Fainting in buses

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

October 10, Paris

At night, Andrzej Vaida died. What I remember: Macheka, grabbing with bloody hands behind the sheets, the corpses of workers in the destroyed church, the conveyor of the Katyn execution, drowning the young man in Air, hysteria at the funeral of Tsybulsky. But also the incomprehensible pedophilia "Gate of Paradise".

I spend forty carotid minutes to order a ticket in the Grand Pale for the Mexican exhibition, the site is constantly flying. I suffer in vain because there is no queue. The exhibition is grandiose - from family portraits of the XIX century to sheets of a young charlatan, offering passers -by to outline the contours of tiles at the Paris metro station. Rivera, whom I did not like because of communism, became an ingenious artist by old age, although at first I was so-so. A merchant with white callas!

For a long time in the Champs Elysees, then I go to Printemps on the Boulevard of Osman. For the first time I understand how beautiful the triumphal arch is. If she stood on her own, without people and cars, among the ruins, braided by vines, would look even better.

For a long time I can’t choose a restaurant, I go to Japanese, first I need to piss. Liliput toilet the size of a wardrobe right near the tables, outside the cardboard wall; I can’t turn on the light, the button does not work, the scene from the pornographic novel by Batai turns out: next to the harmlessly eating people, literally two centimeters from them, in full darkness, as if in a coffin or an underwater single boat (such were racing in England in the last months of the Reich), an attacker is lurking, erupting streams of urine.

Zae*Annaya with the life of a Japanese woman, which is a non -stop servicing 10 tables, brings not what I ordered, gets scared that I will angry, and when I meekly eat two dishes, it flashes with happiness.

In Printemps, I notice on the escalator a luxurious old man in a club jacket and with a dive, painted with paradise apples with a handbag on a narrow strap over the shoulder. Such a noble decrepitude is not destined for me, although Vale predicted that I would be a beautiful old man.

In Bobur, the exhibition of Magritte, I saw almost everything. Near a person in a pot there is a living person in a pot, apparently, this is an endurance action; For an hour and a half that I spend at the exhibition, he does not move. One of the ten visitor notes his presence. If they do not see him, sticking out so earthaly that they understand in the paintings?

We move to the Indian district, turned into the inhabitants into a semblance of Dacca (the exhausted sari in the window, gloomy men swallow chicken bones in non -hygienic taverns), Lilya is scared and refuses to eat; I, hungry, like a Bengal tiger, drag her to a restaurant in the square and devoured from Mango Lassi.

A concert in a neglected old theater, the scene has shook, like a Bangladesh temple after the invasion of the Pakistanis; In all this, deliberate: perhaps peeling and torn off in the name of beauty. The concert is outstanding, especially the compositions of the protagonist, the Basque composer Ramon Laskano, who makes the violinist not play, but pinch the strings and tap the tree.

We return along the dark passage under the railway bridge, then Merphy from the movie "Love" after a fight with the lover of Electra was walking. Lilya is afraid that in this vulgar district they will take an iPhone from her, and now it seems to me that all the hmyri devour my eyes my device, especially one type, unceremoniously looking at me in the carriage and also entered the cliches. To get rid of it, I change the course sharply and, being on the street, I plunge into an attack of an allergic sneezing, similar to Lascano music.

October 11

Avenue Fosh, known for novels about bourgeois murders and political conspiracies. American thicknesses are walking along Jardin du Ranlagh . The Museum of Marmottan is full of old women who jumped to the Monet -Munk -Rodler exhibition. Red-brown-brown, covered with snow, a arable land at Munk is similar to Pi*Du in a section, but I don’t know if it was art critics because I forgot to take an audio guide. Munk, like Frederick, has not a single face, only his back. In the echoor basement given to Monet, a dozen ponds with water lily, they are good, but they are frightened in such a concentration, as if they were drawn by a car for sale. Monet buried two wives, and in these water lilies the same hatred of humanity as in the backs of Munk. Kholer almost did not draw people, although he knew how: in one picture, a strong woman in a yalik fights with the current, and the sign glorifies her DOGGEDNESS . Of the political correctness, almost all museums hired blacksil-guards, and they walk around the halls, like a beach in Gabon, grinning and swinging their hands. African thugs, American old women and kind of aphenic landscapes again provoke a foulor, tomorrow you will have to attach a cardiomonitor.

