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Janvāris 14., 2009
11:48 - Fuck it
Es jau sen gribēju to uzrakstīt. Tas ir man ļoti mīļš fragments no Toma Vulfa grāmatas. Stāsta sākums ir tāds, ka Kīzijs saņem uzaicinājumu teikt runu pretkara demonstrācijā, ko viņš un viņa pranksteri, protams, ar sajūsmu pieņem. Viņi apzīmē savu leģendāro autobusu ar kāškrustiem, sirpjiem un āmuriem, sarkanajām zvaigznēm, baltajiem ērgļiem un visu citu iedomājamo militāro simboliku, paši sev sadabū uniformas, ķiveres, uzplečus un visādus citus militāros pribambasus, uztaisa sev koka šaujamos, uz autobusa jumta uzmeistaro ložmetēju ligzdu (un tas viss, protams, nokrāsots kliedzošās fosforescējošās krāsās) un tādā paskatā ierodas pretkara demonstrācijā. Un tālāk sekos ļoti garš citāts (jā, man šodien nav ko darīt, tāpēc es pārrakstu grāmatas).
The first person in the Vietnam Day Committee circle to notice Kesey approaching the speaker’s platform was Paul Krassner, the editor of The Realist magazine. Most of the Pranksters were still on the bus, fooling around with the guns for the befuddlement of the gawkers who happened by. Kesey, Babbs, Gretchen Fetchin and George Walker came on over the platform, Kesey in his orange Day-Glo coat and World War I helmet. Krassner ran his magazine as pretty much a one-man operation and he knew Kesey subscribed to it. So he wasn’t so surprised that Kesey knew him. What got him was that Kesey just started talking to him, just like they had been having a conversation all along and something had interrupted them and now they were resuming... It is a weird thing. You feel the guy’s charisma, to use that one, right away, busting out even through the nutty Day-Glo, or maybe sucking one in, the way someone once wrote of Gurdjieff: “You could not help being drawn, almost physically, towards him... like being sucked in by a vast, spiritual vacuum cleaner.” At the time, however, Krassner thought of Flash Gordon.
“Look up there,” Kesey says, motioning up toward the platform.
Up there is Paul Jacobs. Jacobs tends towards the forensic, anyway, and the microphone and loudspeakers do something to a speaker. You can hear your voice rolling and thundering, powerful as Wotan, out over that ocean of big ears and eager faces, and you are omnipotent and more forensic and orotund and thunderous minute by minute – It is written, but I say unto you... the jackals of history-ree-ree-ree-ree... From where they are standing, off to the side of the platform, they can hear very little of what Jacobs is actually saying, but they can hear the sound barking and roaring and reverberating and they can hear the crowd roaring back and baying on cue, and they can see Jacobs, hunched over squat and thick into the microphone, with his hands stabbing out for emphasis, and there, at sundown, silhouetted against the florid sky, is his jaw, jutting out, like a cantaloupe...
Kesey says to Krassner: “Don’t listen to the words, just the sound, and the gestures... who do you see?”
And suddenly Krassner wants very badly to be right. It is the call of the old charisma. He wants to come up with the right answer.
“Mussolini...?”
Kesey starts nodding. Right, right, but keeping his eye on the prognathous jaw.
By this time more of the Pranksters have come up to the platform. They have found some electrical outlets and they have run long cords up to the platform, for the guitars and basses and horns. Kesey is the next to last speaker. He is to be followed by some final Real Barnburner of a speaker and then – the final surge and the march on Oakland.
From the moment Kesey gets up there, it is a freaking jar. His jacket glows at dusk, and his helmet. Lined up behind him are more Day-Glo crazies, wearing aviator helmets and goggles and flight suits and Army tunics, Babbs, Gretch, Walker, Zonker, Mary Microgram, and little Day-Glo kids, and half of them carrying electric guitars and horns, mugging and moving around in Day-Glo streaks. The next jar is Kesey’s voice, it is so non-forensic. He comes on soft, in the Oregon drawl, like he’s just having a conversation with 15,000 people:
You know, you’re not gonna stop this war with this rally, by marching... That’s what they do... They hold rallies and they march... They’ve been having wars for ten thousand years and you’re not gonna stop it this way... Ten thousand years, and this is the game they play to do it... holding rallies and having marches... and that’s the same game you’re playing... their game...
Whereupon he reaches into his great glowing Day-Glo coat and produces a harmonica and starts playing it right into the microphone, Home, home on the range, hawonking away on the goddamn thing – Home... home... on the ra-a-a-a-ange hawonkawonk...
