tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-164096452024-03-08T02:15:45.242+02:00Dostoyevsky in spacehelp....Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger346125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-11129037680379055482013-03-16T20:12:00.001+02:002013-03-16T20:14:47.568+02:00SUUNS - Minor Work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oLsSyp6drIo?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-79508727447959694232013-03-11T23:30:00.002+02:002013-03-11T23:40:15.522+02:00Armies in the shadow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are many armies<br />
some with sticks, others with words<br />
There are many enemies<br />
some with facts, others with swords<br />
There are many friends<br />
some with clicks, others with chords<br />
let's play until it's dark<br />
let's bark until the day</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-4275504262381788822012-08-16T14:02:00.001+03:002012-08-16T14:02:16.892+03:00Le Nemours<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/7794448906/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7137/7794448906_2bf439aac5_m.jpg" alt="Le Nemours by B_Max" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/7794448906/">Le Nemours</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">B_Max</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-74198673470469215572012-02-07T06:21:00.002+02:002012-02-07T06:21:48.273+02:00maybe it's time to lay Dost to rest, boys, eh? there doesn't seem to be too much life left in the old boy...teacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17132576489073045935noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-66425595976963699242011-08-18T11:26:00.002+03:002011-08-18T11:32:19.293+03:00<iframe width="560" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/f9y9Snt1g5E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-17015610468448786982011-08-18T11:13:00.003+03:002011-08-18T11:34:59.858+03:00<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/25665247?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="400" height="226" frameborder="0"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/25665247">Remake of Chris Cunningham's "Autechre: Second Bad Vilbel"</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/slevin">slevin</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-22390610564921571362011-08-12T11:39:00.002+03:002011-08-12T11:51:24.903+03:00Coming home (adrenalin/blood2)When i was 8 i
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>stepped
<br />on a brown snake’s head as he
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>slept
<br />under the hawthorn tree which
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>stood
<br />on top of the hill, along the fenceline. It was hot as fuck, and he got up and said
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>‘boy
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>the fuck you doing?
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Don’t you know it’s hot as fuck and a brown snake is trying to get some sleep?
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Get outta here, go home Lest i fill yr arse with venom.’
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>slither slither
<br />
<br />So being respectful of my elders and scared for my life i
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>did,
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>passing, on the way,
<br />snarls of gorse and that smashed up old wreck of a car
<br />You
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>remember?
<br />Old woman redback lived in that sucker in the rust we
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>went down to drive that car through the dust and
<br />gorse when she
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>stepped out neith the dash and said
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>‘boys
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>i dunno what the fuck you think yr doing
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Don you know this rust will give you tetanus? besides which
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I’m trying to sleep and i
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Don like<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>the way<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>you look.’
<br />
<br />So being afeared afore the flaking loom upon which she spun our mortal thread and
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>reminded of our waiting graves by the hourglass on her swollen belly we
<br />got the hell outta that car and
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>fled,
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>passing, on the way, that
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>big green water tower we spent so long piffing stones at gonna
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>break that sunovabitch open, get some
<br />watergush over the cracked earth, it
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>loomed over us and
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>scorned our puny lives our
<br />stones left marks we hoped were wounds but we were
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>wrong
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>we were beaten
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>and took flight
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>hid in coffee bush, back from the mineshaft which<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>hadda dead sheep at the bottom. It
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Probly just fell in all of its own accord, it
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Probly just leaned out a little too far to
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>see what the hell was at the bottom of that shaft and
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>stank like putrid meat That was
<br />cross the road from the joint
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Looked like texas
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Remember?
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Not like home, it had
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>cacti all over, and
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>quartz glittering
<br />in the dry cracked earthenred all
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>sparkle sparckle
<br />
<br />It’s<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>changed<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>since
<br />you’ll see my friend
<br />
<br />Nowadays you’ll find my friend is
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>parched all around that
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>long yellow grass in tufts those
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>long brown snakes in grass those
<br />
<br />sickly sheep browsing in gorse and poison blackberry who
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>chucktemselves down mineshafts while we
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>fought like fiends against hordes of cacti, we
<br />hacked their flesh to pieces like it made a difference
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You remember?
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The harder we swung the more we stung We
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>found brown snake later he
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>picked the Wrong Fight on the way home
<br />
<br />They done him over good
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>and left him where he lie
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>right there in the paddock
<br />stinkin like a sheep in a mineshaft and gob all
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Smashed in and Full of ants
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You remember? We were
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>heading home that day We
<br />fought long and hard that day It
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>seemed worth it then,
<br />but not all of us became kind-hearted men
<br />not all of us made it home through the dusk,
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>yellow light of kitchen ahead
<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>and none of us at all in the end.