I am going to the Museum of Mendizhi, but Lyubava Malysheva, who came to Paris at the vegan parade, is announced. Lyubava can be a lively advertising of veganism, she has a delightful complexion. We met on October 9, 2014, and she remembers the date! We have lunch at Le Pain Quotidien on Avenue Hugo, and Lyubava assures me that the northern model of sexuality won in Europe, people realized that sex is not for sale, prostitution has disappeared, strip bars are closed, but the disabled and freaks began to use demand and lead a happy sex life. I think that beauty is still successful, but you can’t argue Lubava.

In Halle St. Pierre has become fewer HEY magazines, but the exhibition is again brilliant. Old Man Gilber Payr (I saw his terrible doll with a falling jaw in the summer) collected automatons, and they dance, knock their hooves, sob and spin. Clothing is jumping from one closet to another, the mouse plays the piano, the dead deer wanders among the mirrors, muttering: “I am a good day.”

We are going to the Museum of Mendizhi, but there is closed to the vernissage. This is at the devil on the waders, on the Wizhirar, to the plane for another three hours, going back to the center, to the vegan store, which for Lyubava became a native home, I want to look at the island of Saint-Louis, but I get stuck in a hipster boutique, buy a Live Simple T-shirt for Andrei and a vegan bone made of cereal for a tuzik. On the street, I remember that I forgot to drip Xalata, trying to do this, looking at the window, and painfully poke my pipette in the eye.

It becomes completely bad on the plane, I can’t breathe, sniffing and I probably infect the neighbors, dull Czechs returning after an unsuccessful honeymoon (there were cockroaches in the hotel, a wallet stole and did not stop on the Eiffel Tower, the newlywed pinched the waitress behind the ass). I get home in a half -time.

October 12

At nine in the morning, a ridiculous Flamboyant Sanitar puts me with a cardiomonitor for 24 hours. I look at himself with his eyes: no, he would not have concluded a single -sex marriage with me. As luck would have it, for the whole day I do not feel the slightest malaise, and provocations (smoked a cigarette in a restaurant, then ran up the stairs of the Lucerns) do not help. It is necessary to keep a diary of observations of the disease, but the sheet remains clean, I have nothing to tell. A cold also slides a little. I have to reward myself for meaningless suffering: I buy risky tickets from Vienna to Paris (transplantation of only 45 minutes), and Lily and I get the last two tickets for the performance of the Apichatpon.

In vain I spend 173 minutes on the famous film "Wieravada": boring men and women quarrel and prepare terrible food in Bucharest, I have no dealing with them. Not a movie, but an endless joke about mother -in -law. Romanians giggle in a small hall, an unusually smug man in a suit is sitting next to me - apparently, from the Romanian embassy, ​​I was a hiring to him, stepping on a varnished boot.

The fate of the Group "War" was decided: Prince Schwarzenberg settled them in his castle Orlik. They will ruin and burn the castle, and the Casper will get the prince.

October 13

There is no funny orderly, and I tear my wires in front of four nurses. As always, the elementals tease me: the wire from the sensor penetrated his underpants and caught on the devil knows why - this cannot be, but it happened. Fortunately, I manage to pull it out without unfastening my jeans, so the reason for confusion is incomprehensible to the nurses.

I decide to wash yesterday's Romanian nightmare with a film with Greta Garbo, Pre-Code , the last before its temporary return to Sweden. The alcoholic singer who lost his memory in Budapest is convinced that she is an Italian countess, who is looking for a graph for 10 years. Her lover-writer, bald and wise Erich von Stroheim, finds the second countess who has lost his memory. Which of them is genuine Mary?

The cold does not pass. I read the new Markin's diary; Grindr, which he calls GR , as God -fearing Jews GD , gave him an intricate, but unfortunate sexual life, all his partners are the same assholes as other people. But where in our days you will get, if not a genius, then at least a student? I begin to read the diary of Ilyanen, who was lying for two years and covered with dust. After twenty pages and Chaturgate, Morpheus lowers me into his pond.

October 14

I edit an interview with Olga Krause, a singer-Lesbian from ancient times, Julie Dorf went to her apartments in St. Petersburg, for a very long time, in the century before last.

