Alexander Dugin. Since March 2008, he has been an unofficial ideologist of the United Russia party, according to information on the official website of the MED.
Since September 2009 - and. O. Head of the Department of Sociology of International Relations, Moscow State University. M. V. Lomonosov.
Since March 2012 - member of the Expert Advisory Council under the Chairman of the State Duma of Russia S.E. Naryshkin.
Now let’s look at a few statements from this “council member”
Next Very MuchAbukAkmAgunIAStrength
Dugin A.G. “Fundamentals of Geopolitics” p. 255.
http://svitk.ru/004_book_ book/8b/1941_dugin-dugin_ geopolitiki.php
First of all, I ask myself. Who does this incomprehensible horseradish from the mountain think he is, who is disrespected by me for such narrow-minded thoughts and statements, and who is also some kind of expert on who knows what issues? A prophet, a messiah, a great oracle, or just a zombie hypnotist? Wow, how beautifully he wrote: “We should instill in all Russians......”... in the end we get... theory of ignorance and
servility.
Every Russian in his right mind, after reading these lines, should think about who I there is in this world, a stinking dog, a slave of unknown whose (according to A. Dugin) or a rational being - Human. My personal opinion is absolutely opposite to what was said by A. Dugin, a member of some commission. First of all, everyone must realize that I- A person (with a capital letter) from birth until death, and not a beast, not a slave, and not a cattle.
“MAN THIS SOUNDS PROUD” (M. Gorky)
Secondly, that he is Russian (since the article was written for Russians), and thirdly, that he is... (optional: Orthodox, atheist, etc.) The theory of servility that Dugin imposes is needed for resigned submission masses to a handful of non-humans who consider themselves an untouchable caste that has usurped power and the right to decide the fate of everyone, regardless of their opinions and desires.
“Without studying the fundamentals of Orthodoxy, there cannot be a normal citizen at all; he will not be a citizen, but a bastard.
He will not be able to understand either the past of his country, or its present, or the logic of history, or the values of this country. It will be a pig, not a citizen. A lot of such pigs have been preserved from the Soviet period, and a new type of pig was churned out by the liberal propaganda of the 90s. Now we are finally approaching the restoration of procedures in the educational sphere. Anyone who believes that the introduction of these lessons is wrong, has a different point of view, tries to defend atheistic values, is simply a bastard - an ignoramus or an agent of Western influence, I ask you to print it as such. This is a great victory."
A. Dugin.
http://www.nakanune.ru/articles/16845
But I will argue with this scumbag’s saying until the end of my life. Only a complete madman can express such nonsense. Look closely at his train of thought. If you think with your own head, not like him, not with someone’s prompting (i.e. you are a reasonable person), have your own point of view, then you are a bastard. It turns out that everything he said, including complete nonsense and nonsense, is the indisputable truth, and everything else is ignorance and bastardism. What can I say about this? Scum like A. Dugin are carriers of theories dangerous to society and cause division and enmity between citizens of the same society. I am an atheist, but I have never called believers or non-believers pigs, as the above-mentioned idiot does. In my family, such incompatible concepts according to Dugin as believers and atheists coexist (I am an atheist, my wife is the granddaughter of a priest). When all our extended family gathers, we never have any feeling of hostility or enmity towards each other, we communicate well, each free to say what he sees fit, sometimes we argue, trying to defend our rightness, but there have never been insults or foul language addressed to each other. But this scum, with his filthy mouth, is trying to cause discord not only in my family, but also in society as a whole, because... Currently, our society is heterogeneous, both in religion, “sympathizers” with different religions, generally indifferent to any religion and atheists.
Next, he exposes a masterpiece for the uninitiated, that everyone who disagrees with his point of view is an agent of Western influence. Why not take a look at the biography of Dugin himself? :
The first important thing that Dugin did, due to the fact that he spent his turbulent youth not in study, but in the collapse of the USSR, he, in the new capitalist Russia, apparently bought a correspondence diploma from the Novocherkassk Engineering and Reclamation Institute, since he was kicked out of the MAI from the second course back in 1979, and after A. Dugin, as the son of a GRU general, was heavily involved in the destructive anti-Soviet activities of Moscow’s informal golden youth.