<br /></div>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-55467053430947125442011-08-06T22:30:00.001+03:002011-08-06T22:30:58.481+03:00Hit the Road<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/6014562400/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6023/6014562400_7899ba236d_m.jpg" alt="Hit the Road by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/6014562400/">Hit the Road</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-28224009571751619292011-05-30T09:33:00.001+03:002011-05-30T09:33:28.389+03:00s<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5773216076/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2621/5773216076_4a6b791d80_m.jpg" alt="s by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5773216076/">s</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-8034506531677061652011-05-17T17:07:00.001+03:002011-05-17T17:07:06.753+03:00green<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5718223118/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3209/5718223118_a9abd15380_m.jpg" alt="green by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5718223118/">green</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-14858262424850155902011-04-20T10:29:00.001+03:002011-04-20T10:29:00.121+03:00Reflet<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5627222795/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5227/5627222795_c111ffb984_m.jpg" alt="Reflet by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5627222795/">Reflet</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Go</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-43649564128911096382011-04-09T14:12:00.001+03:002011-04-09T14:12:17.595+03:00Sunny afternoon<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5602906990/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5107/5602906990_3338b1bb63_m.jpg" alt="sans titre13.jpg by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5602906990/">sans titre13.jpg</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-7798511796627885192011-03-07T17:00:00.001+02:002011-03-07T17:00:12.948+02:00Statue<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5491499834/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5258/5491499834_42af36e2ed_m.jpg" alt="Statue by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5491499834/">Statue</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>La face blanche de la statue, à peine nettoyée pour les passants et les touristes aux regards muets a les yeux vides, ouverts et clos au même moment, ça doit faire une drôle d'impression tout de même.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-29339804757639108542011-03-07T14:36:00.001+02:002011-03-07T14:36:30.373+02:00TO<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5491089289/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5092/5491089289_6be84f74ec_m.jpg" alt="TO by Msoke" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5491089289/">TO</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/msoke/">Msoke</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-87581898000328381192011-02-18T08:36:00.000+02:002011-02-18T08:36:40.230+02:00I'm Straight (Jonathan Richman & the Modern Lovers)<iframe width="480" height="295" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/B_exvKnrK6g?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe>teacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17132576489073045935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-17113817685431139612011-02-10T08:12:00.002+02:002011-02-10T08:16:59.454+02:00Endgame (with matches)Do not obstruct<div>the exit please</div><div>do not prevent</div><div>our passage when</div><div>I start this fire</div><div>or else what point -</div><div>except, of course,</div><div>an end?</div>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-47146067700092346622011-01-25T13:30:00.015+02:002011-02-04T05:27:50.882+02:00adrenalin pumps faste rthan bloodWhen i was 8 i<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>stepped<br />on a brown snake’s head as he slept under the hawthorn tree which<br />stood on top of the hill along the fenceline.<br />It was hot as fuck and he stood up and said<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘boy the fuck you doing? Don’t you know it’s hot as fuck<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>And a brown-skinned snake is trying to get some kip?<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Get outta here fore i fill yr arse with venom<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </span>that’ll kill ya dead.’<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>Slither slither<br />So being respectful of my elders and scared for my life<br />i did<br />passing, on the way, that big green water tower<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(or hell knows what it’s for<br />that we spent so long piffing stones at gonna<br />break that sunovabitch open, get some<div> watergush over that cracked earth<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(do this place a favour<br />instead of gorse<br />where there’s a smashed up old wreck of a car<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(i didn’t smash it.<br />i smashed the one in turner’s paddock, but i had<br />some help<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And it wasn’t my idea.