Crowley dies in Rome

Colta.ru continues to publish the diary of Dmitry Volchek, journalist and writer. Other fragments for 2016 can be read here and here .

September 21

I go to Marienbad with a bottle of jasmine tea and the remnants of the novel "What Belongs to You" . The teacher, who fell ill with syphilis, invites Hustler who infected him to the Bulgarian McDonald's and jerks off in the toilet. Having finished, the teacher thinks that the children visiting McDonald's can become infected, and carefully wipes the pusser until the paper in his hand turns into porridge. I really like it.

I go for mushrooms, but there is nothing, only dead leaves.

The terrible death of the philosopher Leonidas Donskis - at the airport, before the morning flight. I am most afraid to die like this, in a public, in a place that is not intended for this, where everyone is in a hurry - to writhe in agony under optimistic voices announcing the exit for landing.

David's dinner. I will take off the consum, without thinking that the broth is chicken. The cadaveric taste is pursuing me, trying to score it with a flavor from an electronic hookah, which is now smoking Andrei.

I read the memoirs of Revay, he was seduced by the theater pedophile in a children's camp.

September 22

I sit in a children's compartment by mistake. An ugly mother appears with a girl and without a preface begins to devour sausage. When will they create a compartment for us, merciless boys?

I am running to the circus on Black Black Woods : Two Beckett characters, like father and son, are building a massive throne of clay and metal balls. Then the son pulls his pants and panties from his father, and he, hiding the genitals, incoherently spin. From time to time, the orchestra behind a black line performs something alarming.

Looking at the night I order a salad with a rubber octopus, I lie in a bath for an hour and a half.

September 23

Dinner at the Rosemary Villa, Rosterbif is replaced with salmon, and lamb with pike perch. Pan Alesh quickly old. Aperitif, half a bottle of wine, eau de vie with raspberries, cigarettes, and the heart beats too quickly. The red tablet and the open window will save me.

September 24th

The book about the Bulgarian prostitute ends with melodrama, I begin the novel by Damon Galgut about South African doctors.

Dinner in a new Indian restaurant with a comic name Kamasutra: two unfortunate Hindu, who had been going to Marienbad, watching TV, there are no visitors. Life will cost them ruthlessly.

I read the diary of Uchunov, this is the new prey. The Gardian is a grandiose article on severe drugs in the Third Reich.

September 25th

The heart muscle
Suddenly stops
And everything that was recently disappeared
Hands money x*and

Lovers leave the dance floor
The theater closes
Wind from the sea of ​​Laptevs
Blows snow and excites ice floes

At night to Alexander
I advance at stench muck
Mole or Mouse
Decomposed, hidden by foliage

In the toilet of the hotel
I clean my boots for half an hour
But black mess was driving into the sole
And the towels are powerless

Forgiveness is not for me for anything
I lived like God
I'm dead like a grandfather

September 26th

In Rome, recognize Yu that Alistair Crowley died. The stranger who informed me of this in the letter asks to send him pepper. In the bench, after a long search, I find a transparent bag of red pepper, on it is 33 percent tag. But there is no envelope to send the addressee. I go into the room where Uzbek emigrants work, they say: we have a new director, a woman. I think that I can steal an envelope from this woman. I open her nightstand, there are mountains of stationery nonsense, black copy paper, there are envelopes, but dirty and ugly. Without an envelope, I sit on bus 75, he turns at Barberini on Via Sistina , and I briefly see an abbey in which a memorial service in Crowley is going on. I think: I need only 25 minutes, I jump out of the bus. The entrance to the abbey is blocked by gray limousines with huge letters on the sides of Phil and something else. Many military in ceremonial form. Mourning music, mourning enters the glass doors, over which Crowley’s portrait hangs, but the ceremony ends, and the gendarmes are lined up so as not to let anyone in. With me, a nondescript late in a gray suit ( Grey Entity ). We are in a hurry to the door with the last forces, I am ready to shout: “I translated the“ stratagem ”into Russian” - but it seems to be not required to beg, the gendarmes are ready to miss me and so, but I wake up right at the entrance.

On the way to Prague, I read the Revoy. He saw a single -legged acrobat in the circus, and then he was invited to a banquet, and he asked at the table how much one leg could weigh, an unfamiliar girl answered “16-18 kg”, Revoy asked how she knew this, and she replied that she also had one leg. Yungian synchronism.