In the 1980s, Alexander Dugin adhered to radically anti-Soviet and anti-communist views. According to Dugin himself, he took his little son “to spit on the monuments to Ilyich,” which he later regretted. During this period, Dugin was interested in the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, the works of Mircea Eliade, ideas of the European “new right”, German theorists"conservative revolution" of the interwar period, as well as by authors mainly of the interwar period, according to the German-Ukrainian researcher Andreas Umland, proto-fascist, mystical, occult and conspiracy theories[ 31] (Rene Guenon, Julius Evola, Hermann Wirth, etc.), as well as geopolitical theorists (Karl Haushofer, Friedrich Ratzel, Carl Schmitt). He published a number of his works, which are impossible to read without laughing. (If you wish, read for self-education.) The heyday of his “creativity” occurred during the reign of D.A. Medvedev, since the position of Russian geopolitician, philosopher, Leader of the international Eurasian movement was created especially for him. Wow, that sounds so loud...
If you read the biography in full and see how many times his point of view on what was happening in Russia changed and what position he occupied in certain periods of the life and development of our society, then we can say with complete confidence that before us is a political prostitute, adapting to the trends of the times and not having her own opinion or, even worse, not having her own life credo. I'm not saying that he is a fool and an idiot. On the contrary, this lampooner has a style and a word that can captivate the audience, but all his statements, so similar to the truth, ultimately turn out to be the most lies and deception misleading the unprepared listener. Therefore, I draw my conclusion: A. Dugin is a greater bastard and protege of the State Department than all those whom he insults with his rotten philosophy.
And now not dessert:
“I’m pro-black. White civilization - its cultural values, the false, inhumane model of the world it built - has not justified itself. Everything is heading towards the beginning of white pogroms on a planetary scale. Russia is saved only by the fact that we are not purely white. Predatory transnational corporations, oppression and suppression of everyone else, MTV, blue and pink - these are the fruits of white civilization that need to be gotten rid of. That's why I'm for red, yellow, green, black - just not white. I stand with the people of Zimbabwe with all my heart.”
Alexander Dugin.
www.kommersant.ru/doc/336905
Even comments are unnecessary here. Are you with all your heart for the people of Zimbabwe? I want to say to this scum: “What the hell do you want in Russia? Who allowed you to see students with occult schizophrenia and mystical paranoia? I consider myself a hundred times greater patriot of RUSSIA than this State Department oligarchic sell-out Dugin. Let's see each other, either to the Indians or to the Papuans. Rub such muddle and slavish theory on them, maybe they will receive you with a bang. I personally don’t accept this bullshit.
P.S. Joke
Two graduate students who studied with A. Dugin are conducting an experiment for their Ph.D. dissertation: “Why does a dog lose hearing?”
P. Holds a piece of meat and beckons the dog: - Kutya..kutya...kutya... The dog runs up and eats this piece.
B. Writes down. At the sight of a piece of meat, a hungry dog, hearing the command, runs up and eats. Conclusion: - The dog has excellent hearing.
P. - Let’s tie her paws with tape and repeat the experiment. No sooner said than done. The paws are tied, and the first one begins to call her, beckoning with a piece of meat:
-Kutya..kutya..kutya.. The dog doesn’t fit?!?! Once again: -Kutya...kutya..kutya... The dog doesn’t fit again. “She doesn’t hear me,” says P.
V. Writes the conclusion: - If a dog's paws are bandaged, he will lose his hearing., because In response to any calls, she does not run up to the caller.
Finish!!! Dugin's theory in action. Approximately the same logic can be traced in his statements.
My opinion may be different from yours, I do not impose it, unlike the all-knowing A. Dugin. “I know that I don’t know anything..” (Socrates) Everyone is free to think as his mind, erudition, conscience, self-awareness, honor and other wonderful qualities that are inherent only TO THE PERSON.
Hello to the fucking mystic and occultist Dugin was conveyed by the home-grown philosopher Evgesha T. Why home-grown? He didn’t live in a barrel like Diogenes, he didn’t roll a stone uphill like Sisyphus, he didn’t bend under anyone like Dugin in his life, he just moved his gyrus. What I wish for all of you is to THINK..!!!
...D Once upon a time, even before the heavenly father created man, when the gloomy Earth was illuminated only by the lonely Moon and the stars, when Lake Titicaca and the swamps extended to the edges of the Altiplano, long ago, we, uru, lived here...
We, uru, are more than people. Our blood is black, we can neither drown nor choke in water. We are not affected by lightning or the winter night cold. And the damp fog, destructive for all living things, is powerless against us.
...We, Uru, are the water people, the first inhabitants of the Earth, the creators of the gods...
Through the centuries, from pre-Columbian times, these legends have come down.
The evil spells of nature, powerful people and good gods, logic and contradictions, reality and fiction appear in this unwritten chronicle.
