събота, 14 ноември 2015 г.


Що се отнася до писане/живеене, обичам да цитирам този разказ на Маргарет Атууд. Някой ден ще го преведа. Сега го запазвам тук (тъй като все се налага да го търся периодично).

На двайсет и три години това, което знам и в което единствено се кълна, остава: историите, историите, историите.

"Happy Endings"
Margaret Atwood
John and Mary meet.
What happens next?
If you want a happy ending, try A.

John and Mary fall in love and get married. They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs
which they find stimulating and challenging. They buy a charming house. Real estate values go
up. Eventually, when they can afford live-in help, they have two children, to whom they are
devoted. The children turn out well. John and Mary have a stimulating and challenging sex life
and worthwhile friends. They go on fun vacations together. They retire. They both have hobbies
which they find stimulating and challenging. Eventually they die. This is the end of the story.

Mary falls in love with John but John doesn't fall in love with Mary. He merely uses her body for
selfish pleasure and ego gratification of a tepid kind. He comes to her apartment twice a week
and she cooks him dinner, you'll notice that he doesn't even consider her worth the price of a
dinner out, and after he's eaten dinner he fucks her and after that he falls asleep, while she does
the dishes so he won't think she's untidy, having all those dirty dishes lying around, and puts on
fresh lipstick so she'll look good when he wakes up, but when he wakes up he doesn't even
notice, he puts on his socks and his shorts and his pants and his shirt and his tie and his shoes, the
reverse order from the one in which he took them off. He doesn't take off Mary's clothes, she
takes them off herself, she acts as if she's dying for it every time, not because she likes sex
exactly, she doesn't, but she wants John to think she does because if they do it often enough
surely he'll get used to her, he'll come to depend on her and they will get married, but John goes
out the door with hardly so much as a good-night and three days later he turns up at six o'clock
and they do the whole thing over again.
Mary gets run-down. Crying is bad for your face, everyone knows that and so does Mary but she
can't stop. People at work notice. Her friends tell her John is a rat, a pig, a dog, he isn't good
enough for her, but she can't believe it. Inside John, she thinks, is another John, who is much
nicer. This other John will emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, a Jack from a box, a pit from a
prune, if the first John is only squeezed enough.
One evening John complains about the food. He has never complained about her food before.
Mary is hurt.
Her friends tell her they've seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge.
It's not even Madge that finally gets to Mary: it's the restaurant. John has never taken Mary to a
restaurant. Mary collects all the sleeping pills and aspirins she can find, and takes them and a
half a bottle of sherry. You can see what kind of a woman she is by the fact that it's not even 
whiskey. She leaves a note for John. She hopes he'll discover her and get her to the hospital in
time and repent and then they can get married, but this fails to happen and she dies.
John marries Madge and everything continues as in A.

John, who is an older man, falls in love with Mary, and Mary, who is only twenty-two, feels
sorry for him because he's worried about his hair falling out. She sleeps with him even though
she's not in love with him. She met him at work. She's in love with someone called James, who is
twenty-two also and not yet ready to settle down.
John on the contrary settled down long ago: this is what is bothering him. John has a steady,
respectable job and is getting ahead in his field, but Mary isn't impressed by him, she's impressed
by James, who has a motorcycle and a fabulous record collection. But James is often away on his
motorcycle, being free. Freedom isn't the same for girls, so in the meantime Mary spends
Thursday evenings with John. Thursdays are the only days John can get away.
John is married to a woman called Madge and they have two children, a charming house which
they bought just before the real estate values went up, and hobbies which they find stimulating
and challenging, when they have the time. John tells Mary how important she is to him, but of
course he can't leave his wife because a commitment is a commitment. He goes on about this
more than is necessary and Mary finds it boring, but older men can keep it up longer so on the
whole she has a fairly good time.
One day James breezes in on his motorcycle with some top-grade California hybrid and James
and Mary get higher than you'd believe possible and they climb into bed. Everything becomes
very underwater, but along comes John, who has a key to Mary's apartment. He finds them
stoned and entwined. He's hardly in any position to be jealous, considering Madge, but
nevertheless he's overcome with despair. Finally he's middle-aged, in two years he'll be as bald
as an egg and he can't stand it. He purchases a handgun, saying he needs it for target practice--
this is the thin part of the plot, but it can be dealt with later--and shoots the two of them and
Madge, after a suitable period of mourning, marries an understanding man called Fred and
everything continues as in A, but under different names.