A "elaborate landscape" came out. After a cigarette it becomes so bad that I give a pack to Andrei and decide to never smoke again. We must go to the cardiologist or immediately crawl into the cemetery.

September 27th

I order the Japanese with a sweater with a skull, a t -shirt with bones, slippers with a skull and bones, a bracelet with two skulls ( Mastermind Japan ). Night -hearted people in my years are already lying in the grave, exhausted by the previous life, but I wear the grave on my chest. Arkady appears from the darkness of non -being, home from college home. He sits in the Subaru typewriter and talks about adventures that are not there, but life goes so fast that it is not easy for it to make it. He read the Giber, without remembering his surnames, watched the films “Love” and “Enter the Void” , which I advised, and is now interested in the ancient Greeks, especially Plato's cave. I agree that we live in a cave.

September 28th

The day of St. Vaclav, according to the Stonam, wear his skull, covered with a diaper. Suddenly it becomes so bad that I think to go home and lie down, but there is a ticket to the film "Neon Demon", and, squeezing a steel fist, I go to the cinema. The first half hour I think that I will die right here in a white chair, but then everything goes away. The film is monstrous, Jess Franco shot this 40 years ago in three centimas. I only like the finale: one fashion model devours the eye, which was spinning another.

September 29th

Kirill Butyrin, a restrained man from the old Russian novel, died. I, a stupid boy with a burgundy leather bag stuffed with samizdat, followed him along the corridor on a large sea, a secret bottle of risling arose, and we drank to the Communists hung on lanterns. It was he who gave me with delight with his hands that were just printed in five copies of the “Labor and Days of the nun Lavinia”. Where did this world go (and why nobody needs it)?

September 30

There was a 121st article by the Criminal Code of the RSFSR, then the 121st apartment of Sergei Grigoryans, where we printed anti-Soviet proclamations, and now the 121st season in the Philharmonic begins, life is getting better, and I no longer know what can poison it. Virtuoso Joshua Bell plays Tchaikovsky, and my head is spinning more and more. I am sitting under an organ, and the music floats in the other direction. When the “Songs of the Earth” begin, the voice of the demonic tenor of the Chernokh generally disappears, but I have the idea of ​​a poem about Jarmusha ordered by the valley: whether Bo, supplemented by the text of Malera, may appear in it.

October 1

I read the guide to Texas. Painting on my house turned blue and blushed.

October 2, Dresden

“In a strange room” is not the best romance in the world, too similar to Bowles, but this is a book about my dream: to go slowly and aimlessly around Africa, hanging in different countries (Lake Malawian), getting acquainted with the white burners of life and making African relations with them. "The intricate facades of stores with a myriad of steps and tiny windows make him imagine the insides of some giant animal through which they crawl like a bacterium." (Bad translation, but good feeling.)

The hotel in which I had not been before, Villa de Baron , a mansion that miraculously survived in 1944 (around the wastelands and holes), a south -euggeter door that promises clusters of grapes, but inside the Arabic nightmare is a tasteless repair, a wild wall painting, as in a Hurghada, a fraud for a pawn for 1800 euros lies on the rack. Hamam was arranged in the basement, and Habib massage makes there: apparently, Frau Pyshka spent on him. The room has a brothel taste: a giant, capable of absorbing the baron’s tomb, a closet with a mirror door opposite the bed, a paper rose is inserted into a hairdryer.

In the city, revival is the day of German unity. Combat detachments of ugly people devouring nightmare fast food are blocked, and my eighth tram does not go to Hellerau. Only now I understand why there were no abstracts in hotels: the Nazis who came to the tomorrow's action of the “Pegida” were booked. I am saved in Kunsthalla at the exhibition of the Flemish landscape. While looking at the inhabitants of the “Garden of Paradise” Bruegel, Milyaga from the Society of Friends of Art is suitable and suggests telling why he likes two winter landscapes. Most of all he amuses him that in one picture a person pisses, and just poked on the other. From the Antwerp depicted in these paintings, he explains, nothing remains.

But nothing will have left of us. I'm going to Albertinum to visit dolmens. I would like to spend eternity near them, but there are so few public (everyone is preparing for tomorrow's fascist demonstration) and the guards are so closely watching each visitor that I am leaving the Friedrichov hall. It’s good that my parents gave me a circle of studying Western European painting in the Hermitage and I saw Frederick stolen by the Red Army in 1945. If he remained in German museums, I would now love Nikolai Ge.