<br />You remember Old man redback lived in that sucker in the rust<br />Hell knows why. Shit place to live<br />Bit back from the mineshaft<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(the one<br />Hadda dead sheep at the bottom. It<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Probly just fell in all of its own accord<br />That was across the road from the joint<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Looked like texas, remember?<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Cactus all over, and dry cracked earthenred<br />and quartz glittering in the dirt all<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> s</span>parkle sparckle<br />it’s changed since you’llee see<br />Nowadays you’ll find my friend<br />is parched all around that<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>long yellow grass in tufts those<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>long brown snakes in grass those<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>sick lookin sheep down near the gully hadda helluva job<br />Browsing on gorse and poison blackberry<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(No wonder they chuck Emselves<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>down mineshafts eh<br />We found that brown snake two weeks later he picked<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><div><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>the wrong fight<br />They done him over good and left him where he lie in<br />The paddock stinkin like the sheep in the mineshaft and gob all<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Smashed in and Full of ants.</div><div>And back up past redback that big fuck off stand<br />Of cacti we hacked those fucks like it made a difference and not<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Jam eh<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You remember?<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The harder you shred the more you sting</div></div>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-7022876195044701432011-01-19T13:13:00.003+02:002011-01-25T13:51:49.337+02:00planting rootsDad always told us he put his apricot orchard in – ‘planted my roots’, as he liked to say – as soon as he got back from the war. It took me the better part of thirty years to figure out that it must have really been a few years after that. See, when we were young he used to say it was the best year of his life when he planted his roots and Johnny McDonald took the parliament. But I found out later that McDonald only got in 1950, so either Dad planted his roots before McDonald got in, or he was confused about his timeline.<br /><br />Probably it wasn’t that important. Probably it was more important that good things happened, and in hindsight they all seemed to happen at once. He always said he wanted an orchard in Ky. It was his favourite story. He used to tell it to everybody who came to our house.<br /><br />‘Before I went off to fight,’ he’d say, ‘I told everyone in town that when I came back, I’d plant my roots and grow the biggest damned orchard in Ky.’ Of course, he meant Kyabram. When he got back, times were pretty good, and lots of people were starting businesses. Dad missed out on the good land around Kyabram, and he wasn’t about to take bad land, so he went for the best land in the next best joint around – Kyvalley.<br /><br />‘I thought I meant Kyabram before I left,’ he’d tell visitors. ‘But I found out later on I really meant Kyvalley!’<br /><br />And then he’d laugh, and our visitors would laugh, and get distracted by the laughter, and look around them, especially at the apricot trees. But I didn’t get distracted. I kept looking at Dad. After the laughter, while everyone was looking around, he’d look bloody sad. Like a bloke who’s been kicked in the guts a few times but doesn’t want anybody to know it. I think that’s why it was his favourite story.<br /><br />It was a good decision, anyway. Getting the good land in Kyvalley, I mean, and planting his roots in 1950, if that’s when he did plant them. The cannery was already there, but they joined on a can-making factory in 1950, and that’s when things really picked up. After a couple of years we were producing bumper crops of apricots – big, juicy ones, orange around with the red burnish on top and a few brown speckles just to let you know how good they really were – paying ginzos to harvest em and load up the trucks, and off to the factory. Dad would walk around – supervising, I guess – with a big shotgun. He said it was ‘to keep the cockies off me crop’, but it was never loaded.<br /><br />If I could get a job where I could walk around all day with an unloaded shotgun, I’d probably do that too. Sometimes Dad let Shane carry the gun for him.<br /><br />‘Just hold it carefully,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t put your finger on the trigger, and whatever you do, don’t drop the bloody thing. Cost a bloody fortune.’<br /><br />He never let me hold it. I wasn’t old enough, he said – and then, by the time I was old enough, he didn’t carry it around no more. Said he’d grown out of it. Boy, I really wanted to hold that shotgun. Sometimes he’d break open the barrel and look down through the chamber and out the end. I asked him if I could have a shotgun for my birthday once, but he just laughed and said a man had to buy his own damned shotguns in this life. Shane said he’d let me hold it once, when Dad was out of sight. Boy, I really wanted to hold it. Shane let me look real close and told me to have a go, but I wouldn’t. I was too afraid of what Dad might do if he came back and saw me with the gun. Not just to me, but to Shane for giving it to me in the first place.