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Отражения в огледалото

Posted by Val на август 21, 2008

(връзка към страница) Розмари Уолдроп

„I am glad that I know you.“ – послание върху подарък за рожден ден от преди десетина години, което ще рече – в Шуменския ми период. Често си припомням тези думи – приятно е да си радвал някого: убеждава те в собствената ти стойностност и предизвиква проявата й отново и отново. Нещо като… удоволствие от отражението в огледало. Книжката-подарък все пак разлистих много по-късно: чакала е момента, предполагам. Не се замислях как изглежда авторката. Текстовете ме погълнаха моментално – като разтворим аспирин в чаша вода. Сега, като гледам снимката, си казвам, че сигурно щях да си я представя точно такава…

По онова време, обаче, виждах себе си зад редовете.

Просто четях собствените си мисли. Бях се запознала с чаровен, вече натурализирал се у нас шотландец, когото на шега наричах The Highlander. Влюбих се – той ме запозна с Кенет Уайт и Ленард Коен, поиска да му нарисувам роза и да напиша четиристишие… Имаше проблем с алкохола, но тогава беше най-истински – казваше, че му се ще да е messenger: an angel, да общува едновреммено с Бог и с хората. Горещо се надявам да е постигнал мечтата си за успял човек – Сизиф, спускащ се по другия склон… В много от текстовете на Уолдроп откривах отношенията си с този луд шотландец. Всъщност, изглежда сама съм си градила този вид прочит: целта на Language poets била да съ-творяваш, докато четеш. 🙂

Книжката е тъничка (поезията, дори в проза, не е многословна). Изданието у дома е с бели корици и същата глава на антична статуя, отразена в огледало.  Не знам дали Уолдроп е превеждана в България, но не съм чела друго, освен The Reproduction of Profiles. Привлече ме лекотата, с която са втъкани различни езикови термини в текста, както и осезаемите внушения, постигнати по този начин. Оказва се, че автори като Уолдроп директно прилагат Витгенщайн и неговата философия на езика: взет извън натуралната си среда (живота), езикът става непотребен. Витгенщайн сравнява метафизиката с блок от лед без сцепление по повърхността – там, където условията са очевидно идеални за логически перфектен език, където философските въпроси могат да се третират без ‘калния’ ефект на контекста на ежедневието, този ‘перфектен’ език не върши никаква работа – именно поради липсата на сцепление и триене… философите трябва да стъпят на ‘твърда почва’ и да върнат на думите ежедневното им значение.

Поезия в проза, където съзнанието е неделимо от тялото – ‘монологични’ диалози с Витгенщайн, които ми допаднаха по един съвсем естествен начин. 🙂

‘Reproduction of profiles’ – авторски прочит – връзка към аудио текста Feverish Propositions (в писмен вид по-долу). Корицата пък е връзка към други текстове – с клик дясно/ляво в новия браузер.

You told me if something is not used, it is meaningless, and took my temperature, which I had thought to save for a more difficult day. In the mirror, every night, the same face, a bit more threadbare, a dress worn too long. The moon was out in the cold, along but the restless, dissatisfied wind that seemed to change the location of the sycamores. I expected reproaches, because I had mentioned the word love, but you only accused me of stealing your pencil, and sadness disappeared with sense. You made a ritual of holding your head in your hands, because, you said, it could not be contained in itself.

* * *

I thought if we could just go on walking through these woods and let the pine branches brush our faces, living would still take beads of sweat on your forehead, but you wouldn’t have to worry about my exhibitionism. All you liked about trees was the way the light came through the leaves in sheets of precise parallel rays, like slant rain. This might be an incomplete explanation of our relation, but we’ve always feared the dark inside the body. You agreed there could be no seduction, if the structures of the propositions did not stand in a physical relation, so that we could get from one to the other. Even so, not every moment of happiness is to hang one’s clothes on.

* * *

I might have know that you wouldn’t speak to me. But to claim that you just didn’t want to disguise your thoughts? We’ve walked along this road before, I said. So, perhaps in heavier coats, not designed to reveal the form of the body. Later, the moon came out and threw the shadows of branches across the street, there they remained, broken.

Fevereshly you examined the tacid conventions on which conversation depends. I sighed, as one does at night, looking down into the river. I wondered if by throwing myself in I could penetrate to the essense of its character. Or, should I wait for you to stab me, as you had practiced in your dream? You said, this question, like most philosophycal problems, arose from failing to understand the tale of ‘The two youths, the two horses, and the two lillies.’
You could prove to me that the deepest rivers are, in fact, no rivers at all.

* * *

From this observation, we turned to consider passion. Looking at the glints of light on the water, you tried to make me tell you not to risk the excitement, to recommend cold baths. The lack of certainty, of direction, of duration, was its own argument, unlike going into a bar to get drunk, and, getting drunk. Your face was alternately hot and cold, as if translating one language into another gasps from the storm in your heart. The pink ribbon in your pocket. Its actual colour turned out unimportant, but its presence disclosed something essential about membranes. You said there was still time, you could still break it up, go abroad, make a movie. I said, politely, I thought, this wouldn’t help you. You’d have to kill yourself.

* * *

Tearing your shirt open, you drew my attention to three dogs in a knot. This served to show how something general can be recorded in un-pedigreed notation. You hit your chest with your fist as you said you didn’t know how you could stand being near me. I pointed to a bench by a willow, from which we could see the gas tanks across the river. Because, I thought, a bench was a simple possibility. One could sit on it. The black hawks of the tanks began sharpening in the cold dawn light. So when you leaned against the railing, I could smell your hair, which ended in a clean round line on your neck , as was the fashion that year. I had always resented how nimble your neck became whenever you met a woman, regardless of rain falling outside or other calamities. Now, at least, you hunched your shoulders against the shadow of your words.

* * *

This time of day, hesitation can mean tottering on the edge, just before the water breaks into the steep rush and spray of the fall. What could I do, but turn with the current and get choked by my inner speed? You tried to breath against the acceleration, waiting for the indignant air to consent. All the while, we both behaved as if this search for a pace was useful, like reaching for a plank, or wearing raincoats… I was afraid we would die before we could make a statement. But you said that language presupposed meaning. Which would in any case be swallowed by the roar of the waterfall. Toward morning, walking along the river, we tossed simple objects into the air, which was indifferent around us, so it moved off a little. And again, as you put your hand back in your pocket, to test the degree of hardness. Everything else remained the same. This is why, you said, there was no fiction.

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3 Коментари to “Отражения в огледалото”

  1. […] Отражения в огледалото […]

  2. mitkokalchev said

    I sighed, as one does at night, looking down into the river. I wondered if by throwing myself in I could penetrate to the essense of its character. Or, should I wait for you to stab me, as you had practiced in your dream? … You could prove to me that the deepest rivers are, in fact, no rivers at all.

  3. Val said

    🙂 yes – it’s my favourite part, too.

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