The celebrating day of German unity devour rolls and sausages. Russian teenagers with bottles of beer argue over the bridge across the Elbu: “And we have on Sakhalin ...” If Hitler had won, the Russians would not become Germans, but the Germans would quickly be angry. Behind the bridge, a carousel suitable for Instagram is spinning in the gray sky. A cute young-policeman explains how to get to Hellerau, there is another hour, and I, until Lyubav Malyshev sees, order fish soup and pink wine. Weakness, floating in waves, especially at the Flemish exhibition, does not disappear at all, but partially dissolves.

At first, when I moved to live in Germany (1993), I was delighted with Ordnings. I remember how a letter came that at 7:15 the painter will paint window frames, and the painter is not at 7, not at 8, not a week later, but at exactly 7:15 a sober, radiant and agilely painted. All frames on my street, named after Wagner's wife, should have been the same pearl color. Nearby, the inhabitants sued frogs in the pond, because they croaks too loudly after 22 hours, violating the legislation on evening silence. I am so for*the ball of Russian chaos that the country of order seemed wonderful. Since then, the Ordnung has decreased, the trains began to be late, the frames have been painted by what kind of things, the frogs won in court, but I was completely disappointed in it. The order will be in the cemetery, and only beauty is important in our world.

I act like Arkady: I ​​do not buy a tram ticket from hooliganism. On the day of German unity is possible.

The ballet “One Flat Thing” (reconstructed Forsyth) is too formal, 14 people, risking to break up, jump around twenty tables. Probably, there were 6 more dancers before, but they were crippled or died. The second part, Lux Tenebris , is much better: dancers become chess figures on a board cut, prisoners in a cage, monkeys and in the final by elementary particles in a vacuum. One of them, a tall, long -haired one, is a terrible scarlet tattoo around his neck, at first it seems to me that this is a birthmark.

For the evening, the Bukovina Band concert is planned, the Forsyte dancers take part in the show, the audience is driven to the dance floor, and I find myself next to the divine dancers. Disco Partisanen , this is music for the third grade (in green cried and sang), but I have fun thanks to pink wine (I drank another glass of Chilean in the buffet) and the neighborhood of youth. There could be an Arcadia's shadow. Everyone goes on a dance, the scene underfoot walks in waves, and around me makes circles like a shark, crazy, obsovated by unknown substances an old man. Beautiful and nimble in his youth, now it is a dead gray skeleton, he rushes throughout the hall, falls to the floor, extends his hands to the orchestra, like a rock star that perished in the abyss of years. He does not notice me, but I feel how he is drawn to me with a magnet, because the freaks of all worlds should connect.

I do not immediately understand the background of the concert, but this is the answer to the German unity from emigrants who want to attend Neustadt. There are genuine refugees, not from Bukovina, but from the Arab ass, a completely barbaric look, probably, compassionate intellectuals who want to introduce them to culture. But the refugees do not like the Balkan dances, look frowning at our Bataklans and delete to make bombs. I also go to sleep on the villa of Baron. Gelgut’s novel ends with a tragedy. In all three parts, the hero is offered to be*, but he is shy.

October 3

The police crawl at the station at 8 in the morning, and I hurry to my Fernbus to annoy the Nazi. Living without a phone is much easier. Would you leave for Malawi? So Roma Super quit. I rise to the second floor of the bus, and my heart begins to knock like a fiery motor. A cardiologist from the Canadian Medical Center, a responsible woman, does not detect anything; Cardiogram, as before, in order, pressure 130x65. He writes out magnesia and offers 24 hours to wear a sensor on his chest. But I'm flying away tomorrow. When you see other patients - a blurry old man on crutches, a baby screaming as if he was crucified in Slavyansk, you begin to feel like a simulator. But I am a simulator, drowning in hypochondria.

According to the principle of Khodorovsky, closing his eyes and grabbing the first album to choose costumes to a character, I pull the Chechen notes of Jonathan Littlela from a pile of unread books. He ridiculously describes the Ramzanovskoye earrings. It is necessary to buy a lilac skull: it turns out that only people from Teip Kadyrov wore it, and now everyone is worn.

I buy a ticket to America, listening to the voice of the internal demon, with a stop in Washington. I have to visit the Satan Washington National Gallery?

Merkel arrived in Dresden, the Nazis shout to her: "Fortress Europe!"

October 4, Petersburg

The day before yesterday I forgot the charge for the phone, yesterday, when we walked with a tuzik, he lost his scarf on the stairs, and I did not even notice. Today in the last second I found that there was no ring on his left hand, miraculously found him and managed to at the airport. Signs of the approaching death of the brain. The closer death, the more careless life.