...Pursued by the conquerors, the Uru took refuge in a large stone house, but a fire broke out in the house, and many were carried away by flames and smoke. But soon those who survived died of disease. Of all the urus, there were two left - the strongest - a man and a woman. Two in the whole wide world. And the people of Uru went from them, settling neither on land nor on water, but on man-made islands, where neither enemy, nor fire, nor disease could overcome them.
These legends clearly flashed into my memory when I happened to be in the city of Puno last year. I flew here from Lima about an hour in the air to the city of Juliaca, then by minibus it took about forty minutes to the city of Puno.
And here he is, the shore of Titicaca. Bright transparent space, cumulus clouds are piling up... I want to straighten my shoulders, breathe in this air with my whole chest - clean, dry, cool. But, it turns out, there is no air: under your feet there is a four-kilometer thick Altiplano. The bag with the equipment seems like a heavy chest, the steps are ringing bells in your temples, and nausea sets in. Damn mountain sickness Soroche! I'm heading to the pier.
Senor, do you want to see the cheers? The boy’s eyes look expectantly from under an Indian knitted hat with ears pulled down over his forehead.
I want.
My name is Jorge, the boy introduces himself, clutching my sleeve. Let’s go, your father will take you.
At the pier, Jorge's father, Armando, is fiddling around in a motorboat. He is in a shirt, sweater, ironed trousers, a chullo and barefoot, like his son.
Dad, senor is going to the island with you! Jorge reports triumphantly and only now lets go of my sleeve.
Our path is not long. Soon the almost indistinguishable boundary between sky and water was marked by the ghostly comb of totori reeds. As it approached, the ridge grew, thickened, turning into thickets or cone-shaped huts. Armando the boatman steers the motorboat to the left, to where the aluminum roof shines brightly above the boat.
This is a school that, “wanting to promote progress, was brought here by evangelical missionaries,” screamed the inscription on the entire wall of the building. “Progress” fits into a single class, with one teacher for students of all ages, including the elderly. Classes are held irregularly and are optional. Like centuries ago, people remain illiterate. And the missionaries, frankly speaking, have nothing to do with this. Armando explains all this to me as he guides the motorboat along a narrow corridor in the thicket.
I stepped onto land, and what seemed like a reliable shore swayed under my feet.
“To the right, to the right, to the left you will fall through,” Armando warned.
There really is nowhere to go to the left. The village, the whole life of the largest of the reed islands of Toranipata, where Armando took me, is to our right.
“For development purposes,” read the stamp on the counterfoil of the receipt issued by the Indian who charged a fee for visiting Toranipata. The next bribe had to be paid to the grimy, ragged and skinny kids. They insistently thrust “balsa”, hastily knitted from pieces of totora, similar to the reed raft boats for which Titicaca is so famous. Armando said something to the gang in Aymara, and the children reluctantly left behind.
The third cordon was for women. Several Indian women, seated in a long row, without stopping twisting woolen threads or knitting quickly, vying with each other, offered to buy sweaters, capes, and bedspreads laid out in front of them. As soon as I uncovered the camera, the craftswomen vying with each other demanded payment in advance for posing.
The village, where all the houses were made of totora, began immediately behind the backs of the craftswomen. I didn’t notice any system in its layout - as if everyone built their own house wherever they had to. The kitchens are interspersed with chicken coops and pig pens. There were cut up fish lying on pieces of plywood right there. And everywhere there are piles, heaps, sheaves, bundles of dry and drying totora.
Harvesting it is the endless, eternal labor of the islanders. It is necessary to patch up the floating island, replace rapidly rotting roofs, walls, floors, mats, it is necessary to knit short-lived balsa boats, sails and tackle for them. Everyone was busy with this: the men sorted and repaired the nets, sorted the bundles of totora, and tied them into cigar-shaped bundles, the basis of future balsa. Women in bowler hats and "polleros" - a cascade of skirts put on one another - washed, cooked food, dried and gutted fish, and fed babies.
The poverty of these people was exposed, it could not be covered up even for a short time - like a deep chronic ulcer, like an incurable wound. People did not hide their poverty, and that made it seem even more depressing.
An elderly Indian motioned to enter the hut. In the deep damp darkness of the hut there stood a kind of altar woven from totora. When I got out into the light, the host-priest handed me a box for bribes “for visiting the temple.”
A rickety balsa raft waited offshore. My friend Armando invited me to go around the island on it. When the boat, pushed by a pole, poked toward the pier again, it turned out that this time there would be no need to pay. Armando explained that he had quietly agreed with the owner of the balsa to bring him tourists, he takes them for rides, for which he receives part of the money Armando charges in Puno for the trip to the island.
