Boris Grebenshchikov - 471 - 9 лет Аэростатики - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

9 years of balloons,

May 25, 2014

Hello!

Here I peered into the history of our programs and realized that today is exactly nine years of my work on the radio. On May 22, 2005, the first balloons we recorded with Boris Aleksandrovich Rubkin appeared on the air of the Radio of Russia. And in commemoration of this amazing date, I want to put you all sorts of songs close to my heart today and allow the words to go where they want.

Manfred Mann - My Name Is Jack

Well, words - where will you go? But for example:

One of my days my friend recently dare to what I was unlikely to dare to ever go to: I watched one very fashionable film of one very fashionable director, considered a modern classic. And he left the hall broken and saddened, with the question - why such art?

The question arises: what is art, what it exists for, what can we give us and how we live with it. In many of our programs, we go around this question, always give the same answer, and each time this question arises again. An obvious answer - the art should open a person eye and soul, should teach him to see the divine nature of all being and show him this nature in himself.

It seems that everything is clear, but this is the hardener: as soon as we limit art by any framework, even with the best intentions, we kill it, and instead of the truth we get a fake for it, instead of living we get a zombie. As William Blake said: "Poetry in shackles enshrines all of humanity." And therefore, the answer to the question of what is good and what is bad, only every individual person can give; Unfortunately, this issue is not resolved by prohibitions and censorship at the state level.

So let's look at everything from the very beginning. What does our life look like, what kind of trip it is?

Mary Hopkin - Sparrow

Any human life, any human journey is a return. We came from the world, got into the dusk and return to the light. The history of this return and overcoming obstacles on this path is our life. If you do not leave the light, then there will be no life. If there were no exile from paradise, then there would be nothing to write about the Bible - however, like all other books ever written by humanity. And this is repeated at all levels.

As Tolstoy wrote: "All happy families are similar to each other, every unlucky family is unhappy in their own way."

In other words, from the point of view of the author, happy families are ungrateful material for the book, you simply won’t write anything new about them. But the unfortunate, sick, flawed, provide enough relief material for the artist. Perhaps this explains so many works of art about sick and suffering people.

But this abundance is a stick about the two -edges. Can it not be that it is simply easier and more profitable to write about the sick and the unfortunate, because it turns out to become the same to describe the way of a healthy and happy person (at least) - and suddenly it turns out that, it turns out, this person is busy with completely different, sunny And incredible things, which the artist simply will not be able to describe?

Eric Burdon - Orange and Red Beams

When Adam and Eve in Eden tried the fruit from the Tree of Life, they just separated themselves from God, acquired their "I", fenced off this "I" from God and so began the epic of human life. No one expelled them from paradise, they are now endowed with “their Self”, although remaining legal citizens of Paradise, ceased to feel such, acquired a separate one - as it seemed to them - from God the personality ceased to feel their belonging to His harmony.

An angel with a fiery sword that does not let them back into paradise is their own thinking, it is their logic, it is a selfish human consciousness, which we even get into paradise, forces us to ask: all this is of course not bad, but now what, where is the bar, where is the bar ? It is this issue that distinguishes the living.

As soon as we stop setting it, we lose our human face and return to where we never went to God.

Van Morriso