Fred and Madge have no problems. They get along exceptionally well and are good at working
out any little difficulties that may arise. But their charming house is by the seashore and one day
a giant tidal wave approaches. Real estate values go down. The rest of the story is about what
caused the tidal wave and how they escape from it. They do, though thousands drown, but Fred
and Madge are virtuous and grateful, and continue as in A.

Yes, but Fred has a bad heart. The rest of the story is about how kind and understanding they
both are until Fred dies. Then Madge devotes herself to charity work until the end of A. If you
like, it can be "Madge," "cancer," "guilty and confused," and "bird watching."

If you think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a counterespionage
agent and see how far that gets you. Remember, this is Canada. You'll still end up with A,
though in between you may get a lustful brawling saga of passionate involvement, a chronicle of
our times, sort of.

You'll have to face it, the endings are the same however you slice it. Don't be deluded by any
other endings, they're all fake, either deliberately fake, with malicious intent to deceive, or just
motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality.

The only authentic ending is the one provided here:
John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.

So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known
to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with.

That's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what
and a what and a what.

Now try How and Why.

сряда, 11 ноември 2015 г.


един малък бог
виси от тавана
те лежат
те говорят под него
и броят му очите
и следят му ръцете
и плетат обещания:
детето ще се казва Клитемнестра
кучето ще бъде черно
ти ще носиш бяло и зелено
аз ще бъда мъж

навън уморената София
храчи гръм на трамвайни купета
фасадите се късат във молитви
всички въобразени въобразяващи и голи
ще си сбъднат боговете

сряда, 4 ноември 2015 г.


Следобед. Изместила съм стъпките си, седя в парка, целият е точка, дим и шума този парк. Седя на пейка, ръцете ми замръзват, краката ми замръзват,
носът ми замръзва.
Езиците се чупят на парчета в телефона, започва да се свечерява.
Светлините са избухнали, една мъгла се е прихлупила наоколо.
Жълтото. Жълтото на дърветата,
на фаровете,
на светофарите,
на залеза,
(на залеза в прозорците,
във жиците,
по покривите),
цялото преяло със себе си жълто се блъска в очите ми,
виси на клепачите
крещи край ушите.
Добре, значи.
Две крачки, три крачки, пет крачки. Няма слънце.
Жълтото ляга в асфалта, просва се пред автобусите,
свива небето в юмрука си.
свива и
свива и
По терасите замърква мъглата.
Самолетите сресват тая припадаща вечер.
Броя ги.
броя ги, достатъчно.
Синьо е, ето
синьо е,

вторник, 3 ноември 2015 г.


на ъгъла на Търговска и Леге
(о знам да знам едната хич не съществува вече)
се сблъсках със едно момиче
ударихме си рамената
косите ни се люшнаха в синхрон
къде отиваш я попитах
пък тя успала се за първи час история
(успивах ли се вярно някога)
чертае координатните си пътища с цигара
в чантата си крие Вежинов наместо математика
мъничко по-ниска е от мен (макар кубинките да дават сантиметри)
лицето й е меко клепачите са почернени
(бретонът влиза й в очите)
ти бе мен аз бях теб били сме и ще бъдем още сме
обаче колко е студено как треперят ми ръцете
(бретонът влиза ми в очите)
тежи ми чантата палтото ми тежи обувките със връзки
спъват само

кажи ми нещо дай съвет
какво е там оттатък там където всичко знаеш
(започна да ме пита тя усетила какво се случва
започна да ме пита и да иска
разплита времената към ръцете ми посегна)
кажи ще стане ли това и онова
къде ще се крия и бягам
с кого ще приспиваме думите с кого ще си бесим тъгите

а аз преглъщах тишините си

понеделник, 2 ноември 2015 г.


„Исках да станем по-близки,
толкова, колкото няма начин.“
(„Победителят“, Георги Рупчев)

така избирам да ни сложа в скоби:

на онзи бряг с разсипало се лято
на онзи пуст неназовим незнаен бряг
който е и север който е и юг
където залезът избухваше във ято чайки
(и вместо миди го събирахме  в ръцете си)

в далечината дето окъснелите хипари
наздраве казваха
наздраве за септември и за неговия край
наздраве и за рибата за огъня за навеса
наздраве че ни има че ни имаше за всички нощи слънце
пак наздраве

на онзи бряг където слушахме морето
и бяхме ние слушани от вятъра
и искахме се много твърде много
(а бяхме търпеливи както никога)

така избирам да ни сложа в скоби.


между червеното на два светофара
измисляме град оголен от трафик оголен
от думи зачеркнат в условие
съборен до бяло
обран и изгладен накъсан в следобеди
в ноември пресят омесен за юли

между червеното на два светофара
се дъвче мълчание