Yesterday, when I was in a hurry from the movie to the dog, I saw a crowd of people to the people: it turns out that the Light festival began, and despite the fact that I am tired and feel bad, I agree with D., who drunk, smoked and immersed in erotic fantasies, and we meet in the old man. In the center is unprecedented crowds, as in mid -August. At the palace of the Kinsky show of Russian discharge, magnificent, but very formal, but the other installations are one better than the other: a shining cage in the oval hall of the collored-Mansfeld palace, a smoky corridor on the Narodnya, a round entrance to the underworld in a destroyed building, a glowing giant on the arrangement on the Streletsky Island. We manage to see only our shore, at midnight they turn off. D. tells how he loves anal sex, the rest, he believes, is not serious, and I advise him to try the same thing in a passive role and express the unprecedented joy of the prostate, but the kid holds him from falling. I drink a glass primitive in a bar next to the restaurant of Irma, Uber is lucky home at one in the morning.

October 15, Rome

I wake up at four in the morning from the unbearable migraine: several torpedoes are blown up in my head. On the way, I am studying the festival program. There is much more venture than it seemed to me: in Spanish Square they will show “Roman holidays”, in the Rebibia prison - the film “The Superior”, and Gilbert and George will present the 1974 Hong Kong action movie. The strange flight of the Vueling company, which cannot be registered online. I am afraid that this is some kind of catch, but in an airplane stuffed with ugly teenagers, I get an empty row. What else to desire? Instead of Italian, alerts in Spanish are included. I study the seventh iPhone, no different from the sixth, and, without letting it out of the fist, walk from Termini to Barberini.

October 16

“ Into The Inferno ” Herzog is very good: almost memoirs with quotes from his other films, including my beloved - about the failed eruption of the volcano on Guadeloupe. He shot places where Magma boiling underground came closest to the ground and the gods speak from the fire: Vanuatu, a volcano, near which the cargo-cult of the American soldier John Fram flourishes, the mountain that gave rise to Kim Il Sen, the volcano in Antarctica.

I remain for an idiotic film about the Latin American tour of Rolling Stones . They have youthful figures and terrible senile faces, similar to Halloween masks. Jagger for 70, but he sings with his previous enthusiasm I can ' t Get No Satisfaction " . You will relax on the churchyard, man!

On a stupid film aircraft, I get to the Hendrick Andersen Museum. The collection is strange: naked men with cherubs (he had a observation of St. Christopher), plans for an imaginary city in a fascist spirit, a vile green fountain.

On foot through the alley of the heroes of Risorjimeno, similar to the ridiculous sculpture park in Dacca, I am going to the performance of the Frenchman's hope. This devil knows where, on the way, I photograph a shabby bust of Kostanta Garibaldi-Brait and a pseudo-button, erected by Italian Argentines. The theater has a lot of free places, the performance turns out to be a gender: a dull look of a hipster with a beard soars among cardboard cars and animals hanging from the ceiling. Sasha Petrova, whom I lured in this grief theater, is unhappy. I propose to go to the Cinematok for the Dzurlini movie. Sasha says that her mother gave her and her sister male names in order to remain the only woman in the family. We’re wandering for a long time, Sashin’s friend Mario enters the pedestrian zone, it looks like a comedy with Bourville, there is less and less time, and it is already clear that we will not see Dzurlini.

In the office of the Romaeuropa festival , the Forced Entertainment troupe puts a “storm” on the table using kitchen utensils. Calibana depicts eggplant, Miranda - a pipe, spirits - crystal salt shakers. They are manipulated by the inventive Scot, but not my idol Jerry Killik, although he worships.

For the first time I dare to sink into the Roman metro. At the station "Pyramid", Russian ue*ki is obsolete.

October 17

Sant-Angelo Castle, the tomb of Emperor Adrian. It looks like a Babylonian tower, you need to walk in a spiral, bypassing the archangel with bronze wings and a pink room of the slutty dad. I go down to Tiber, I go past the department to combat the mafia and terrorism. Sasha advised to see the frescoes of the Cantryge, cleared silt on the embankment, although it looks like a paint. There is not enough courage to ask passers -by or a lone fisherman to photograph me against the background of the skeleton, dad or Napoleon, whom I take for Pazolini.

