that I cannot sign this letter, even though I remain,
Your most loving and devoted son,

пятница, сентября 16, 2005


i snapped at her, 'do you really want to have my babies?'
she didnt like that one bit, she wasnt happy with it at all. but she needed what she needed so she ignored me.
'come on,' she said, 'just a little dance.'
so i went out on the dance floor with her.

an anti-parable

once there was a turtle and once there was a rabbit, and they didn’t have any human characteristics about them whatsoever, and they weren’t like humans. the turtle was slow, that’s for sure, and so are many people, i guess. and the rabbit was your typical sort of rabbit – he stood there, half blind, not seeing almost anything at all, and if you tried to get close to him his ears jumped right up and he figured out that you were somewhere around but he couldn’t be sure, and thats also quite human, maybe. when he was sure he ran away, pretty fast, but not like a cheetah or anything.
a ninja would have been able to sneak up on him, or a Mohican, but lets call a spade a spade – a ninja doesn’t have much business sneaking up on rabbits and Mohicans are long gone.
so the turtle, he was walking around, looking for stuff and getting scared and hiding in his turtle shell, and the rabbit was eating grass and doing whatever and you know what – sometimes I feel like that turtle; but I rarely feel like that rabbit.

The Fable of the Camel and the Bee

Once upon a time, a camel was walking through the desert. From the top of a sandy ridge, she spied a green oasis nestled at the bottom of a valley of dunes. Being a little thirsty, she trotted on down, and immediately came upon a bee.
‘Ho!’ said the camel. ‘My name is Camel.’
‘Aha!’ said the bee. ‘They call me Bee.’
‘Bee,’ said Camel. ‘Do you not agree that the notion of a green oasis nestled at the bottom of a valley of dunes in the middle of the desert is absurd?’
‘Why yes,’ said Bee. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘How then,’ said Camel, ‘can you explain the existence of this green oasis?’
Bee smiled.
‘It’s quite simple,’ she said. ‘This green oasis is merely a mechanism through which a camel and a bee can meet, talk, and demonstrate a profound truism.’
‘Ah,’ said Camel. ‘But why should we wish to demonstrate a profound truism?’
Bee smiled again. She was a very clever bee.
‘Because this is a fable,’ she said. ‘And fables always demonstrate profound truisms.’
Camel gazed at Bee in admiration.
‘You are a very clever bee,’ she said.
Bee smiled once more, and her yellow stripes flushed orange.
‘However, Bee,’ Camel continued. ‘I have no wish to be a slave to profound truisms.’
‘Why, neither do I!’ cried Bee. ‘What a strange pair we are!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Camel. ‘What say you we wander over to the shade and forget this foolish fable?’
‘A fine idea,’ said Bee.
And so they did.

четверг, сентября 15, 2005

The Camel

At first, he thought they were bees. Angry bees, amassing in the glare, feeding off each other until they became laden with fury, could stand it no longer, and so swarmed at the camel’s head. Fearful, he had carried out an inspection at the end of the day: underneath a cake of dust and above a glimmer of contempt in the wide brown pupils lay an unconcerned camel’s face. The camel, at least, seemed unfazed by the bees.
The next day, the camel placed one enormous pad in front of the other, the bees swarmed, and he sweated and gazed at the dunes in dumb wonder. From time to time, he lamented the barren landscape until, overcome by his own stupidity, he announced: ‘And what do the bees eat?’
Laughing aloud, he slapped the camel on the hump. ‘They can’t eat you, can they, old dear? My flower of the desert, you attract flies, not bees! What kind of flower are you?’
The camel ignored him.
Later, another thought occurred to him, and he wondered: ‘But what do the flies eat?’
And he paid close attention until, sick with horror, he reigned the camel to a halt and dismounted. Weeping sores – open wounds rubbed into the camel’s hide by his saddle – were thick with crawling black flies. Maggots sparkled beneath.
‘Oh, my flower of the desert,’ he said, ‘they ARE eating you.’
And he sat in the sand and wept.