<br /><br />I was 14 and Shane was 16 and we were both at school when Dad died. He’d been helping Jack Allen with his ute, and they were on a slope in Jack’s backyard. The handbrake gave out, and the ute started to roll. Both Dad and Jack were at the front of the car, and they could hold it with the two of them, but that was all they could do.<br /><br />Jack told the police – and then later, us – that Dad had told him to race around to the side, open the driver’s door, jump in, and put the footbrakes on, while Dad held the ute. But he couldn’t hold it. Or maybe Jack took too long to get around the side. There was another car down the slope, you see – a beat up old wreck, it was – and they were trying to stop the ute from smashing into it. So it smashed into Dad instead, and still smashed into the old wreck anyway. It’s funny. After all the trouble planting his roots in Ky, Dad bought it from an old ute for the sake of an old bomb.<br /><br />The orchard was still going ok then. Not as good as the 50s, but still profitable. Shane and I were dead keen to take it over. We made some plans between us about how we could expand the business. People were talking of turning Ky – Kyabram, I mean, not Kyvalley – into a proper town. A recognised town, you know? And we thought we could get in real good if that happened, into politics maybe.<br /><br />But they wouldn’t let us take over the orchard. Said we were too young. Shane was disgusted, he said he was as old then as Dad was when he went to fight in the war (which wasn’t true), so what made it right that a man could fight in a war at 16 but he couldn’t grow a few apricot trees? They told him it wasn’t just about apricot trees, or who can fight in wars and when. They told him hard times were coming. That there’d be no rain for a real long time, and the land was going into drought, and water would get real expensive to bring in, but without it the crops would die. And they told him it was a complex operation to keep a big orchard running in a bad drought, and that lots of men who’d been running orchards for a long time – longer even than Dad (which wasn’t all that long, in truth) had tried and failed, and that a young fella like him, no matter how strong and keen he was, well, he might have all the beans in the world to get him up early every morning, but it’s wisdom and experience and knowing when to invest and when not to invest which makes a successful orchard man.<br /><br />In the end, it was mum who persuaded Shane. I think he knew they were right, and things weren’t going to go well with the orchard no matter what he did. But he had a lot of pride and wouldn’t back down to their faces.<br /><br />I was happy we sold up, but if we hadn’t, and if Shane had’ve pressed ahead after he told everyone to get stuffed, and if he had’ve taken over the orchard, I would’ve supported him in that. We made a plan, and even if it went wrong, I would’ve supported him to see if we could make it come off or not.<br /><br />It was a few years later that I moved up north. I came up and worked in the orchards, which is sort of funny, because I never meant to. I mean, I wasn’t following orchards or anything. I just heard it was sunny and hot and nice beaches, and nobody hassles you about stuff. Land is pretty cheap but pretty good. There was lots of acreage for crops inland a bit, but I’d had enough of farming by then. I didn’t mind working hard and I wasn’t afraid to start my own business, but I wanted something I could have more control over, you see. I didn’t want to put in years of work just to have a few blokes show up on my verandah down the track and say ‘sorry, we’ve done a study and your farm will fail – you can pack up and sell cheap now, or you can pack up and sell for next to nothing later.’ It’s understandable, I think. I think I wasn’t being unreasonable in that.<br /><br />A lot of the new arrivals were working in the local orchards then. There were more orchards then than there are now, now most of the orchards have been replaced with – what do they call em? McMansions. Ha! That’s what my kids call them. They look alright to me, and I don’t really see why they should be McMansions. They were built around the same time that McDonalds and all those bloody American shops started showing up, but they were built by Australian builders. Unlike the orchards – they were built a bit by ginzos and mostly by kanakas. It was them I worked with in the orchards, as well as a bunch of other no-hopers from around the country who’d come up for the work. Most of em were working for the bottle, but I never did – I mean, I don’t mind a drink, but I’m not a slave to it – and after a while I managed to get some work helping out with the new suburbs they were building. I mostly helped with the gardens, and got pretty good at it, and pretty good at organising teams of three or four blokes to get into the scrub and clear it out, or else to clean up peoples yards for them.