After drinking white wine, I'm going to Maxxi . "You are attending this Shitty Festival?" - exclaims an angry filmmaker, but I am satisfied with everything. The crazy driver drives Maxxi , without stopping, I’m sure that now I will not have time, I run into full aging and see how Gilbert and George are moving in small steps to the museum. Gilbert (tall) - in a suit of boiled carrots, George (stunted) - in a suit of the color of stewed spinach. Their film is forgotten, now restored, although very hacking, the sound hisses, the picture is fuzzy. But still this is a luxurious thing - I don’t understand how I missed it before - about the world of ugly English men and boys who seem to be good and without women (there is not one on the screen). Proletarian boys telling about their wretched life, as in a casting before the failure, turn into branches full of colors and leaves. One even nag. And next to this splendor, Frustrated Gilbert and George, in crooks, make up in slats.

The “Noktyurama” is shown at the devil on the scenes, at night, in the Admiral cinema, I’m going there from VIA Veneto on foot under white bushes similar to the flower bags sung in the G&G film. The session should begin at 22:30, and end at one in the morning, but there is a hitch, they are not allowed into the hall. Finally, a upset aunt comes out, refers to the Piccolo problem . This warning from above is that the film (about terrorists in Paris) does not need to watch. I go on foot to Barberini. I want to smoke painfully, and I get a cigarette when I get to Via Sistina , where Crowley was buried in my dream.

October 18

In a monstrously pledged metro in the morning, even worse than usual, because the trains are clogged with a labor people. One I have the arrogance to go to the Museum of Modern Art for the exhibition "Dislocated Time". In a huge building at nine in the morning there is no one but Gilbert and George, looking at the books in the store. They are in yesterday's costumes. It seems to me that they were specially sent here for me, so I am getting courage and greeting. I say that I liked the film (pure truth), and I ask if the boys they shot were not prostitutes. “No, no,” says Gilbert, “we just invited them from the street.” Gilbert does not like fans, and he departs from me. George, on the contrary, is interested in: this, where we are - what is it? Museum of Modern Art, I answer. "Where were we yesterday?" - asks George. In the Museum of Modern Art, I answer. "Why are there two museums of contemporary art?" - asks George. Because the modern one ceases to be modern, I answer. “That Museum of Modern Art is worse than this,” says George, and I agree. We say goodbye, and I go to look at the beautiful dawn of Pellitsy, then at the City, which was disfigered me. There is an inevitable hanger and a duchan's pusser, and the entire second floor is busy with nonsense: white chairs on brown carpets. The best curatorial solution: the statue of Juno is opposite the picture “in a crazy house”, as if considering it, recalling that the gods follow every step of even the most worthless people.

I am returning to the festival to watch Naples 44, a clumsy film according to the memoirs of a wise guy from the occupying American administration. Everything is like Malaparte and Cavani. In 1944, in addition to the bombing and plague, Vesuvius erupted - I don’t remember whether it was in the “skin”.

Again, I find myself on the bus with yesterday's l. Festival: it turns out that he hates Rome and all its inhabitants. Я робко пытаюсь возражать, но он не хочет слушать: «Вы просто не знаете римлян!» (Я и в самом деле не знаю.) Сам он из Турина, живет здесь, «потому что моя жена из Бразилии», врач, ставший кинокритиком. Написал книгу о турецком кино (что может быть гаже?) и много путешествует. Ему очень понравилось в Киргизии и Таджикистане, особенно озеро Иссык-Куль, он посмотрел три часа из фильма Ульрике Оттингер и теперь стремится на Камчатку. Знаком с Петром Шепотинником и вообще был везде и смотрел все фильмы. «Неаполь — прекрасный город, там в метро нет ни одной надписи, не то что в Риме. Они специально показали на открытии фильм о гомосексуалистах (нет, вы не подумайте, я ничего не имею против), чтобы заигрывать с молодой аудиторией, а мне уже 62 года, ну вы меня моложе, сколько вам лет?» Советует приехать в Турин и посмотреть Египетский музей, а я ему рекомендую Алтай.

Обедать иду в ресторан, который мне так понравился в прошлый раз, но тут все по-новому: радушного старика больше нет, заправляют тетка и официант (сириец?) по имени Жасмин. Суп и пасту приносят одновременно, «because our cook is crazy» . Начинается дождь. В городском музее — выставка о квадриеннале 30-х годов; все картины и скульптуры ужасные, только одна хорошая работа Донги, сияющая дама у туалетного столика & букетик. До фильма еще час, иду мимо фонтана Треви (это самая уродливая вещь на свете, отвратительная и теперь, после реставрации, еще больше похожая на вставную челюсть циклопа) в магазин, рекомендованный Сашей и ее суженым, но там такие унылые и безликие вещи, что бегу прочь без оглядки.

