Заголовок: Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 11/12/03 в 16:26:53
Есть такой подписной лист, как Bad Signal. Вот текст оттуда (c) Warren Ellis. На английском, перевода, увы не будет.
She opens her perfect mouth and the sound of a modem pours out. The long shriek of signal, and then the radio-static-and-rubber-band song of connection.
And then another. She looks up, opens her mouth, and the electric scream beats up into the night. Another two, three signal-songs harmonise. More. A row of Shrieky Girls, all in black and hazmat orange, standing outside the club, looking up and dialling in.
Inside the place, there's an ozone pressure from the mass of Shrieky Girls beaming internet whispers to each other. Shrieky Girls dance, turning slow circles on the floor as the DJ plays tripped Bristol beats spiked with Shrieky connection-sound samples and tranquillised by sibilant female voices whispering about sex and vodka in the dark.
Shrieky Girls lock us out of their world. Their shared gaze darts around the room in flock patterns, homing in one on one guy's piercings, one woman's shoulderblade brand. People still flinch when they see twenty, thirty girls all turn around to look at them at exactly the same time.
Заголовок: Re: Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 11/12/03 в 16:27:17
In the back, picked out in stopmotion by strobes, a Shrieky Girl stands against the wall and pulls a boy in to her. She unzips him, closes fingers around him, pulls him inside sharply. Her lips part, and you expect a sigh, but you hear connection hiss. On the floor, twenty, thirty Shrieky Girls stop dancing, and all their backs arch in exactly the same way. Heads thrown back and mouths open in modem screams.
It's not that Shrieky Girl who finds someone worth going home with. But, when morning finally comes, it's all of them who share the modemed sensation of a warm arm closed softly around them. It's all of them who see him wake up and smile at them and look at them, and see him keep looking and smiling at them even though the make-up's half gone and the hair's been smashed by the bed, because it was them he wanted to be with, not the look.
Two, three hundred Shrieky Girls smile just a little bit and hold an invisible hand for a while.
Shrieky Girls are never alone. They live in an invisible web of constant secret conversation, transmitting raw feelings like they were texting notes.
Twenty, thirty thousand Shrieky Girls smile just a little bit and turn away to dance.
(c) Warren Ellis 2003
Заголовок: Оттуда же. Очень мрачно.
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 11/13/03 в 01:59:11
Love Will Kill Us All
I remember you all.
Nicola Jane in Hyde Park summer, all in white, long blonde mane and pale blue eyes, every inch reflecting light, laughing at me dressed all in black. We didn't look right together, but we were. Waiting for you at night outside the stage door. I think that's when I started living at night. You got brighter and I got darker.
The world got darker.
Guitars clanging like fire alarms inside the club as Tara B and I clung to each other in the back doorway, the night no bigger than me and she. My hand on her dancer's thigh in the dark, all wrapped in nylon. Her eyes on me as she sang in working-men's clubs. Bending her over the dressing-room table while they were still applauding in the bar. Running my fingertips over the scars on her wrists at five in the morning.
Alice the taxi driver gasping as I licked her tattoo, the first time anyone had done that. The menagerie of rats in her tiny room watching from their cages as she arched and spasmed against my lips.
Darker and darker. Time passing in a million little breaths.
I remember you all, I really do. I remember Ann-Marie's dirtily infectious giggle as I went down on my knees in front of her and told her it was her turn to be sucked off. I remember Jenny's wild pealing laughter as I got down on my knees at the taxi rank and asked her to marry me, to mad cheering from the bar full of people behind us.
Заголовок: Re: Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 11/13/03 в 01:59:33
The same taxi rank I met Alice at. Love makes you stupid. Love kills us all.
They found Alice in the back of her taxi not long after. I had a friend in the police service who said the look on her face was one of total surprise.
After a while, it was like I never saw the sun at all.
Tara B, floating in the canal like a junkyard Ophelia, burger boxes and used condoms drifting around her. Nicola Jane, slumped outside the stage door, hands over her crimson heart like she was trying to stop it breaking.
I went west, chased by permanent night. Porcelain Larissa in New York hotel rooms. Sex was a psychedelic for her. It took her places no-one else ever saw. Convulsing like an electroshock patient as I held her throat with one hand and spanked her with the other. She'd say "thank you" after each apocalyptic sequence of orgasms, looking up at me with complete devotion. Hotels would complain about the screaming.
I think perhaps they were relieved when the screaming stopped, and I sat there alone again, with night coming hard.
I ran from it. For a while, there was sun on my skin in San Francisco. And at night there was Augusta, still in her leather corset and black Victorian cape, taking control of me, telling me it would be like this forever.
But it wasn't. The one thing I have learned in all this time is that nothing is forever. Everybody leaves.
Larissa left me in a ghetto park. From a little distance, it looked like she was wearing a red choker, and that her hands were tied by red ribbons.
People called me vain because the first thing I always bought for every new home was a mirror. But it was only so I could see another face when the night got too dark for everyone else to stand.
And here I lay now, in a country whose name I don't even know, and night is falling, my darlings. Night is falling and I can't run away this time.
I remember you all. And I lay here dying now. I can see it coming, feel the shape of it. All my strength is falling from me like October leaves. I have in me just enough to be able to hold your hands.
But none of you are here.
(c) Warren Ellis 2003
Заголовок: The Lords of Shouting
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 11/13/03 в 02:04:25
The television shouts through a thousand channels. Flickering through a thousand frequencies, making my own cut-up from the sound and vision until you leak through. A second of a voice that could be yours, a glimpse of eyes that could be yours, a moment of a song we heard together. The ache crawls into my hollow bones and the ruthless walls close in. I stand up naked in the pale blue moonlight of the TV screen and ascend. Tonight I'm a mutilated angel, using the cold concrete stairs to reach the sky, hunched over from the wounds where my wings used to be.