вторник, сентября 13, 2005

the bee

why does the honey bee gather honey?
of course he doesnt have a choice, of course he doesnt know why, of course. but the honey sure is sweet - he got pretty lucky.
why does the garbage man gather garbage. this guy has a choice, eh? why doesnt he gather honey? i would like to gather, but i'll bet the honey bee never says - hey, the honeys sweet! i love gathering, im just crazy about gathering honey, but man those flowers are prickly deals, there are some really prickly flowers out there.
and i'll bet at the same time that the bees dont say - god im in love with that flower, god shes just the most beautiful thing ever, god im in love - and then fall down on the ground in despair and grief and refuse to gather honey any more. and i wonder, this is the last thing - does the flower ever say - no, i dont love you, you cant gather my honey - and this would be why the bee fell down on the ground, if he thought she was really beautiful.

Juste comme ca

"no plan is the ultimate masterplan" J'ai prononce cette phrase a l'escorte tatouee qui demandait des precisions comme dans la chanson de Hacker avec Miss Kittin de cadavre, en me la jouant, je suis grave, un vrai connard, ce n'est pas a cause du costume en lin, c'est definitevement un tout bien grossier, neanmoins j'ai force un controle de face un peu severe en la jouant platinium, on s'est retrouve dans un autre endroit avec d'autres lampions, des champions de karate et des femmes qui dansent seules sur un coin de piste. C'etait beau a vomir, j'ai tout contenu dans une joie proche des larmes, ne jamais la croire, elle, qui dans un murmure d'alcoolique exprime des desirs insoupconnables pour une inconnue, la grosse phrase qui te rend jouasse, mais la, en fait elle apprecie juste la couleur de ta complexion et la tessiture exotique de tes formulations hasardeuses; Appelle-moi. Ouais c'est ca, juste comme ca.

понедельник, сентября 12, 2005

Crabmeat and Blood

‘Crabmeat and blood,’ she said. ‘For four days. Heh, that case of crabmeat must have thought itself the luckiest case of crabmeat in the world – perched up there on the wreckage all alone. I was pretty happy when I saw it, I can tell you. After I hauled myself up, I found Lysaker and Brinz, but the rest were already gone. We found Young – well, half of Young. He’d been savaged pretty badly, and was bob-bob-bobbing around in the swells. We hauled what was left of him aboard, all blue veins and white skin and still leaking pink. Brinz and I argued for a while about whether we should keep him. Okay, we argued about WHY we should keep him. Brinz thought we could get him a proper burial after we were rescued, I figured we may need something to keep us going after the crabmeat ran out. In the end, Lysaker began kicking what was left of Young off the edge, and do you know, another shark grabbed him from the wreckage, just like that! It took us hours to get at that crabmeat. They were stiff cans – we bashed them on a rivet until the metal bent and softened, then pried them apart with our bare fingers. Lysaker offered to open the cans by himself. “No need for all of us to shred our hands off,” he said. But the jagged metal did end up shearing through the flesh of his fingers, all the way to the bone, so then Brinz and I had to open the cans as well. We were not a particularly merry crew, I can tell you – you can’t throw a party with crabmeat and blood. After three days, the wreckage had drifted close enough to the mainland that we could see the shore. Before we could stop him, Lysaker announced that he would swim to land and fetch help. Just like that, then he was over the edge and cutting his way through the ocean. The trawler picked us up the next day, but nobody ever saw Lysaker again. I suppose that's what happens when you go swimming with crabmeat and blood all over your hands.’

today we talk flowers

I have a flower and its blue. When im not around I can see it, and I can touch it, and basically its always with me.
Its blue but it has a problem: its half normal flower and half bug eating flower, kinda like the venus fly trap. I dont really specialize in this sort of thing, I mean, im not a botanik or anything, but the reasons for it being what it is have something to do with cross insemination. Or in other words: its mother was a normal flower and its father was a fly eating flower.
And this is the gist of it, this is the real problem: it wants water and to play fair, but at the same time its dying for meat. Very literally. And because its two natures are by nature opposed, it is slowly destroying itself because it can have neither. And it’s a hard thing to watch, its really not easy. Poor flower. Its almost gone, though.