Both are happy, but the deal is kept secret from others, because no one else on Toranipata has yet thought of circumventing the established rules established by the two “companies” that have taken over the delivery of tourists and the trade in souvenirs. The owner of the raft is part of one of them, and Armando is a private owner who manages to let his friend earn extra money on top of his meager cooperative income.
What are the incomes? They looked at each other and answered in one voice:
What are you talking about! Income! If we had enough to live on, would we try to charge tourists for every step on the island? For every shot? Who enjoys showing off their poverty, lack of employment, and illiteracy?
But tourists come here in search of uru. And they agree to pay for it... There is no other way to earn money here.
With a heavy heart I walked back past a row of women, through a crowd of frozen children.
The weather turned bad, a sharp wind rose, and waves lashed the sides of the motorboat. The most beautiful, largest, highest lake in South America splashed with gray water...
Turning on the engine, Armando interrupted my sad thoughts:
You know, the Urus haven’t lived here for a long time. They died out about forty years ago.
How did they become extinct?!
They died from dampness, cold, lung disease, and malnutrition. Like their ancestors, they clung to the islands for a long time, but... They say that several people survived in the swamps of Lake Poopo, in Bolivia...
Who lives here? What made you settle here?
Not clear? Armando asked sadly. We came from the shore. From the poor wastelands of the Altiplano. There are Aymara among us, and there are Quechua. Not in this case...
The beautiful and dark legends of Uru now sounded like a requiem. This people once left the “mainland”, as in science fiction novels, from a destroyed, incinerated planet, the few survivors rush in search of other worlds. For the Uru, their man-made islands became such a “planet.”
These “worlds”, and Toranipata is the largest of the reed islands, alas, turned out to be as unreliable as the soil, as the very way of life created on the islands of totora.
Who were the Urus, what language did they speak, where did they come from?
In the Aymara language, the word “uru” means “dawn”, and in Quechua, the state language of the Incas, it means “rabble”, “criminals”. The ancestors of the Uru actually evaded the laws of the empire. The “reed people” themselves called themselves “Kotshoni”. It is known that “Shonyi” in their language meant “people”, and “kota” meant “lake” in Aymara. There are experts who believe that the Urus spoke a language close to Arawakan, widespread in the distant Amazon.
Some South American scholars tend to consider the Ur as the founders of Andean civilizations; folklore endowed them with supernatural life forces. And the very way of life of the “reed people of Titicaca” undoubtedly contained extraordinary adaptability to difficult environmental conditions. And yet they found no place in the modern world, on the vast earth.
On Titicaca, as on any high-altitude lake, the view is beautiful in any weather. But, like an unattainable, alluring, elusive horizon, the dream of an independent, reliable life on their swaying, hand-created earth floated away from the Urus.
Lima Puno Toranipata
Alexander Karmen, corr. "Komsomolskaya Pravda" specially for "Around the World"
2. DUGIN AND KURYOKHIN
SJ: Look what happens - if you simply realize that you are the counter and cannot fit into the system - that’s one thing. But when they stick the “contra” label on you, that’s a different matter. This already has social consequences. With us, everything happens through appointments. They'll label you a homeless person - and that's it. I don't want that label.
EL: But this won’t work - because our composition will be very strange. I would like to bring together very different people. For example, play with Soibelman.
SJ: This European way, like “Robert Fripp meets Brian Eno”? It turns out that this is no longer a group, but large production centers that are stirring up new projects. Yes, that's also a thought. Okay, fruitful. This has always been the case at DK. A variety of people come - and with them a new sound arises with the same ideological base. Mikhailov defined it well: “people of their own myth.” A man comes with his myth and puts it in a common piggy bank.
EL: When you do something on your own for a very long time, it results in endless solo albums. It's like you're constantly looking in the mirror - it becomes simply impossible. Now I’m more interested in doing other people’s things - Soviet songs or even something in English. It will be very unexpected. And we are already writing Soviet songs; we have half recorded the album. There is some periodicity here: what was already in demand again becomes in demand. Punk can also be played with a fair amount of time off.
SJ: This is already such post-punk, neo-punk. Because in its purest form...
EL: In its pure form, it is very difficult. This requires a very intensive expenditure of energy - as Tariverdiev says: “Health does not last forever.” Now I much prefer working in the studio, gluing tape, rather than giving concerts. In general, everyone who has worked long and hard since the 80s now looks very tired. Shevchuk, Firsov...