<br /><br />I guess I can thank the snakes, really. Lots of people don’t know how to deal with snakes, especially the new arrivals. All they know is that snakes like long grass, so you have to keep your yard neat and tidy. But once a couple of snakes show up, they don’t want to go out there to mess with them, so the grass gets longer, and more snakes came, and before they know it they’ve got a backyard which grows all day and slithers all night. All you need is some work boots and a long shovel. One or two of my fellas got bit, but none of them died.<br /><br />After I’d been here for a few years – maybe ten, I guess, so it was a fair few years – Shane showed up. It was out of the blue, but I wasn’t surprised to see him all the same. He said he’d been working in Melbourne but heard there was lots of money to be made up here, so he caught the next long hauler heading up this way. He looked ok. He was a big bloke and looked like he’d been getting into a few scraps after a few drinks. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and he smelled sour like alcohol, but so did most other blokes. I asked him if he wanted a job working on one of my teams, but he said no, he’d heard the good money was to be made further north, at the mines.<div><br />‘You’re bloody crazy,’ I said. ‘The reason they pay such good money at the mines is because every second bloke loses his arm or falls off a truck and breaks his back. They’re not paying you to do nothing, you know.’<br /><br />‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to get paid to do nothing. I’ll make a packet up there for just three months work.’<br /><br />We were drinking a few tinnies on somebody’s back verandah – the house had just been built and they hadn’t moved in yet. It was stinking hot, the kind of heat that just makes you sweat, no matter how much you drink. The house was right on the edge of the scrubland, and the cicadas were screaming up a ruckus in the trees behind the house, I can tell you. They always did scream up a ruckus on hot days like that, but I seemed to hear it more cos Shane was there and he probably hadn’t heard it before and I thought maybe he would notice it, but he didn’t seem to.<br /><br />‘Then I might take a bit of a break and head over to Perth,’ he said.<br /><br />‘You seen mum?’ I asked him. He shook his head and didn’t say anything.<br /><br />‘I’m going back to Ky soon to see her. You should come.’<br /><br />‘Oh yeah?’ he replied. ‘When are you going?’<br /><br />‘In June. Middle of winter and all, I reckon that place she’s in isn’t too warm.’<br /><br />Shane just looked at me.<br /><br />‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked after a while.<br /><br />‘I don’t know. Cut her bloody firewood for starters. Fix up the joint a bit. You should come.’<br /><br />‘Think I’m busy in June,’ was all he said.<br /><br />He cleared out the next day. I tried to persuade him to stay and work here – if not for me, then in one of the orchards. But when I suggested that he just looked at me like I was mad, and said he had a job he was going to up north, and he was scheduled to be there and start working in two days. And off he went.<br /><br />When I went to see Mum, she said she hadn’t seen Shane for a while, although he dropped in sometimes.<br /><br />‘He doesn’t stay long,’ she’d say. ‘I don’t think he likes it here. Not his type of place, Ky. He’s a big fella, he likes to be active and working.’<br /><br />‘Plenty of activity and work in Ky,’ I said, then wondered why I’d said it.<br /><br />‘No, he couldn’t settle in Ky,’ Mum replied. ‘Not his type of place at all.’<br /><br />I managed to fix Mum up pretty good after a while, my business up north was going so well. She didn’t want to move out of Ky, which was fine with me, because it was fine with her. But I could make sure she didn’t freeze during winter, at least.<br /><br />‘Selling that orchard was the best damned thing that ever happened to you boys,’ Mum would sometimes say. ‘Imagine if you had’ve taken it over. Look at what’s happened to everyone who tried to stay on and make a go of it. The land just won’t take it, and the river’s stuffed. I’ve always been very glad we got out when we did.’<br /><br />‘Yeah,’ I’d reply. ‘Me too, Mum. Lucky, eh?’<br /><br />And every now and then Shane would drop in on me up north, on his way to a job somewhere. He was always alone. As the years went by, it struck me that he didn’t look too flash, but then one day I realised that I wasn’t looking all that flash myself anymore. It was something else about him. I dunno what it was. It was like he was surly, but not deliberately so. He wasn’t angry or anything, he just wasn’t used to being around people that much, and he didn’t care for them. He seemed to spend a lot of time alone, or else working with other blokes who had big powerful hands like his, and who liked to drink, and drive trucks, and sometimes fight each other and sometimes go off with prostitutes. I sometimes wondered if he was angry at the world, which was really more a way of wondering if he had a right to be angry with the world, which always made me wonder if I’d be angry at the world if I was in his shoes. If it was me who’d had the guts to stand up to a group of men when I was 16 and tell them to get stuffed, I was taking over the orchard, and then not done so. Or me who’d worked at building sites in Melbourne, and gotten into fights and then decided to catch a truck up north because I didn’t have no family or woman around to make me stay. And was I angry because I did stay? Did I stay because I wanted to, or because was I made to? I wonder sometimes if I would have had the courage to pack it in and piss off to the mines – I mean, to do that and live with myself.