четверг, сентября 08, 2005

Un pantalon mal repasse

Il n'y a pas pire au monde, enfin jusqu'a present, qu'un gougnafier portant un pantalon mal repasse et qui brandit son pistolet a qui-mieux-mieux afin d'effrayer son petit monde, genre je suis un bandit. Je pense qu'il lui aurait fallu une once de courage pour affronter les veritables demons qui sont a nos portes, les veritables ennemis qui viennent jusque dans nos bras, blablabla... Le progres technologique, en voila une terrible nouvelle, on tue a distance, on appuie sur un bouton, la gachette comme ils l'appellent et pof, rate, bon ce n'est pas grave. Depuis on a fabrique des bombes atomiques pour ne rater personne, la t'appuie sur le bouton et boum, il en est fini de ces casse-bonbons, c'est une putain de garantie, la cible est individuelle, le massacre est collectif, c'est comme ca plus on veut etre precis plus les victimes sont nombreuses.


on the way out the door i slipped one pistol into my belt, one into my back pocket, and i cant remember where i put the third.
i crossed usiyevicha heading for the square, taking a right at first lenina, going straight on until port side, and finally turning left into peschanaya.
in the square i stopped in front of the big statue, there was a woman selling sunflower seeds and i thought, 'im all sweaty,' and i wiped my brow, and thought, ' now im gonna have to wait, nobody dies sweaty.'
then i made sure the gun in my belt was still there, reached into my back pocket and checked that one, but couldnt remember where i had put the third so decided not to worry about it.
'its better that way anyway, i didnt know where that third arm was gonna come from.'
and i sat down to wait until i was less sweaty.
i thought about three bullets meeting, but still couldnt figure out where the third was gonna come from.
it didnt matter cause i couldnt remember which pocket i had stuffed the third pistol in anyway.
i looked at the woman again, and she looked at me.
i stared at her but she wouldnt look away.
so i looked away.
by now i wasnt sweaty anymore.

Ole Blackie

I’ve never been to Reno, and I never shot a man just to watch him die. But my mama did tell me to be a good boy, and not to play with guns. And just like Johnny, I ignored her: I became obsessed with ‘em. I couldn’t wait to begin assembling my own private armoury. Why, with a rack of pistols, rifles, shotguns and uzis, I could… I could… Well, I never got that far. In fact, never gave a second thought to what I would do with the guns, I just knew I wanted ‘em.

George’s Res - I was always in a fever to get out there. The fishing was good, but he also had shooting irons lined up against the wall, and they – well, they were downright fascinating. Every so often, a visit from the rellies would see a motley group of men disappearing out the door at dusk, to emerge from the darkness several hours later, wiping gunpowder from gleaming black metal. Hell, once I even got to fire a gun. George took me outside, put a .22 in my hands, showed me how to hold it, and told me to pull the trigger. I was smart enough to aim first, and a thin ironbark sapling caught my bullet with aplomb. A surprisingly light recoil and I was stoked: this whole shooting business was going to be much easier than I first thought.

Some time later, we slaughtered Ole Blackie. He wasn’t much of a calf by that stage, but I still regarded him as such. I was keen as hell to watch the butcher at work. My brother and I stood at the fence fifty metres away. Dad placed a bowl of feed on the ground, and Ole Blackie came trotting over, began snuffling about in it. The butcher carefully placed the barrel between Ole Blackie’s eyes and pulled the trigger. Ole Blackie just collapsed like he had no bones anymore, and in a flash the butcher had whipped out his knife, leapt on Ole Blackie’s twitching body, and slashed his throat open. Black liquid spilled all over the grass. Dad and the butcher stood and watched; my brother and I returned indoors.

Ole Blackie never did anyone any harm, and deserved better than having his brain smashed with a bullet, but I can’t deny he made good eating.