SJ: Probably the fatigue comes from the fact that hopes were not met. Someone turned to pop music, the money is good there, everyone has children and families, and off we go.
EL: And a lot of people have died over the last decade. Half of my team died for various reasons. Some committed suicide, some for purely physical reasons. The situation is the same in Tyumen...
SL: By the way, Komsomolskaya Pravda called - they want to talk about Kuryokhin. I told them that you better tell them about the last months of his life.
EL: It will be very offensive for Dugin if I start talking about Kuryokhin.
SL: I have already said something offensive about Dugin - that Kuryokhin greatly influenced him. To such an extent that when Kuryokhin began to introduce him to me, I did not recognize Dugin. And he says to me: “Seryozha, what are you doing? It’s me, Sasha!” That is, Kuryokhin changed him so much that I didn’t recognize him - and began to get to know him.
EL: It feels like he just blew his mind.
SL: After all, for Kuryokhin, National Bolshevism was just another “Lenin mushroom”.
SJ: Ha ha! After all, in this story he left out my entire second part, about the dolphins. After all, how it happened: we met with him and started talking about folklore, about Russian songs. And I tell him: that’s why all our songs are associated with plants - “How can I, a mountain ash, get to the oak tree”, “Oh, you, rye, you live well”... This means that the leader - the leader of such a people - must be a little slightly higher than the plant. And who is taller than the plant? He answers me: Mushroom! I tell him further: but the Germans have totem animals - wolves, werewolves. So who should their leader be? Dolphin! He's taller! Therefore, if Lenin is a mushroom, then Hitler is a dolphin! And so, Kuryokhin, the bastard, did not voice this entire second part.
SL: That’s right, when Komsomolskaya Pravda began to ask me about Kuryokhin’s National Bolshevism, I told them that it was an attempt to imitate Zharikov. Because Zharikov is Zhirinovsky, and Kuryokhin is Dugin-Limonov. It was an attempt to catch up with the departing train. Because Kuryokhin - like, by the way, Grebenshchikov - always envied "DK". Kuryokhin constantly asked me about conceptualists - he always had terrible envy towards them. But at least he treated these matters adequately. And these goats actually took everything straight! They could be played! Well, why, one wonders, did Dugin try to run from St. Petersburg, where no one knows him, from a democratic city? He put forward his candidacy there - and lost everything! In Moscow, something could still work out for him. And here - no one knows you, the city of Sobchak is complete useless. And yet, Kuryokhin deceived him.
SJ: You noticed the most important thing: they take everything literally. Even Zhirinovsky...
EL: One day Dugin went on television. To Bella Kurkova. He stood in front of the mirror, put on a tie, a deputy jacket, everything, he gave such a respectable person. And he will turn this way and that... And he asks with excitement: “Egor, do I look like Zyuganov?” I say: "It looks like it." He still looked like that, looked in the mirror and said with annoyance: “Ugh, no, he doesn’t look like that.”
SJ: Damn it!
EL: And there was another story: we once lived with Kuryokhin - Dugin, me and Nyurych. We wake up, I open the window, Dugin lies thoughtfully on the bed, asks: “But where is Omsk?” I say: “Well, where: in the south of Siberia. Near Kazakhstan.” - “Is Kazakhstan next to you? What if the Kazakhs poisoned the wind? They can poison the wind! Well, close the window urgently: the wind is poisoned!” And, in all seriousness: I got terribly scared and started walking around the room. “The Kazakhs, damn it, poisoned the wind - how can I go? That’s exactly how it is. I know they have reed people. They have Lake Balkhash, and reeds and reeds grow there in large quantities. And reed people live there, reed people who never stick out, only breathe through a tube." Then he thought again, thought and said: “And in the middle of Balkhash there is a huge island where lives a giant, gigantic cat, which they all worship.” These are Kuryokhin’s affairs, definitely. Where else could he get this? He says: “Damn, there are reed people all around, what can we do? They can organize an invasion! That’s all - then we’ll be finished! If the reed people come out, they’ll come at us with their cat! And the cat is huge, three meters tall!”
SJ: Dugin, of course, is a talented person, but he lacks a sense of style. He does not catch stylistic revolutions or inversions.