At the airport in the frame, something rings, the verifier tells the partner the “dozen”, he draws a paper strip in my palms, looking for traces of explosives. Sensitive people know that I am a secret terrorist.

On the plane, some Russian, and Czech stewardesses are not even trying to greet. A modest person who looks like a salesman next to me, about 25 years old, before taking off, it sweeps himself with a sign of a sign. In my times, only crazy old women were so baptized. In Pulkovo, the border guards, who previously melangholically set the seals and did not open their mouths, ask passengers: “And when did you fly out of Russia? And what did they do for six months abroad? " (I heard a conversation from a neighboring booth, and this sadistic voice from 1984 cannot be forgotten.)

It’s scary to read the “Arctic Summer” on an airplane and metro, suddenly over the shoulder and call the ganglines: this is a useless, but very entertaining book about how the virgin Forster falls in love with foreign ups, but cannot sleep with anyone.

I was thinking of watching the movie Verkhvenen, but I am not going anywhere, weakness rivets me to the sofa on which I spent a bitter childhood. Parents are so old that it is bad when I imagine how terribly it will end and how helpless I will be then. Even more helpless than now.

October 5

The new metro station "Admiralteyskaya", the deepest in the universe, the thin partition separates it from hell, and the devils are already knocking on the bottom of the pitchfork. With Bochenkov and Kirill, the island of New Holland island, restored for the money of Abramovich, everything is blocked, closed, there is no visitors, there are no visitors, but the guard is sitting under each bush. My head is dizzy again, but I don’t show it, Jeder Stirbt Für Sich Allein , and after the cardiologist I'm not so scared.

In the Russian Museum, the circle of Petrov-Vodkin and Kandinsky. (Gippius wrote: “Petrov-Vodkin: an artist, a fool.”) From Vodkinsky brilliant Leonid Chupyatov and an interesting Favsta Shikhmanova, an artist without birth and death: it seems that she was arrested in December 1937, “Then her traces are lost,” several paintings are left. Kandinsky was tied to Orthodoxy and basting for the glory of Putinism. His late works are unbearably boring, I only like the sketches of the murals of tea service and one phrase: “I do not see the difference between the fish and the line on the canvas.” We meet with Lida Yusupova and the four of us get to Vladimirskaya, where Andrei Primulev with a Monomouse T -shirt awaits me at the monument to Dostoevsky. Then, with hellish transfers, we go to Gorky, where in the former theater of the Lenin Komsomol next to the Giant Cinema, in which the pedophile tried to seduce me 41 years ago, Pippo Delbono puts the Gospel. The theater is hopelessly Soviet, and the same audience: intelligent old women and old men who emerged from formalin to join the beautiful. Я умудрился заманить гигантскую компанию: худощавого Рому Смирнова, которого не видел 20 лет, Марусю с мужем, Костылеву с любезной подругой, Нелепо с Рутковским и Артамоновым. Смирнов от меня узнаёт новости 2009 года — о смерти Гендлера, Хенкиных и прочих — и расстраивается. Марусе удалось достать на рынке «настоящее финское масло», а ее дочь ездила в Неваду на фестиваль Burning Man .

Все, что я знал о Дельбоно, уже забыл, поэтому история о том, что он гей и болен СПИДом, оказывается для меня новостью. Дельбоно ходит прямо передо мной, так что приходится регулярно подтягивать ноги, и выкрикивает кощунственные слова. Все это старомодно — почти как сам комсомольский театр, желтая пена на губах Пазолини. В финале включают арию из «Jesus Christ Superstar» , звучит ужасно. У моих ног Дельбоно роняет листок с проклятиями Всевышнему, и я подбираю для сатанинской коллекции. За полтора часа, пока шел спектакль, температура на улице стремительно упала, я дрожу в легкой куртке. В бессмысленном круглосуточном ресторане «Брынза», где кормят невкусными чебуреками, пьем глинтвейн. Завершается вечер конфузом: перепутали счет, официантка бежит за нами.

October 6th

В «Глобус Гурмэ» ни единого покупателя, в окрестных бутиках тоже. Жалкий прилавок со швейцарским сыром задвинут в дальний угол, все остальное по-русски шикарно, но похоже на вопль в пустоту ( enter the void ).

В «Пулково» забываю айпад, но добрый мужичок находит и отдает. Вероятно, тайное желание избавиться от дневника.