среда, сентября 07, 2005

Le Bleu

J'ai, sur la cuisse, un enorme bleu. Comment je me le suis fait, je n'en sais rien. Mais il est present, sans le voir, je le sens, ca lance. Bien sur, quand je peux, je le regarde, je le trouve beau et je le touche. Je touche mon bleu et ca me fait kiffer. Des petites pointes de douleur legere, douces comme une morsure de chaton. On nous dit, vous vivez, ah oui, ca pour sur nous vivons, l'exemple en est de cette trace du monde physique, concrete, oui, bleue et qui fait a peine mal.

murder love and ben

If somebody asked me, and nobody will cause people don’t ask me things, but if they did, id have to say ben leaving was a very bad decision. Just the worst.
I don’t know how other people feel about it, but im just in the worst way about the whole thing, and not very pleased or happy.
Though lets be honest, really, he wont be any worse off without me, anyway. And maybe he’ll get some new socks, and quit smoking, and do all sorts of exercises in the morning, and go for runs. I expect he’ll also pick up a little sun, cause someone once said, out of his hearing, that the sun shines a whole lot wherever he is and next time I see him – there wont be any doubt in anyones mind: this is not me. we wont even look the same any more, though they say a leopard cant change his stripes, eh? But anyway, he’ll look really healthy.
As for me, I find I cant bring myself to wash my socks anymore, since ben left. I just keep thinking over that hole in the shoe he had, and how one time he wore a plastic bag on his foot to keep out the rain, and maybe more than one time. And now I cant wash my socks, just like that. cause I cant bring myself to wear a plastic bag, but I wont wash my socks anyway.

Murder, Love and Ben Mix

Curtis Mayfield_Junkie Chase (Instrumental)
The White Stripes_When I Hear My Name
British Hawaii_Pixian
The Pixies_Broken Face
The Modern Lovers_She Cracked (1972 demo version)
The Beakers_Think Postmodern
Pavement_Heaven is a Truck
The Gun Club_Ghost on the Highway
Dead Kennedy's_Back in USSR (Live)
Johnny Cash_Ring of Fire
The Kills_Ticket Man
Cocorosie_Not For Sale
The Gun Club_She's like Heroin for me
Guns and Roses_It's So Easy
Wilco_Company in My Back
Kings Of Leon_Slow Night, So Long
Babyshambles_In Love with A Feeling
Attack Of the New Surf Guitars_Don't Monkey With Tarzan
Sixto Rodriguez_Sugarman
The Dandy Warhols_The Dandy Warhols'T.V Theme
The Thermals_A passing Feeling
The Clash_The Leader
The Libertines_Last Post On The Buggle
Devendra Banhart_This Beard is For Siobban
Maximo Park_Graffiti
The Velvet Underground_White Light White Heat
IO_Drunk On a Sunday Morning
Pavement_Brinx Job

вторник, сентября 06, 2005

Wrapped in Russia

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i hate the sky, i never look at it. so its just the craziest thing that yesterday i was walking along and it occured to me, just like that - im looking up there! and that was the first thing. and the second thing is really a part of the first thing, i mean, nobody talked about it, who ever talks about the sky? its just there, but who talks about it, and its the same with fall! man, it happened, and now its fall, and everybody knows it. and the thing that ties this all together, the thing that im really trying to get at is kinda like this:
yesterday i was walking along, but there was this guy standing in the middle of the sidewalk with three dogs and a stand up bass, and the thing is, even though i was coughing up a lung, and trying to make him hear me, and really hoping id get past him eventually so i could get my day started, it was then, when i was already losing heart, and thinking it just wasnt going to be fate, that i accidentally looked up - and there it was! and there was fall too! and when i looked back down the guy with the bass and the dogs was long gone and i just went to work.
so i guess my point is basically this - here's a blog, and if its not the sky or the fall, its here and i hope it becomes just as inevitable. and just as cold. only, in the heart and not the street.