Radios howl. Keyboards clatter out of phones, calls and texts and emails. It's a loud world now. But not loud enough that you can hear me tonight.
In ancient Biblical lore, The Lords Of Shouting would gather at every sunrise, ten million five hundred thousand angels, and sing to God's glory as light flooded Heaven.
And I sit here on high, alone, as the world sings you into existence every morning. Up on the roof, shouting your name. Here on my own, the future behind me, wanting to shout out of ten million five hundred thousand mobile phones in this endless 2am. A Lord Of Shouting alone in the middle of the night, howling across an ocean and a continent to where the sun is going down. Wanting to shout the sun back up into the sky, kicking stars out of the way and making you see. Wanting to shout that I'm sorry, that I want you back, that I never should have gone. Wanting you to hear me shout your name.
I am a Lord Of Shouting tonight. But you can't hear a thing.
(c) Warren Ellis 2003
Заголовок: Another Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 12/08/03 в 05:46:02
Comment: это меня самую малость напугало...
Thought for the Night
In the Old Testament, God was a carnivore. No-one ever sacrificed plants to him. No-one whacked a turnip on a slab and said, I'll have its roots off for you, Jehovah old son. Oh no. God likes meat. None of that "fruits of the earth" shit for God. Get a juicy lamb under that knife or it's plague and blackened dangly bits for you, tiny human.
In the vast majority of cases, carnivores are predators.
And top predators became top predators because they understood how to think like prey. They internalise the behavior of their meaty targets.
Or, perhaps: scavengers wait for us to die and then eat our rotting meat. Maybe, thousands of years back, someone somewhere was thinking: those lambs are pretty good, but a ripened and air-cured human body, now that's the stuff...
(Or even one that's been buried for a while, like
Food Of The Gods, ha ha.
I'm going to bed.
Заголовок: Re: Another Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Ципор на 12/11/03 в 23:12:30
on 12/08/03 в 05:46:02, Лапочка wrote:
Бред. Меньше мяса надо есть на ночь. :)
Заголовок: Mysterium Tremendum
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 12/17/03 в 16:08:29
I was websurfing for a line from Terrence McKenna, and found this instead, on a Christian website. This paragraph I find weirdly fascinating:
Yes, there is joy in worship, but this joy in no way cancels another emotion that we experience. The passages from Isaiah and Revelation shed light on something else that characterizes the encounter between God and man. What is this element? A Latin term best describes it.
It is the mysterium tremendum of God.
Mysterium tremendum means tremendous mystery, awesome strangeness, or dreadful majesty. God's holiness and transcendence and almighty power are the grounds of the dreadful majesty of God. Why is the Triune God dreadfully mysterious to us? Because He is divine and we are human. There is a yawning chasm that separates God and man. Christians of past ages were much more familiar with this aspect of God than we are today. When they contemplated the glory of the ascended Christ, they often spoke of Him as
Rex tremendae majestatis, "King of dreadful majesty."
Mysterium tremendum. Lovely. And possibly useful.
(c) Warren Ellis 2003
Заголовок: Re: Bad Signal
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 12/20/03 в 04:13:05
(с) WARREN ELLIS
Or: Why Santa Was Found With A Gun In His Mouth
Or: Why Do These Rotten Half-Ideas Keep Happening To Me?
Or: Making Five Thousand Subscribers Go "Uh?"
Father Christmas bounces a dour little child on his knee. "Ho ho ho," he beams. "Isn't this the most wonderful, magical time of year? What would you like for Christmas, you good little boy, you?"
"I want to be in a coma. Like my dad."
Заголовок: The Walk
Прислано пользователем Лапочка на 01/05/04 в 07:32:11
I was one of his wives. I still define myself that way, a hundred years later.
One of the three. I was youngest. We lived together in the castle. For most of my life, I had never been out of the castle's shadow. He found me on the battlefield that the castle's outlying grounds had become, weeping over my father's corpse by night. He himself had impaled my father's head on the castle battlements. I had not eaten in three days. Just knelt there in churned mud rich with old blood, clutching at my father's grey body. He taught me how to feed.
We lived in the castle's basements, going abroad on the land when we thirsted. Were we happy? I have no idea. We existed in some kind of contentment. There was never a sense of time passing. Never a sense of progression.
I am five hundred years old.
An Englishman came to us, to deal with our husband's business. This was my first intimation in some considerable period that the world outside had altered even slightly. His clothes were different. Business involved protracted handwriting, money that was intangible notion, marks moved on paper.
He came to the basement. We assumed our husband had sent him. He was young, smooth. Scented. We discovered later that he had found us by accident, exploring the castle by night. I remember distinctly his pulse on my lips, racing with his surprise, and the speed with which he hardened against me as my tongue pressed to his neck.
Our husband discovered us without warning, and cast us from him. We huddled in confusion. This made no sense, even by the yardstick of his mercurial moods.
Later, of course, we found the picture of the Englishman's wife, and understood. We knew her face from drawing he had made of the woman he knew before he married the first of us. By the time we found this, he had gone. He had flown east, to England, to find her.
We had lived in the dark for five hundred years. We knew nothing but him. And so the three of us left the castle in pursuit. Within weeks, we realised why our husband, the paranoid soldier, had taken us for his wives. We had no skills. We had no experiences of battle, or survival, or even of genuine success through perseverance. We could never be a threat.
I am alone now. I have learned survival through witnessing the ultimate deaths of the only two friends I have known in five hundred years. I have walked here by night. Across Europe. Because this was the path he took. To London. To her.
I have spent a full century walking to England to find my husband - to discover that he died a full century ago.
And I have nowhere left to walk.
(c) Warren Ellis 2001
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