:: urbansheep (urbansheep) wrote,
:: urbansheep

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[ Q ] Момент движения // Кейс Поллард в Ландане


Watching as that part seals over the cigarette burn with black gaffer's tape, the ends tooth-torn, a sort of archaic punk flourish. Pulls on the Rickson's, checks for keys and money, and descends Damien's still-unrenovated stairwell, past a tenant's mountain bike and hip-high bundles of last year's magazines.

In the sunlit street, all is still; nothing moves save the cinnamon blur of a cat, just there, and gone. She listens. The hum of London, building somewhere.

Feeling inexplicably happy, she sets off down Parkway toward Cam-den High Street, and finds a Russian in a mini-cab. Not a cab at all, really, just a dusty blue mirror-world Jetta, but he will drive her to Netting Hill, and he looks too old, too scholarly, too disgusted by the very sight of her, to be much trouble.

Once they are out of Camden Town she has little idea of where they are. She has no internalized surface map of this city, only of the underground and of assorted personal footpaths spreading out from its stations.

The stomach-clenching roundabouts are pivots in a maze to be negotiated only by locals and cabdrivers. Restaurants and antique shops rotate past, punctuated regularly by pubs.

Marveling at the luminous shanks of a black-haired man in a very expensive-looking dressing gown, bending toward the morning's milk and paper in his doorway.

A military vehicle, its silhouette unfamiliar, bulk-browed, tautly laced beneath its tarpaulin. The driver's beret.

Mirror-world street furniture: bits of urban infrastructure she can't identify by function. Local equivalents of the mysterious Water Testing Station on her block uptown, which a friend had claimed to contain nothing more than a tap and a cup, for the judging of potability—this having been for Cayce a favorite fantasy of alternative employment, to stroll Manhattan like an itinerant sommelier, addressing one's palate with the various tap waters of the city. Not that she would have wanted to, particularly, but simply to believe that someone could do this for a living had been somehow comforting.

By the time they arrive at Netting Hill, whatever rogue aspect of personality has been driving this morning's expedition seems to have de-camped, leaving her feeling purposeless and confused. She pays the Russian, gets out on the side opposite Portobello, and descends the stairs to a pedestrian tunnel that smells of Friday-night urine. Overly tall mirror-world lager cans are crushed there like roaches.

Corridor metaphysics. She wants coffee.

But the Starbucks on the other side, up the stairs and around a corner, is not yet open. A boy, inside, wrestles huge plastic trays of cello-phaned pastries.


Мне пока непонятно, но всё равно очень интересно, как Гибсону удаются такие пограничные (маргинальные, выдающиеся), и в то же время такие реальные герои... Кейс Поллард — гениальный персонаж, всё-таки. Кого-то напоминает.

Но цитата эта отражает динамику в словах — потому что, пока ты летишь, разогнавшись по этим почти обезличенным, рубленым предложениям, описание поездки по Ландану встаёт перед тобой, иногда, на длинных фразах превращаясь в двойной поток — основное его течение, быстрое, которое тянет тебя, и параллельное — словно длинная петля, шуршащая эпизодом в медленном рапиде, показывая его в длинных деталях, притормаживая на бликах и отражениях. Но вот ближайшая точка окончания предложения, — и вперёд, летишь дальше, с прежней же скоростью, и при этом с огромным куском ощущений, который отложился у тебя в голове.

Параллельное время — быстрое и медленное. Хочешь — бери медленное и читай вглубь. Не хочешь — лети с быстрым, беги глазами.

Motion narrative: 01 | 02

Pattern Recognition: 01 | 02

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