В Праге дождь, мечта покататься на велосипеде по парку не сбудется. После России нужно сильное противоядие.

October 7

Забираю 4 посылки: японские одежды, письма Реве и огромную бельгийскую коробку с книгами Жуандо, издания 20-х — 40-х годов со штампом Maurice van Essche , мне достался осколок библиотеки бурского художника, друга Матисса, разодранной беспечными внуками, не понимающими ценности этих томов. 32 доллара с доставкой за 11 книг!

Пока разбирал вещи от Mastermind Japan , и день прошел. Разговариваю с Евгением Понасенковым, вальяжным мизантропом. Он прав: во всем виноват не Путин, а русские люди.

Фильм Дарденнов «Неизвестная девушка» на последнем сеансе. Не выдержал — купил сигареты. Теперь на пачках стали изображать гротескные опухоли и глаза с бельмами. Фильм — о мертвой проститутке из Габона, которая свела с ума порядочных бельгийцев. Безупречное кино, в конце переходящее в водевиль. Одураченная публика выходит из «Люцерны» на площадь, а там горят свечи в честь мертвого Гавела, которому позавчера исполнилось 80. Всюду смерть! Но и жизнь тоже (в непредсказуемых сочетаниях).

October 8

Расписание Римского кинофестиваля, Бонелло, Херцог и ретроспектива Дзурлини: не бог весть что. Нужно выспаться перед утренним самолетом, но скачет Тузик, пишет Понасенков, осуждающий перемещенных лиц, ползают мысли, как мухи, терзавшие Апухтина.

9 октября, Париж

В аэропорту ищут взрывчатку — никому не разрешают выйти, потерял целый час. Бегают чрезвычайно серьезные люди в форме.

В Орсэ — роскошь Второй республики. Тогда не было террористов, арапов показывали в цирке, зато Наполеон III каждый день устраивал балы и потребовал, чтобы его сыну подарили роскошную колыбель в виде корабля. Но кончилось все плохо: императора выгнали, а сына убили зулусским ассегаем.

На выставку Оскара Уайльда в Пти-пале огромная очередь, я честно выдерживаю полчаса, потом курю с Лилей, и мне становится так дурно, что я решаю уйти из очереди и где-то сесть, но не удается, потому что Лиля тянет меня в церковь Сент-Огюстен, где она пережила мистическое откровение. Это в самом деле прекрасный собор с фресками Бугро, сотнями ротанговых стульев и молитвенных скамеечек и страннейшим алтарем в мавританском стиле. В углу стоит самокат, и Лиля хватает его и начинает кататься кругами, словно фурия в черных колготках. В России нас бы уже загребли в каталажку, но здесь никто не замечает, к тому же в храме пусто, один только чернокожий юноша, который истово молится, а потом нерешительно стучит в дверцу священника и не получает ответа. В одном из окон нефа нет витража, туда проникает солнечный луч и освещает фигуру святого Августина, но не могу ее разглядеть, слишком высоко. Из ниоткуда появляется человек с четками и говорит нам, что собор скромен, но великолепен. Не знаю, что ему сказать, и растерянно отвечаю: « O ui, merci» . Несмотря на многолетнее чтение Реве и Жуандо, я не готов к внезапным встречам с католиками.

К нам присоединяется ориентальный юноша, кроткий и короткоштанный, которого Лиля выцарапала по фэгхэговским линиям. Втроем идем на окраину, где на заброшенном заводе Борис Шармац поставил балет. Место называется MC93, тут окопались телемиты. Начинает темнеть, в гигантском цеху появляются шесть фигур, что-то бормочут, падают и улюлюкают: исламский террорист, спасатель и обыватели. Похоже на «Парфенон» Кастеллуччи, но не так внятно. Публика вынуждена бегать за танцорами, перемещающимися из одного угла цеха в другой.

Становится очень холодно; чтобы дойти до RER , нужно миновать арабский блошиный рынок, темные личности выкладывают китайский брикабрак прямо на лежащие на земле скатерти, словно в Йемене.

Искусство Шармаца не насыщает меня, и, попрощавшись с Лилией и ориентальным другом, иду в простецкий Leon на площади Клиши, беру мидий и бельгийского пива. В метро ко мне с робким возгласом «Monsieur!» содомически пристраивается нахал и проходит по моему билетику. В этом есть очарование. И спичка серная меня согреть смогла б!

To be continued.