EL: He took everything seriously, because Kuryokhin did everything completely seriously. Kuryokhin generally became very strange in the end - and very angry. He was so furious! Then in some St. Petersburg newspaper - it seems, in Smena - they published a completely slanderous article about him. They crap from head to toe. They wrote that he had no talent at all, that all the NBP, together with Kuryokhin, were some kind of fascists, idiots. They even wanted to sue them. And at that moment, Dugin, Kuryokhin and I met there by chance and decided to celebrate this meeting. We went to visit some professor of mathematics - or philosophy, I don’t remember. And we just started to get on the subway when suddenly we see this journalist who wrote the article. He was immediately publicly beaten: Dugin came up and kicked him in the ass. This journalist squealed like a pig and ran to the police to complain. In the end, the cops took us all away. And when they found out who we were, they immediately shouted: “Where is this journalist?! Let’s catch up with him and give him some more!” Here's the story. And then Dugin drank a little, and this Kuryokhin homophobia began again. He began to say that a huge plasma was flying towards us from the galaxy. This plasma is approaching, and soon we will be finished - literally in a year, or something. I say: “Well, yes, of course, Lenin the mushroom.” He was terribly offended and almost got into a fight.
SZH: Kuryokhin and Dugin were fond of conspiracy theories and always dreamed of being, so to speak, “in the center of the cyclone.” The Rosicrucians are there, that's all. But that’s not what’s strange - what’s strange is that they behaved, roughly speaking, the opposite of what they were taught. After all, if you take the traditions of orders, Freemasonry, then they write all sorts of nasty things on their own. And your task is to recognize this text: after all, in this way your literacy, your existential level, and ability to understand meanings are tested. By the way, note that a three-meter cat is more real than, for example, the “Republic of Kazakhstan”.
EL: This is how everything was done in Ataka. Hitler is either bad or good. Either he is a Freemason, or he is a genius...
SJ: Well, “Attack” is a super magazine. This ability to juggle plans is, in fact, what people go through all these steps for. They wrote something to you, and you turn it all upside down - the information has no sign just as much as the sacred text has no vowels. I am sure that this is precisely why Kuryokhin went to Europe - for initiation. To Christian Boucher, editor of Vouloir magazine. And not only to him. He wanted to learn to understand these things. But it's very painful. So, they probably explained it to him there... In fact, it’s a question of the level of understanding. A person who understands more, without even wanting to, begins to manipulate those who understand less. Hence the idea of the Masonic conspiracy: those who understand more simply cannot help but use it. That's how life works. People can hardly believe that there are things more real than the dream they watch every day and call “life.”
EL: Before Kuryokhin, Dugin was not like that. About five years ago he was a cheerful, cheerful person. And then evil began to fiercely dismantle him. He defended the NBP to death - when I said that it was a comic party. And not even a party, but just a party.
SJ: Correct, because Rosicrucianism is built on the idea of the number “three,” that is, a paradox. The NBP was, of course, a comic party, but it still one way or another continued the left vector...
EL: As far as I understand, this is a property of any small party - especially a nationalist one. But it was Limonov and I who organized the NBP! I still have my membership card number 4 lying around in my desk! From time to time I even say that I am a Limonovite, and shake my ticket with it...
SL: And Limonov’s is the first?
EL: No, the first one is from Stalin... Oh! So now I’m now the second most important in the party?! Dugin left the party! So, I am a Parteigenosse, or whatever it is called...
SJ: It’s time for you to clean up.
SL: I have a friend who organized a party of intergalactic intelligence. Their program goal is to establish connections with other civilizations. And now, for this purpose, they must receive office space from Luzhkov, money for party construction...
EL: And who are the Party of Pensioners? Or a party of disabled people?
SL: Do the Downs by chance not have a party? It would be an interesting party, with a large electorate. What a spectacle! They would have invited Björk to the founding congress - she has an absolutely Down face. I watched a movie with her - she has the same mentality...
EL: In any case, the NBP was a less closed organization than, say, RNE - which itself was rather a kind of order...
SJ: Here we must look, first of all, at the title of curator. It’s not who draws what on the fences, but which of them has a curator in what rank. RNE has a captain. So we need to find out who the NBP is. One must judge by rank! Zhirinovsky, for example, had a lieutenant colonel. According to the lieutenant colonel, it was clear that Zhirinovsky would rise to the top. The level of the curator shows at what level the phenomenon is being discussed. What is a party? This is the lever of the system. Such cunning, systemic things are played out through the game. If there is a captain behind the party, this could be some kind of Gaponovism. If, say, Yeltsin went abroad, he needs to get money there - that means he needs to let Barkashov “Sieg Heil” out to yell, and then you can immediately say: “You see! The danger of fascism.” - “Fascism will not pass!” They immediately give us money, as long as there is no fascism. And at Zhirinovsky’s level, this is a higher game. The level of the project is visible from the level of the special services. Kuryokhin, I think, understood the NBP as an ideology. Close to the Order of the Eastern Templars, to Crowleyanism.