The crowd stands there in a sudden tender clump, most of them wondering if they heard right, cocking their heads and rolling their heads to one another. First of all, that conversational tone all of a sudden, and then random notes from the Day-Glo crazies behind him ripped out offen the electric guitars and the general babble of the place feeding into the microphone – did anybody hear right –
– all the while Kesey is still up there hawonking away on the freaking harmonica. Home, home on the ra-a-a-a-a-a-a-ange –
– ahhhh, that’s it – they figure it’s some calculated piece of stage business, playing Home, home on the range – building up to something like Yah! We know about that home! We know about that range! The rotten U.S. home and the rotten U.S. range! –
– but instead it is the same down-home drawling voice –
I was just looking at the speaker who was up here before me... and I couldn’t hear what he was saying... but I could hear the sound of it... and I could hear your sound coming back at him... and I could see the gestures –
– and here Kesey starts parodying Paul Jacob’s stabbing little hands and his hunched-over stance and his –
– and I could see his jaw sticking out like this... silhouetted against the sky... and you know who I saw... and who I heard?... Mussolini... I saw and I heard Mussolini here just a few minutes ago... Yep... you’re playing their game...
Then he starts hawonking away again, hawonking and hawonking Home, home on the range with that sad old setter harmonica-around-the-campfire pace – and the Pranksters back him up on their instruments, Babbs, Gretch, George, Zonker, weaving up there in a great Day-Glo freakout
– and what the hell – a few boos, but mainly confusion – what in the name of God are the ninnies –
– We’ve all heard all this and seen all this before, but we keep on doing it... I went to see the Beatles last month... And I heard 20,000 girls screaming together at the Beatles... and I couldn’t hear what they were screaming, either... But you don’t have to... They’re screaming Me! Me! Me! Me!... I’m Me!... That’s the cry of the ego, and that’s the cry of this rally!... Me! Me! Me! Me!... And that’s why wars get fought... ego... because enough people want to scream Pay attention to Me... Yep, you’re playing their game...
– and then more hawonkawonkawonkawonkawonka –
– and the crowd starts going into a slump. It’s as if the fine rally, the whole day, has been one long careful inflation of a helium balloon, preparing to take off – and suddenly somebody has pulled the plug. It’s not what he is saying, either. It’s the sound and the freaking sight and that goddamn mournful harmonica and that stupid Chinese music by the freaks standing up behind him. It’s the only thing the martial spirit can’t stand – a put-on, a prank, a shuck, a goose in the anus.
– Vietnam Day Committee seethe together at the edge of the platform: “Who the hell invited this bastard!” “You invited him!” “Well, well, we figured he’s a writer, so he’ll be against the war!” “Didn’t you have enough speakers?” says Krassner. “You need all the big names you can get, to get the crowd out.” “Well, that’s what you get for being celebrity fuckers,” says Krassner. If they had had one of those big hooks like they had on amateur night in the vaudeville days, they would have pulled Kesey off the podium right then. Well, then, why doesn’t somebody just go up there and edge him off! He’s ruining the goddamn thing. But then they see all the Day-Glo crazies, men and women and children all weaving and electrified, clawing at guitars, blowing horns, all crazed aglow at sundown... And the picture of the greatest anti-war rally in the history of America ending in a Day-Glo brawl to the tune of Home, home on the range...
– suddenly the hawonking on the freaking harmonica stops. Kesey leans into the microphone –
There’s only one thing to do... there’s only one thing’s gonna do any good at all... And that’s everybody just look at it, look at the war, and turn your backs and say... Fuck it...
– hawonkawonkawonkawonka –
– They hear that all right. The sound of the phrase – Fuck it – sounds so weird, so shocking, even here in Free Speech citadel, just coming out that way over a public loudspeaker, rolling over the heads of 15,000 souls –
– Home, home on the range hawonkawonkawonka, and the Pranksters beginning to build up most madly on their instruments now, behind the harmonica, sounding like an insane honky-tonk version of Juan Carrillo who devised 96 tones on the back seat of a Willys Jeep, saved pennies all through the war to buy it, you understand, zinc pennies until the blue pustules formed under his zither finger nether there, you understand...
– Just look at it and turn away and say... Fuck it
– say... Fuck it...
hawonkawonkawonka blam
– Fuck it –
Hawonkafuckit... friends...
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Tom Wolfe "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test"
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Comments:
man toties ir ko darīt, tādēļ pilnīgi noteikti nelasīšu :D
Eu! Kāpēc Šoreiz meitenīte? Es gribu bebrīti!
man šķiet, Tu sāc kļūt pārāk prasīgs pret dzīvi. Nu labi...bet tikai šoreiz. ;) |
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