[Воденниковобалденников] Часть первая пиша в темноте не заметил...

[Wodennikovnikov]

Part one

writing in the dark
did not notice
that the pen does not write

Quoted by Akhmetieva DV

Recognizing himself as a hysteroid, he will artistically explain:
just imagine, night, half asleep, hug your woman and say to her, in a whisper, you can hardly hear: I love you

and exactly at that second a tram rattles outside the window
 
and she, deaf: what ??
and you, breaking into a cry: I LOVE YOU !!! why don’t you hear, ah!?!

here it is
everything has its very definite unique moment

Part two

Wodennikov incredibly reads poetry.
One of the most unbearable, in my opinion, poems - “The Last Poem” by Elena Shirman - he read in such a way that for a few minutes I wanted to forget everything I know about imbalance, sticky minuses, icy pluses, treatment of love addictions, the need to upgrade my image and other typical patterns of imbalance (dada, everyone read Evolution) without realizing which, the author of these verses left them the most detailed, most awkward literary monument to watch.
These verses seem terribly vulgar.
By the teenagers. Manipulative.
I want to look away from them, as a plus I want to look away from the torment of a minus. From their psychological, surgical reliability of the humiliating self-preparation of the minus before the plus, it reduces the jaw.
But in them, unfortunately, there is not a drop of exaggeration. This is exactly how in reality any deeply addicted love addict feels, looking at himself and another through a distorting mirror of non-reciprocity. Everything, from the desire to write a thousand "probably the last letters", through the idealization of the one, the desire to call everything by the name of that same person, the surprise that no one sees him of tremendous beauty, self-abasement, the feeling of one's own ugliness (that same image resource) and the recognition of its total uselessness (addiction destroys self-esteem), through bitter resentment at the lack of heat, and, finally, dreams, about how the moment will come and everything will be different, but, of course, delightfully too late.
This is an exhaustive picture.
And in prose - it remains only to go to the therapist and end this nightmare.
But Vodennikov read poetry in such a way that this tormenting swamp, from which in ordinary life there is a completely prosaic clear exit, separated from the search for a way out and suddenly became poetry.
No less awkward and painful, but completely sufficient, complete, final nudity.

And in this sense, any absolute living of feeling is already poetry, and any attempt to somehow change it is prose.

#Wodennikov #good text