EL: Crowley is actually some kind of Satanism! And if you think about it, it’s not even clear who screwed who over. Maybe Dugin to Kuryokhin: he could operate with concepts ad infinitum. I once went to his house, he sits there and says: “Eh... I’ve come up with so many different concepts and systems that now I can’t understand whether I believe in it or not, whether it’s all there or not, what is there anyway..." That is, he was shifting towards omnivorousness. Reality for him became completely mythological.
SZH: But Kuryokhin was an operational person. Not in the sense of “fast”, but in the sense of alert - that is, reactive, prone to action. Dugin, like every Eurasian, has a slightly Turkic brain. It's like square wheels. He doesn't feel any inversions. Can't turn over and move on. It’s strange: a person writes about orders, but does not know the law of the pendulum - the bible of any Freemason. The pendulum - it swings, and if you don’t get into the phase, then what happens? The pendulum goes there, and you go here. The same thing happens with Dugin - a signal comes in: “Everyone quickly ran after the Bolsheviks!” He thinks: no, I’d rather be with the Tsar. Then suddenly - bang! - the Bolsheviks decided for the tsar, and Dugin no longer knew where he was running. That is why Zhirinovsky is a completely incomprehensible category for communists. “How is it possible, he stole our ideas!” Yes, he didn’t steal anything, he was just rocking. But Dugin is the opposite: he says the right things, but he himself acts completely differently.
EL: He simply comes from a family of Moscow intellectuals, such nerds. He has great confusion with reality - that’s why he is seriously afraid of these jungle cats.
SJ: There is a type of people who for some reason are afraid of action. A certain form of suspiciousness: a person is afraid to take responsibility and crap himself.
EL: That’s how it happened: he left the NBP and created his own NBP, which is not at all clear whether it exists or not. They are putting out some leaflets...
SJ: I like Limonov more in this regard. There is some kind of adequacy in him to what he does.
EL: Limonov - he’s alive, yes...
And can you imagine what this eccentric is telling me? That somewhere near Lake Balkhash there live reed people hiding in the reeds. And they worship some kind of jungle cat of theirs. And the cat is huge, simply gigantic, and those reed people hide it in the reeds and lake swamps. You should have seen how he spoke this nonsense! He raised his claw to the horizon and pointed somewhere to the south, closed his eyes, and then began to squeal like a girl scared to death. I almost fell over laughing. Is this the kind of blizzard you hear every day? No...you need to remember this.
Still laughing, he rubbed his dry, dark fist over his eye, corroding the remaining smoke in his retina. And he felt that the “Night Rejected Strangers with Greetings,” as he nicknamed them to himself, had changed a little. Even the silence became different.
No, of course I've seen a lot of psychos in my time, but this one deserves first place. I, he says, will find these reed people and steal their Kota, their deity whom they worship. And he can barely walk. It was not in vain, he says, that I climbed up into the mountains along these narrow goat paths, spent the night in old holes, ate frogs. I, he says, will prove that the reed CAT and its adherents exist. Listen, I ask him, what are you going to do with this huge fat brat? According to you, ten people can barely lift it? Do you know what he says? “I just want to prove to my doctors who put me in a mental hospital that I’m not crazy.”
The old man laughed again. On the other side of the fire, there was still silence, only the crackling of burning dry wood could be heard. They, the whole crowd, just sat opposite him and were silent for half an hour. They listened attentively, without interrupting once, since they appeared from nowhere.
Under the pretext of warming up, they silently sat down near the fire and since then did not say a word, they only quietly tensed and pricked up their ears when the old man became carried away and began to talk about his meeting with a strange traveler the day before.
They just looked at him from the darkness. No faces were visible. They just listened, and a dozen eyes flickered in the reflection of the flame. And you could feel the transcendental attention in those eyes, like lurking predators. He saw their pupils in the darkness. Because they were glowing. I saw even more than I should have. I saw them as fiery lions devouring sinners inside magic circles. Perhaps it's a trick of the light. The fire that spares no one may have simply played in their eyes.
They appeared near his fire suddenly, out of nowhere and wandering to an unknown destination. He had heard stories about dashing, broken people, with slanting fathoms in their shoulders, wandering robbers, in other words. But they were too bony, and, moreover, rarely silent. Perhaps such words are worth their weight in gold. That's why they behaved like strangers, buzzed at night, with greetings. That is, strange and careful.
