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To which with all befitting soberness I declare – fuck, no!
Were they even to convert each and every printed volume into an audio book or turn it into a movie, like they did to Harry Potter, and The Steel Hardened That Way, or steep it in all kinds of widgets both to reproduce the aroma of the prairie in bloom and the stench off your dorm buddy drunk blind (following the plot), and make it able to imitate the tactile impressions in line with the sex orgies served by the whores at the Red Mill (as depicted by the seasoned author), or even let you feel, virtually, taste of any delicacy, up to Zhigulevsky beer snacked with a briquette of molten cheese for 13 kopecks a piece, still and yet – fuck, no!
Because there is some (what would I call it?) magic (yes!) in books which is beyond imitation by any 3D (or be it 696D if they choose it)!
Got it what I’m about? Quite so! The words! Those black ant-like-critter-signs in the white field without smell-taste-color, like the distilled water, but making you tighter than all them sweet wines…
But then again, only if you know the trick of getting the adequate intoxication from them those ants, sure thing.
Good news, that skills could be developed when needed, which lately brought about my getting high from classical music, at least some of its pieces. Take The Hairless Heights by Mussorgsky, if you please, where witches fly to to land under the soundtrack cooler than the chopper’s Ride of the Valkyries over Nam.
Yet, Alfred Schnitke still remains as remorseless guts ripper as he always was…
No doubt, freedom captivates anyone but since that villain Hegel had shackled the world with his unbreakable chain of unity-of-opposites it (freedom) got turned into prison as well.
Handcuffed by the edging smartphones, teeter poor Juliets never spotting Romeos around who—their brows vindictively downcast—keep flicking the beans of Steve Job’s HER’s or someone else’s Samsungs.
Each medal has its backside. The Dark Side of the Moon in action.
However, let’s drop the subject for some other guy to blow up the Net with, because this morning, by the try and error check, it was detected that you can stuff no more than five A4 sheets into a bottle.
Which is not a cinch, by the bye. And do not forget leaving some room for them (A4s) to piggyback because of oceanic dampness. Some booked, so to say, volume.
As for bottles it’s not a crunch on Island since that maverick wreck of galleon got stranded by the storm last week. No crew, no nothing but the screwed-up vessel driven into the bay by the northern cape of Island, however, the chest in the Captain’s cabin stayed intact with all the stuff inside. Jamaican gin, bottled, follow me?
Well, one of those had to be emptied for the experimentation tries’ sake to see the bottle’s capacity, when you start stuffing it with A4 rolls. No more than five, as it was mentioned. Exactly where I plan to shove this here part of my blog up.
The uninhabited environs have since long streamlined me into a thoughtful expert in practicality because not every day a fried dove flies to you, assisted by the favorable breeze as an addition to a freebie galleon, you know what I mean, huh?
* * *
Bottle #3: ~ Prince Kurbsky Too Was Not Ashamed Of Taking To The Hills ~
What was it all kicked off with? No way to find out. As in anything at all.
When thinking deep enough, you do behold that any point in your grab will readily become the start.
How about the point, when the gray-covered notebook was handed in for the City Psychiatrist to check the sanity percentage in the person and/or how dangerous would the doodler of such stuff be for innocent civilians?
Or take that pivotal moment, marked by the ample pocketbook with perceptible sepia tinge in the pages seen through the press in 1968, which my Teacher’s hands offered (no pathetic blah-blah attached) for mine, all full of awe and greedy gratitude? Does it draw a shorter straw to be the start?
The invitation for the thick gray notebook to pop up was provided by the weighty parcel in the coarse mustard-hued paper for postal deliveries, corded about and sealed up with chocolate-like blobs of stamped wax which I hadn’t broken. Ever.
What’s the use of breaking if you knew what’s inside? Translations were there, that’s what. Translations from English, 35 stories, 472 pages typewritten in Ukrainian.
These, like, randomly collected figures do not repeat each other in their summing up of 6 years’ work—gee! and this one also does not coincide with a single one of them!
Six years deftly wrapped in the mustard-hued paper, bound-sealed up by skillful hands of a post office service-lady: shrrsh-frisst-trunt-slamp – next, please!
The undeniably non-uniform figures do contain certain meaning, albeit not graspable with a fleeting glimpse, because socialism is, first and foremost, inventory, to cite the aphoristic definition by Lenin at the sitting of All-Russia Central Executive Committee on p.57, vol. 35, Complete Collection Of Works in 55 Volumes…
In the Publishing House they also did not bother to open the translations, toe-kicked them on the fly instead. A one-touch shot.
Yet why multiplying them? The half-back was seated all alone at his desk in the second office to the left down the corridor. Sedentary way of life made of that Sitting Bull a blob of blubber. Unhealthy obesity, not fitting a soccer player.
Let him thank me for the humanitarian aid offered—no excruciating push ups, just taking to the post office 472 pages plus their cover—to throw away a sliver of his fat in the exercise, and the Publishing House would reimburse the expenditure confirmed by the post office bill slip.
Not a chance. A courier was sent by the fucking slackmaster…
The long and short of it, the translations returned to where they had initially started from and stilled there, like a mustard-hued tombstone, to crown 6 years of mental toil marked by the contemplation wrinkles in the thoughtful forehead.