На ретроспективе Дзурлини не так много людей, как мне думалось, в маленьком зале полно свободных мест, и, поскольку сеансы бесплатные, проникают фрики: транссексуал с пакетами, набитыми джанком, вскакивает и пересаживается, когда рядом садится безобидный старик. Первый фильм с Клаудией Кардинале («Девушка с чемоданом») начинается очень хорошо, но превращается в кашу. Очень красив юноша с порочным лицом Жак Перрен, он же — во втором фильме «Семейная хроника» со своим братом Мастроянни. Это любимый фильм Поля Веккиали, и понятно почему: в 1962 году казалось, что отношения между братьями из романа Васко Пратолини, писателя из моего большевистского детства, замешены на тайной любви, хотя они и спят в одной постели в одежде. Кашляет Мастроянни, но умирает Перрен.

На Испанской площади показывают «Римские каникулы», но мест нет, и я, растаптывая мечты о диете, беру буйволиную пиццу с моцареллой, похожей на пух от уст Эола.

19 октября

Иду на виа Национале (снова начинает кружиться голова) в выставочный зал, где проходит новая квадриеннале. Муссолини сошел бы тут с ума и всех расстрелял. Ужасающий провинциальный мусор: нагромождение бревен, увеличенные селфи, расцарапки на стекле, телефоны с изображениями пи*ды, засунутые в вязаные шапки. Много политической дребедени (беженцы), но есть и смешные вещи: солдат в камуфляже, лежащий на диване такой же расцветки, огромная фотоэпопея о девочке-кабане, голом человеке, влачившем за собой камень, и оборотне. Очень сложный проект по переписыванию «Записок об африканской Орестее», я ничего не понимаю. Можно было бы пойти на выставку Арпа в термы Диоклетиана, но боюсь опоздать и еду в аэропорт. Две линии размышлений: 1) до конца жизни спрятаться в Мариенбаде и стать отшельником; 2) не дурить и поехать в Турин, как мне советовал римофоб.

В автобусе, когда я еду из аэропорта, молодой бритоголовый чех (мне даже кажется на секунду, что это Павленский) падает в обморок прямо в проходе. Никто ему не помогает, кроме тетки, повторяющей: «Не спите». Когда я выхожу, он похож на труп. Человек человеку волк!

Вышла книга Соланас «Засунь себе в задницу». Вечером дописываю стихотворение для книги о Джармуше:

Я еще помню немецкие марки
берлинскую стену
хибары на новом арбате
убийство Роберта Кеннеди и его непутевого брата

20 октября

Трамп, как я и предсказывал, победит. В Праге арестовали русского хакера. В ресторане, когда пришла полиция, он сидел в кофте Stone Island , которая есть и у меня, серо-черный камуфляж. Книга Соланас, несмотря на смешное название (или как раз из-за него: русские люди боятся, что им что-то засунут в задницу), продается плохо. Решил отказаться от рассылки книжных заказов. Это репетиция большого финала, когда клоуны разбегутся и ничего больше не будет нужно.

21 октября

Боб Дилан проигнорировал Нобелевскую премию, снял новость со своего сайта, отказался общаться с комитетчиками. Это хорошо, как и все, что разрушает академии и приближает конец света.

22 октября

Чувствую себя отвратительно, опять начал курить, и избавиться от этой напасти невозможно. Что сталось с тем парнем, который упал в автобусе? Умер ли он? Или тетка, которая ему помогала, полюбила его и выхаживает? На сигаретных пачках во весь размах теперь печатают жуткие фотографии пораженных органов, черных зубов, раковых опухолей, трахеостомий и мертвых эмбрионов.

Главный чешский сюжет: девушки закурили в трамвае, чтобы доказать, что во времена Первой республики было больше свобод. Сначала Масарик запретил курить в трамваях, а потом пришел Гитлер. Завтра отправлюсь на его родину, впереди Вена.

To be continued.

30 сентября редактор раздела «Литература» Глеб Морев прочитает лекцию «Какая литература нам не нужна?» Within the framework of the lecture marathon colta.ru “New Hope. Culture after the 17th. "