Dada (Fragment #018)

I marched towards the library and collided with Patrick near the main entrance. I remembered this boor. He was an assistant at my entrance examination. I decided not to waste time greeting him and just passed on by.

The 20th century German literature section wasn’t a very popular place. Well, good riddance! It was much better to work without the silly background chirrup of girls writing endless nonsense about heroic troubadours and sighing over modern guys who’d forgotten the art of courtship.

Anyway, I figured I should get to work, so I thumbed along the high stacks looking for the letter ‘T’. Gotcha! Tristan Tzara, ‘Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries’.

“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.”

So, professor, you didn’t like my poem? I giggled at the thought. I’ll learn how to break something that was already broken. Let’s dada, baby! And suddenly, my attention was drawn to some other voices. They sounded pretty tense. I cocked my ear.

“I need this book!”

“The rules are the same for everyone. You can only read it in the reference room. This book mustn’t leave the library.”

“But…”

“No.”

I peeped out of the stack and looked over to the counter. A disappointed Patrick was talking with the library custodian, a large leather bound book clutched to his chest. Serves you right! I thought with gloating delight.

I’d always considered the ‘Codex Seraphinianus’ to be a bit of a joke. I didn’t think anyone of stable mind could ever truly take it seriously. My eyes flicked across Patrick’s sad features again. What a putty head!

Anyway, I needed to care more about completing the task at hand.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

Wordy Mikado (Fragment #017)

I stowed the wreckage of the broken poem in my pockets and dragged myself to my room. It was there that I shook out this mishmash, onto the little table in the corner, and I fell to thinking how it could be rearranged into a new poem. Some lines stuck out awkwardly here and there, and I suddenly recalled how in my childhood I would play Mikado. This flashback was so quick and so bright that it slashed through my mind like a lightning bolt.

We preferred to play with fine aluminium wires, not with woody sticks. We bent the ends of the wires into loops, hooks, and waves. This made the game more difficult because every move had to be executed with surgical precision. (By the way, I’d heard of a variation of this game that was part of the professional practice of pocket lifters.)

I found myself mindlessly poking my finger into the pile of words. My angriness fumed away. The professor’s voice echoed in my head: “And don’t spoil such precious words for glamorous bullshit.” We played with literal junk when we were children, and we did it with style. Why should I fuck with such high class stuff now?

I pulled out a long, shiny wire from the pile and smiled. I knew what I needed to do. I accurately stowed all the wordy bits into a little box and went to the library.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

a Book (Fragment #027)

Урок 27 - The Book (by Culpeo-Fox)

An awesome work by Culpeo-Fox. Favourite books, favourite movies, favourite voices and favourite persons…

Again… this happened again. Again, I was reprimanded by Mr. Turdman and sent to our library to endure my punishment. I restrained myself with some effort, and hid my happy smile. I put the mask of a martyr over my face, and slowly left the classroom. The conditions of my punishment were that I must unpack some boxes filled with donated books. I must repair the damaged books then sort and catalog them all… Do you think that’s boring? Hell, no man! I know this work well and enjoy it!

On my way, I came across Patrick outside the library… Hmm… What the hell was he doing here? He should be in the basement near his precious ribbed eggs As usual, Patrick was engrossed in himself and didn’t notice me… or he just pretended that he didn’t… as always… My day would be made if I ruined him and his eggs! With such lovely thoughts, I walked into the library.

…I need, my dear friend, some illusions of elegance. Some elaborate magic tricks of my mind. Some visually enigmatic intrigue. Hmm… For example, I see… a pompously decorated dinner table… genteel society and lazy intellectual discussions… candles, goblets, silver… The luxurious tablecloth falls down to the floor… long… so long… and… Do you know what? It isn’t a tablecloth! It’s the hem of a dress! Long… so long… A long evening dress, an elegant, beautiful dress. It’s worn by a pretty girl standing on the stairs… with a glass of red wine and a cigarette in her cigarette holder, with a fur boa on her white marble shoulders… The girl is apathetic and cold. She doesn’t care about this genteel banquet. She spits on it. But… no… I was wrong! I glanced into her eyes… I understood… She isn’t cold and apathetic! The moment passed – she sharply tugged her hem! And candles, goblets, silver fly up into the air! And expensive red wine splashes pale aristocratic faces like luxurious toilets! And truffles with oysters dirty the exclusive parquet and silk wallpapers! And our girl… Oh! She’s fucked them all over! She’s leaving the banquet with her head held high through the front door…

…when I came back to myself, I was alone in the dark at the library. Damn! What is this? I twiddled the book without a cover in my paws. (to be continued)

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2014