<br /><br />Maybe if I’d got to carry the shotgun I could’ve. Maybe the shotgun was all bullshit anyway.</div>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-32691354408170764802011-01-18T16:36:00.000+02:002011-01-18T16:39:18.871+02:00<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msoke/5367103002/" title="frank black by Msoke, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5282/5367103002_1ca3da28a3.jpg" width="459" height="500" alt="frank black" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-6915986817504526972010-12-28T12:49:00.000+02:002010-12-28T13:15:16.172+02:00floodwaters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXlB0PWKFxCGaK9MDd32IL9N7oRpVz9A8VzsRIHKbPj80gODXHZu0nCK6DwmEfFT_aR0dJk2p3SzfEob5sHg4ln0xPt8Ej0jLpKTHvz2GtDQo5NxZLDkQ9uqDoUuHNEbftZXFjA/s1600/DSCF4127b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXlB0PWKFxCGaK9MDd32IL9N7oRpVz9A8VzsRIHKbPj80gODXHZu0nCK6DwmEfFT_aR0dJk2p3SzfEob5sHg4ln0xPt8Ej0jLpKTHvz2GtDQo5NxZLDkQ9uqDoUuHNEbftZXFjA/s400/DSCF4127b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555689975890663570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Se8VZNeIbV8b7fn37FFoJWUKuowK_WlqO1BrDirFjMLbAaw0HNZnBoq92JqaVmANBC6skhWAcboFZ7SPnCIk3iHo6ZiEhOOITAoirgjuVEVxQq3rKxPGa87K1VKVtmaKj3MbWg/s1600/DSCF4125a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Se8VZNeIbV8b7fn37FFoJWUKuowK_WlqO1BrDirFjMLbAaw0HNZnBoq92JqaVmANBC6skhWAcboFZ7SPnCIk3iHo6ZiEhOOITAoirgjuVEVxQq3rKxPGa87K1VKVtmaKj3MbWg/s400/DSCF4125a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555689975127558882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHGdoA_jxXKPIDuXpftF4F3Q2A8QPcao16ttZ1OpwIkPBMZBltLkMOdupIdrREsmkWBPQVDYlAVmfOxeVEsaraY6958b3QkZiW73hKUnnoFSeOFJbXR9iKkY_HJwnTetYppIZRw/s1600/DSCF4115a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHGdoA_jxXKPIDuXpftF4F3Q2A8QPcao16ttZ1OpwIkPBMZBltLkMOdupIdrREsmkWBPQVDYlAVmfOxeVEsaraY6958b3QkZiW73hKUnnoFSeOFJbXR9iKkY_HJwnTetYppIZRw/s400/DSCF4115a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555689968580635682" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXWbPSnOy6vh9nK6dxKc9_vr7WNwfRh0GgdEmb_N7jWZcwmvPagiDV3mjBLUwjbOf0k9Dv38koSYl4lz_9hwbgRRavOrEGUuL-X5EWVLEeW1fcIwR2q4aYOdBsWMfJ9nNzwDFOQ/s1600/DSCF4112a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXWbPSnOy6vh9nK6dxKc9_vr7WNwfRh0GgdEmb_N7jWZcwmvPagiDV3mjBLUwjbOf0k9Dv38koSYl4lz_9hwbgRRavOrEGUuL-X5EWVLEeW1fcIwR2q4aYOdBsWMfJ9nNzwDFOQ/s400/DSCF4112a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555689964921106418" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZZm5uYHwN-OLw3AFbjg8FrWOYzUL67bW5WOe68FLYIsDKYD9ROZ5GL6mAz7ATrbc_9xdS4wmSfYBlyo55PtTOLCuxAANEZ85-ySQNm87czH82C6KflEvUlpPgUoxM-DrrqyMxw/s1600/DSCF4104a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZZm5uYHwN-OLw3AFbjg8FrWOYzUL67bW5WOe68FLYIsDKYD9ROZ5GL6mAz7ATrbc_9xdS4wmSfYBlyo55PtTOLCuxAANEZ85-ySQNm87czH82C6KflEvUlpPgUoxM-DrrqyMxw/s400/DSCF4104a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555689961418858530" /></a>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-78454127410129775832010-12-28T12:04:00.002+02:002010-12-28T12:31:03.419+02:00Sir Joh's revengeThis isn’t the first time it’s happened, not by a long way – remember ’56 or ’67? And then there was ’73 and of course ’74, when the floodwaters sank the city centre, and also ’88, and ’92. That’s why it took so long to get a fire brigade around here, there was so much water around all the time that nothing ever got dry enough to catch alight. After ’74 they deepened the riverbed to stop the floods, but it didn’t work. After ’92 they did it again and said we were finally flood-proof – remember the property prices along the riverside went through the roof cos everyone thought they could tear down damp warehouses and replace them with high-rise villas? It was some sort of madness. And now look. For days they’ve been saying the Wivenhoe Dam would burst and the floodwaters would come rushing down. Some were saying all the nutrients upstream would get washed down with the floodwaters and out into the bay, and we’d get a bumper crop of prawns this year. But the waters in the bay have been far too cold for prawns, and the only thing growing like crazy is the plantlife. Mass wisteria. And now the floodwaters are too strong – did you hear about those three idiots from Ipswich who tried to float on their lilos all the way to South Bank? As soon as they hit the current they were out of control, clinging for their lives to flimsy rubber while huge trees torn out of the riverbank by the force of water swept around them. That’s why I don’t like to swim, I don’t like the current. When people get carried away scary things happen. Anyway, it makes me so furious I see red. I don’t know why they don’t just call out the army like they did in ’74, when they sent the trucks in and set up tent cities. They could get those trucks through the floodwaters. I served in Vietnam, that place is full of water, and people getting bitten by mosquitoes and getting malaria. They could get those trucks through anything. There should just be a law that the army can do that when floods happen and other stuff. Sir Joh wouldn’t have stood for it, he would’ve been down there along the rivers with the army. That’s what leadership is about. Instead everyone’s dancing