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[Oct. 24th, 2020|03:23 am]

Вот у меня есть совсем немного собственных стихотворений,
которые я взаправду люблю и в какой-то мере помню, во
всяком случае, узнаю, если спрашивают про них. Но их
как раз никто никогда не переводит на языки -- думают,
наверное, да ну, вот еще говна пирога! А Аня
Крушельницкая внезапно взяла да и перевела как раз
одно такое на английский. Потому что она мастер
стихотворного перевода. Мне ужасно нравится, я теперь
радуюсь! А вы как хотите.

Перевод здесь:

Come, Mallory, come, no matter that you'd been killed.
We need a good storyteller after a trying day.
What other man knows the runes like you do, what other man is as skilled
In speaking to wine in a barrel, to smoke wafting away?

"No, my coffin in sealed, and the seal is heavy and strong.
Word is stronger still, but we Christians must stay true.
As dead men we sleep in our graves, for it is shameful and wrong
To wander the Earth with the living like your many gods do."

Hey, don't be stubborn, come on, we know you want to come back
To see witching fog rise to the roof and get thick,
To see hardened sounds get brittle enough for your fingers to crack,
To see a star get lit by a hidden hand like a wick,

To see a word fly from your lips like an overgrown moth,
Whose wings laid with dark streaks swing, creak and rock.
Drink up, drink up, no matter the matter of Mallory's death.
A dead or a living body, the body is only a frock.

Women pick them like they pick words, they spare them care and forethought.
Nobles and fops, more so than ladies, pay them more heed than due.
But for us at this table, age after age fly by and it means nearly naught.
We keep drinking up, cup after cup, and any body will do.

"You heathens have witching fog pulled over your eyes like scales.
It is with tombstone knotwork that your hearts are carved and scored.
I say, it doesn't behoove me to come and tell you tales
When I was killed in the dark all through the will of my Lord."

Hey, Mallory, hey, no matter that your Christ
Sent a hired killer down to your darkling cell!
Gods are like children, they should never be coddled or enticed,
Or you will become their plaything as soon as you do as they tell.

Like their wicked bad blood, so does our wicked good ale
Give your veins a rush and your brains age-old dreams to think.
Today you are killed and dead, tomorrow hearty and hale.
No matter, no matter. Rise and come with us for a drink.

Come now, tell us the tale of the humpback without a hump,
Of Conn of a Hundred Battles and of the Little Head,
Of Swan Children of Lir whom fate did so cheat and dump,
Of Jack Master of Thieves who cheated his fate instead.

And you may never speak, but others will speak, though.
Words will fly round and round like leaves, settling in place
On boughs of tall trees, and then a garden of them will grow
Like silver frost on glass, like pearly beadwork on lace.

Оригинал под катом.
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[May. 19th, 2020|07:32 am]

My Antie warns me,
My Tantie bids me,
"When you talk to your uncle Joseph.
Ask him to take good care of himself,
As it might be the last time
You ever see him in his prime,
What if the virus takes him?
What if it does?"

Again my Antie is being patient,
Making me tend to my social relations.

And so my Antie, she warns me,
Right, my Tantie, she reminds me,
"When you see your friend Alice,
Tell her that she must cover her face,
To stay healthy,
She must wear her mask,
Or else the virus gets her,
What if it does?"

That's how she talks to me nights and days,
To help me uphold my social grace,
To make me unfold my social grace
In anyone's presence.

When I meet my friends on the social networks,
We share the same haunted looks,
And we say how are yous and we ask to take care
Of ourselves, all the things our ants like to hear,
Till the Moon, she comes right up over the hill
To where the Sun was seen hovering,
That's when Alice says, I can't hold it in,
I am no virus, but I can kill.

So we get together, masks over our faces,
In the dead of night unfolding our social grace,
So high it climbs, so deep it delves,
If it gets you, take good care of yourselves.

Почитала ленту и вспомнила сон. Пару строчек из него
нашла записанными, но пришлось и их изменить, видимо,
вспомнила что-то не так. Там же, кстати (вроде как в той
же песне) объяснялось, что сон, _как известно_, нужен
теплокровным, чтобы аккуратно завершить все нейронные
циклы, такой soft reboot. Смысл, видимо, такой, что
утомление возникает от процессов, подгружающих
систему один за другим: человек не умеет выключаться,
да еще возникают паразитные процессы, уже не вызванные
непосредственно внешними раздражителями, а
случайно порожденные внутри, метапаразитные и т. д.
ОК, ну а холоднокровным почему не нужен? Не хватает
сложности в системе? Что-то не верится. Короче,
занесло его, этот сон. Не иначе, бесы водят.

Крыловская техника -- еще не до конца проснувшись,
наговаривать на диктофон. Наверное, это должно работать,
хотя непонятно, почему это не будит быстрее, чем
если записывать. Ну и вообще, эти сообщения голосом,
видеомессаджи, хуже снов даже.
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