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blades_of_grassA-She leaves the office and on her way to the elevators meets a vaguely familiar face. The face smiles at her brightly and floats out of sight when A-She gets a timely reminder from her guardian angel: the cell phone is still in the cubicle. And so to the cubicle and back again and saw the same face with the same smile on her boustrophedonic way. A-She is hit with sick embarrassment, as if she and not Face forgot to take off the smile - the supposedly sincerely delighted grin of meeting a nice person. The shock leaves her numb and nauseated, and it is all downshaft from there.
The AC in the car mocks her with cool air filtered out of all smells but the most violently synthetic ones. The slowly melting snow hill, black with soot and studded with trapped discards, is mercilessly cynical in flaunting its newest accessory: an umbrella. At home A-She is struck by the enormousness of the evening duties - dinner, dishes, homework – and their total insignificance. She is still stunned by the blow of the cymbals of existentia, when her daughter asks her to go to the park to fly a kite.
The weather is beautiful for kiting – not so for skirts and hairdos, but you cannot fly your kite and wear it. “See, mama? It sings.” First A-She figures out that she needs to listen, not look. Then she hears. The cheap thread hums the only note it is able to - unconcerned that it will be silent the moment the wind dies; that it may cut the hands that hold it; that its only purpose is to stop the multicolored thing of beauty and freedom from flying away; that it will have to change the pitch with the unraveling of the spool. Still the note is beautiful, essential and inevitable.
Старое про A-She
Вторые сутки ждем грозу; я как героиня какого-то чеховского рассказа, что болела и надеялась, что придет гроза и освободит ее (все придумано до нас [ТМ]). Уже обещают торнадо и ураганный ветер. Небо то темнеет, то обратно светлеет, вода с небес льется скупо, влажность растет наперегонки с температурой, а пионы в саду свернулись в белые, как вываренные кости, кукиши. Болит все, кроме ушей и носа, что вызывает сомнение в их существовании (вот написал, и правое ухо любезно стрельнуло).
Буря! Скоро грянет БУ!
The AC in the car mocks her with cool air filtered out of all smells but the most violently synthetic ones. The slowly melting snow hill, black with soot and studded with trapped discards, is mercilessly cynical in flaunting its newest accessory: an umbrella. At home A-She is struck by the enormousness of the evening duties - dinner, dishes, homework – and their total insignificance. She is still stunned by the blow of the cymbals of existentia, when her daughter asks her to go to the park to fly a kite.
The weather is beautiful for kiting – not so for skirts and hairdos, but you cannot fly your kite and wear it. “See, mama? It sings.” First A-She figures out that she needs to listen, not look. Then she hears. The cheap thread hums the only note it is able to - unconcerned that it will be silent the moment the wind dies; that it may cut the hands that hold it; that its only purpose is to stop the multicolored thing of beauty and freedom from flying away; that it will have to change the pitch with the unraveling of the spool. Still the note is beautiful, essential and inevitable.
Старое про A-She
Вторые сутки ждем грозу; я как героиня какого-то чеховского рассказа, что болела и надеялась, что придет гроза и освободит ее (все придумано до нас [ТМ]). Уже обещают торнадо и ураганный ветер. Небо то темнеет, то обратно светлеет, вода с небес льется скупо, влажность растет наперегонки с температурой, а пионы в саду свернулись в белые, как вываренные кости, кукиши. Болит все, кроме ушей и носа, что вызывает сомнение в их существовании (вот написал, и правое ухо любезно стрельнуло).
Буря! Скоро грянет БУ!
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Date: 2008-06-10 02:55 pm (UTC)