wildly, and panic is spreading, and I can’t see how it will dissipate. Sir Joh would’ve known how to take everything in hand. It’s not right that nowadays everyone tries to paint him black. He looked scary but he was harmless, he even did lots of really good things. But people just use him as an excuse to act crazy. In those days people wouldn’t get on lilos and try to ride them fifty kilometers downstream in a flood. The whole region was strictly controlled by Sir Joh. Besides, it’s not like it’s as bad as it was ’67 or ’74. It’s just a whole lot of people getting themselves worked up.jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-1033261871468337522010-12-25T05:08:00.002+02:002010-12-25T05:11:25.235+02:00St Vitus' dance‘There were different names for it – the dancing mania, St. Vitus’ dance, St. John’s dance, or the dancing plague; it came to be associated with the saints because many believed it had been sent as a curse from them, and it often ended at one of their shrines. It was most wide spread in Europe between the 14th and 17th centuries, at a time when plague was killing a lot of people, and times were generally tough. Someone would just start dancing in the streets and others would become infected and join in. They would dance for days, weeks, even months. Sometimes people would drop down dead from heart attacks or exhaustion. Can you believe that? Groups of travelling musicians would travel the countryside playing music to try and cure the attacks, though sometimes they would just make it worse. This is historically documented fact, dad, it absolutely happened, and no one knows exactly why. Some people think it was stress, because life was so stressful, people would just become hysterical and dance until they dropped. Sometimes when a group of dancers would move through a village they would become violent if people from that village didn’t join in. That seems like a pretty big hint. Mass hysteria. Almost like a mob attacking Frankenstein. That’s why I don’t like to go to hockey games. I know it sounds silly, but when people get carried away scary things happen. And it says they would get particularly furious if they saw the color red. I don’t know why. But there’s more. In southern Europe, mostly Italy, something similar would happen if someone was bitten by a tarantula – it was called tarantism. It was also associated with a saint – Paul, and would often recur annually in those who had been bitten around his feast day. It would come back every year around the same time! Often someone didn’t even have to be bitten by a spider, it was enough just to suspect they had been bitten, or had touched a spider, or had touched someone who had been bitten at some point in time by a spider. They would start dancing wildly, apparently so that venom would spread through the body and dissipate. Groups of travelling musicians would also travel the country for the purpose of healing those who had been bitten and who needed to dance. After dancing for a long time, the infected ones would end in a chapel dedicated to saint Paul, screaming and dancing until they were released for another year. The dancers would even dress up and call themselves brides of saint Paul. They would get particularly angry at the sight of the colour black. In 1959 a scientist went to Italy to study the phenomenon and found that the spider that most claiming to suffer from the illness had been bitten by was actually a fairly scary looking venomless and so harmless type of tarantula. He suggested people were just using it as an excuse for acting a little wildly and letting loose in a region normally strictly controlled by the Church. Isn’t that crazy!? It sounds a lot like people just getting themselves really incredibly worked up!’teacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17132576489073045935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-28762933287821506002010-12-25T05:07:00.000+02:002010-12-25T05:08:25.417+02:00Montreal via St-EustacheХочется или нет, но пожалуй пора подвести итоги. Три месяца как я перехал жить из Ванкувера в Монреаль, и говорят мне – русские все в Торонто живут, не туда переехал друг! Но я и не особено стремился к русским, да и все равно их нахожу где бы не был.<br />Первый месяц жил у знакомых русских в пригороде, Санкт-Юсташ. Ну, будем называть его “Монреальский Долгопрудный”. Только вот в этом Долгопрудном живут одни французы, сепаратисты. Иностранцев, похоже, никогда не видели и не очень любят, в том числе и англо-говорящих. На каждом доме – сино-белый флаг. Когда первый раз подъехали подумал с востргом – все болеют за любимую мою ментовскую команду. Но оказалось не за хоккей, а за собственую страну болеют, флагом “fleur-de-lis.” На доме моих друзей – русский флаг. Контраст интересный. Боялся я немножко выходить сам, сидел дома и мы смотрели вместе записи Высотского на Youtube. На следующий день надо было чем-то заняться, познакомиться с городом, и мне подсказали.<br />-Хочешь, поехай на Метро Сноудон. Это считается английским районом. Может там тебе будет комфортнее.