They don't just talk like that. But these types of money are usually scattered everywhere - in hats, belts, socks, underpants. Everywhere except pockets. They turn their pockets inside out to show how pure they are in soul and body, and that there is no demand from them. And this eloquent silence once again confirmed that, they say, there is nothing to ask from them, we don’t know anything, we haven’t seen anyone.
But still, he sensed with his old sense a subtle uneasiness among them, after he narrated an absurd dialogue with a crazy stranger whom he met a couple of days ago. Yes, you don’t meet anyone outside the settlement when you go out to stretch your old bones.
They sat alone in the cold steppe, except for the disturbed horse, Aigyr, the leader of the pack, who walked far away and guarded the mares. Every now and then he snored anxiously, because for the first time he saw the flame.
The newcomers still did not say a word, but the silence became thick and heavy. This is how the air vibrates between the wolf and the deer before the horned one exhales its dying breath.
This silence would continue until one of the strangers finally overcame himself and broke the silence.
I beg your pardon, but would you please repeat what that man looked like?
Although the voice was very muffled and guttural, one could hear that the question was asked with great difficulty and special diligence, so as not to make a mistake.
The joker wolf was surprised, not so much by the fact that the strangers, it turned out, understood him and knew how to speak, but by HOW the question sounded. The fact that they are from those regions where the dialect is completely different is understandable. The old man noticed another strange thing about himself: “He didn’t say it, he ROOMED it.” But nevertheless, he answered:
But of course! I remembered it as a stupid dream. Like the back of my hand. Like my wife, before she died and left me alone with my wick.
There are people whom you see every day, even for decades, but in the evening you still forget. And there are those, you met them briefly, for a few minutes, but they stick in your memory, even if you pull them out with a poker.
Sometimes people have warm, kind eyes, in such eyes you can see how birds fly heavily into sleepy valleys. And for some, the eyes are cold, like wet fish eggs resting in a mutilated fish belly. And the heart of that one is very black.
The traveler the day before was the same. The eyes are like two Arctic lakes on the highest inaccessible peaks. Dressed in all black, by God he’s some kind of sorcerer. The beard is also black, like that of medieval warlocks. These days, just for the amusement of the public, they write out comic indulgences and pretend to be alchemists, although all the magic lies in ordinary soda and a bunch of spinach.
But he was not a fairground actor in disguise. He was real, and his black cassock was real, and his warts were not fake. There was some kind of power in him, some kind of obsession. It was as if he was driven by a goal.
Did he go south? - the same rumbling voice suddenly asked.
Yes, yes, that strange traveler headed exactly there. His gaze suspiciously searched the south, as if he did not want to lose sight of those mysterious lands with the reed people in which he himself believed...
This is what the Joker Wolf with legs as skinny as a swamp bittern told them. By the light of the fire, through the thickness of the trembling and floating night air, saturated with smoke.
On the other side of the fire, the whispering of many lips was heard. This is how the Mescalite doubles usually whisper in your ears.
They didn’t talk to each other, didn’t argue, didn’t even say a word, but they clearly made some sounds. They communicated with each other in whispers, as in temples, but these were not entirely human sounds.
Several times it seemed that he heard the animal-like sounds of a uterine rumbling...
And you guys, is this not the case? Well...not the reed people? “Are you following the wrong psycho?” the old man laughed good-naturedly.
The Night Strangers with Hello suddenly stopped whispering and instantly fixed their gaze on him. At that second, he could swear that their pupils suddenly enlarged, becoming huge and round.
Uh... No. This vorrr...or rather not...uh... Thank you for the information. And now we are forced to leave you. - the same voice became completely guttural, low, barely concealing patience, but still retained the necessary speech timbre. - Goodbye.
Still not seeing their faces, the old man saw how tall, slender human shadows silently slipped out from under the circle of the fire, without disturbing anything around. Without making a sound, not the slightest rustle, not even the creaking of stretching stretched limbs, not the gasping and groaning of people who had recovered from sleep. Only the light noise of strong flexible legs silently stepping on the ground.
After some time, there was no trace of them at all, and even the feeling that almost a dozen people had been sitting here recently disappeared completely. Even the grass remained unshaken.
“And where did they go like that? Sometimes seasoned drivers talk such nonsense that no one even believes them. And then one crazy rogue wove a tale from three boxes about the woolen lord of reeds or reeds, and they rushed off somewhere. Some kind of devilry " - the old joker was amused as always. The old deceiver. A tongue without bones.
And in the air there was only a slight smell left by strangers and now softly melting into the fresh night ether. Elusive to the ordinary human sense of smell, the smell of shore reeds and catnip.
Loading...