<br />Я слышал раньше о Сноудоне. Один знакомый француз – которого встретил в Москве очень давно – написал мне что местные называют эту станцию Little Russia. Перед переездом, на интернет я читал в франсуском форуме что район славится тараканами, крысами, и прочими незначительными тварьями. Про русских ни слова. <br />Лучше, - писал чувак в форуме, - снимай квартиру в другой части города, даже в Санкт-Юсташ. <br />Но я не боялся тараканище, и решил поехать на Сноудон. Гуляя по улице главной я не видел тараканов или крыс. Я видел широкий московский проспект и также широкий магазин Ла Пэтит Русси. Я видел Грузинский ресторан. И магазин европейских изделий, что обычно озночает у нас – русских изделий. Если магазин италиянский, или эспанский, или еврейский, или так далее, обычно открыто написано на дверях. А если магазин русский – написанно что европейский. Захожу и вижу – все по европейскиому, то есть, русскому. Симпатичная дама за кассой почувствовала зачем пришел и сразу показала где шпроты и Балтика. Я выдохнул и мне захотелось плакать, но хорошими слезами – в своей стране нахожу утешение среди русских. <br />Вечером сидим за столом, едим шпроты, пивко пьем. Расказывают мне как сюда попали.<br />-Браток мой, Володь, женился на местную особу, и она хотела здесь жить со своими. У нас в большом городе не было никого кроме Володи, нам надоело жить с арабами, и мы решили переехать тоже. После двух лет они развелись, но мы к тому времени уже купили дом, и начали привыкать. Соседи здесь не беспокоят, не стреляют и не мусорят. Первый год, я пару раз говорил с соседом справа. Спросил он не из мафии ли мы, посмеялся, и перестал выходть из дома. С остальными никогда не говорили. Каждый раз когда мы выходим из дома отворачиваются. Мы здесь теперь десять лет и я даже не знаю как они выглядят, я видел только их спинки. Первый год мы повесили канадийский флаг, но кто-то спер. Повесили еще раз – по новой сперли. Потом решили повесить наш русский – не сперли, побаивались, наверное, или просто плевать было – хоть бы не канадийский. <br />На следующий день я поехал в город, более серьезно заниматься жилищным вопросом. Первая попавшая квартира понравилась – и место хорошее, и хозяйка русская. Друг мой француз мне объяснил, мол, найдешь хорошую квартиру, сразу соглашайся, поверь мне, это монреальский закон. А не сразу соглашаешься – отдают другому. Ну, город такой. <br />Так что я согласился сразу. Хозяйка пошла в свою квартиру, документы взять, и я ждал в корридоре. Приоткрыла дверь соседка, подошла ко мне. <br />-Слышь, - шепчет по-русски, - ты лучше смазывайся пока можешь. Ее брат будет элекроэнергии тайно употреблять за твой счет, и она тебя заставит учить ее детей – ты же англичанин, нет?<br />-А что, - говорю, - мне по морде можно определить?<br />-Нет, по сильному аккценту.<br />Я не знал как реагировать, но что-то мне в ухо говорила – в любом случае, лучше смазыватся, что-то здесь не ладное. И я смылся.<br />Следующих несколько квартир не подходило. Я более осторожно смотрел всем хозяинам прямо в глаза, пытаясь разобраться в их благоразумие, но ничего не видел там кроме глаз. Потом попалась хорошая квартира опять, и я сразу согласился. Район интеллигентный, недалеко от Сноудона. Хозяйка местная француженка, профессор из местного университета. Детская площадка где местные тинейджеры пили пиво или курили бамбук свой только ночью, когда малыши спят. И главное – очень тихо. <br />Я попрощался с моими друзьями в Санкт-Юсташ. Соседи выходили и увидев нас отвернулись. Я смотрел на флаги, попрощался мыслено с русским, и готовился морально войти в мир сино-белый. Прощай русский язык, первая моя любовь. Меня жизнь привела к другой. Будем по местному, прощай. <br />Вечером вышел из своей новой хаты, проходил по району. Не плохой. Гуляя по нему подумал, что-то не слишком чужое ощущение. Смотрю на землю – бычки везде. Давно не видел такого, интересно. Перехожу дорогу, в парке пустые банки пива, интересно. На перекрестке возле метро замечал еще кое-что, раньше пропушеное – большой ресторан под названием Rasputin, и написано под названием – европейская кухня. Боже мой, чтобы это значило? Солнце клонится к вечеру, начинают подъехать черные тачки немецкого производства. Через час, когда солнце уже окончательно село, тихий район превращается в клуб. Люди стоят на улице и курят. Из ресторана несется звуки разных русских поп-шедевр – Ха-ра-шо, все будет харашо, все будет харашо я это зна-а-а-Ю! - или - Небо чистая вода, тучи , тучи на ветру...Пишешь адрес в никуда, безнадега, точка – РУ!... через окно видно как тацуют безнадеги, изо всех сил, в вере что все будет хорошо, и что все это знают. Что же, может так и есть.<br />Гуляю дальше, ресторан уже не слышен, все тихо. Фонарик сгибается вперед под тяжестью ночи. Поедъезжает машина, ушам своим не верю – пей пиво, ешь мясо! Мужик останавливается и спрашивает по-русски, - слышь, брателло, где здесь ресторан Распутин, а?<br />-А что, по морде видно что я говорю по-русски, что-ли? – спрашиваю.<br />-Да нет, просто, ну, на каком языке здесь говорят если не на русском?<br />-Ну да, правильно. Там, где перекресток, увидешь.teacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17132576489073045935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-26829966642363719932010-12-24T01:12:00.000+02:002010-12-24T01:13:18.044+02:00<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uDVgfnyHP0c?fs=1&hl=fr_FR"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uDVgfnyHP0c?fs=1&hl=fr_FR" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16409645.post-79128173822822889502010-12-17T03:56:00.000+02:002010-12-17T03:57:24.756+02:00virtuel flaneur!<a href="http://www.360cities.net/london-photo-en.html">London</a>jikajikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08356454277883869001noreply@blogger.com0