Two fly from aural hypnosis
Leif and I shook. The rooms were kept cold, and we didn't have enough on. We were stopped to rest. I looked at him in the phosphorescent glow. He was pale, paler now than before, paler in the face than in the hands he was rubbing together and blowing into every now and then. Not feverish pale. It was a dry pallor, the kind you don't feel and only others see. His eyes shown out all the same.
They always did. "We have to get around this corner." He was looking ahead, rubbing his hands, and then he stopped. He turned to me questioning like to say 'Why aren't you rubbing your hands too? Aren't you cold?' Then he was ready. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," I replied. I said it sharp, and for a moment was surprised it didn't come out as quivering as I felt. "Let's go." So I followed him, we were walking fast crouched over. Though I didn't see the point in that: if they came they'd see us, crouched or not. Plaindressed bodies like ours, running through white corridors. Our footfall wasn't so loud as it seemed it should be. At least they wouldn't hear us before they saw us. We reached a corner and inched our pace to the edge.
He peeked, and then nodded, saying to himself silently that it was clear. He turned back to me again, over his shoulder. His eyes shown again through the deadcast pallor. He didn't say anything this time, but tugged my arm and quickened on.
The corridor seemed so long, as if it were an uphill slope. It wasn't really, but as we crouched on, half running, I felt the swell begin in my calves. The slow easing tight: I ran on my toes to keep up. Doctors taught me that when I hurt my ankle once. The walls crept by slower, it took us longer to reach the next corner. We reached it.
"Are you ok?" He had turned full around and his eyes gazed at me. I was breathing heavy but I was, I was ok. "I thought I heard you limping." He said it and his eyes looked scared, they hadn't been til he thought something might be wrong with me. I couldn't say anything, I couldn't get over that he'd heard the limp at all.
"We have to keep going," he explained, "Our only chance is if we keep pace like I said, and get lucky that nobody comes." I nodded, blinking, and gulped. He faced me a moment longer, his eyes said 'Are you sure you're ok' but he didn't. He turned to peek, looking both ways again before going.
I followed. His soles moved faster than my toes. I could hear the breathing in my head now, how it strained, how it was too much, how I wasn't going to make it. I knew the swell in my calves would trip me, it would be too much. I watched the marks and prints on the walls as we overtook them, one by one. His feet were further away, and then I felt it, I felt my cheek cringe and my eyes close and my shoulder softly thump on the tile. I looked up and he had turned and stopped and was above me.
"Honey-- oh no," he had said. He was breathing heavy too. He bent his face down to me. Compassion and urgency wrested his features into a contortion too helpless to behold. "You have to go," I whispered.
The area above his temples looked like it would sweat. "You have to," I said again. "They'll find me soon enough. They'll take care of me, get me to a bed-- please, don't let me stop you." I tried to look at him, but I saw he was still locked, caught by his duty. I shuddered. "You have to get out. I can try again in a few days, I just need more strength."
He was breathing again, slower. I saw the color of his eyes. He cupped his hand to my cheek, his lips parted, he spoke: "Joan, my love. We'll see each other soon." He rose, and the apprehension in me let go. He still had a chance.
Bounding, his legs like pistons, like the legs trains have, attached to the rims of wheels and heaving up and down with propellent motion he set flying on the ground. I lay still and felt the joy of another's triumph. I surged. I shouted after him "Your eyes, Leif! They can fill the air with whatever their noise, make you hear only sedated and numbing rote-- but they cannot spoil the air for your sight! Trust only with the color of your eyes!" He passed around the next corner as I said this. I let my body fall slack. I lay for a few minutes, and someone approached me from behind. Their voice asked calmly, but not without pedestrian concern:
"Have you fallen, miss?"
They always did. "We have to get around this corner." He was looking ahead, rubbing his hands, and then he stopped. He turned to me questioning like to say 'Why aren't you rubbing your hands too? Aren't you cold?' Then he was ready. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," I replied. I said it sharp, and for a moment was surprised it didn't come out as quivering as I felt. "Let's go." So I followed him, we were walking fast crouched over. Though I didn't see the point in that: if they came they'd see us, crouched or not. Plaindressed bodies like ours, running through white corridors. Our footfall wasn't so loud as it seemed it should be. At least they wouldn't hear us before they saw us. We reached a corner and inched our pace to the edge.
He peeked, and then nodded, saying to himself silently that it was clear. He turned back to me again, over his shoulder. His eyes shown again through the deadcast pallor. He didn't say anything this time, but tugged my arm and quickened on.
The corridor seemed so long, as if it were an uphill slope. It wasn't really, but as we crouched on, half running, I felt the swell begin in my calves. The slow easing tight: I ran on my toes to keep up. Doctors taught me that when I hurt my ankle once. The walls crept by slower, it took us longer to reach the next corner. We reached it.
"Are you ok?" He had turned full around and his eyes gazed at me. I was breathing heavy but I was, I was ok. "I thought I heard you limping." He said it and his eyes looked scared, they hadn't been til he thought something might be wrong with me. I couldn't say anything, I couldn't get over that he'd heard the limp at all.
"We have to keep going," he explained, "Our only chance is if we keep pace like I said, and get lucky that nobody comes." I nodded, blinking, and gulped. He faced me a moment longer, his eyes said 'Are you sure you're ok' but he didn't. He turned to peek, looking both ways again before going.
I followed. His soles moved faster than my toes. I could hear the breathing in my head now, how it strained, how it was too much, how I wasn't going to make it. I knew the swell in my calves would trip me, it would be too much. I watched the marks and prints on the walls as we overtook them, one by one. His feet were further away, and then I felt it, I felt my cheek cringe and my eyes close and my shoulder softly thump on the tile. I looked up and he had turned and stopped and was above me.
"Honey-- oh no," he had said. He was breathing heavy too. He bent his face down to me. Compassion and urgency wrested his features into a contortion too helpless to behold. "You have to go," I whispered.
The area above his temples looked like it would sweat. "You have to," I said again. "They'll find me soon enough. They'll take care of me, get me to a bed-- please, don't let me stop you." I tried to look at him, but I saw he was still locked, caught by his duty. I shuddered. "You have to get out. I can try again in a few days, I just need more strength."
He was breathing again, slower. I saw the color of his eyes. He cupped his hand to my cheek, his lips parted, he spoke: "Joan, my love. We'll see each other soon." He rose, and the apprehension in me let go. He still had a chance.
Bounding, his legs like pistons, like the legs trains have, attached to the rims of wheels and heaving up and down with propellent motion he set flying on the ground. I lay still and felt the joy of another's triumph. I surged. I shouted after him "Your eyes, Leif! They can fill the air with whatever their noise, make you hear only sedated and numbing rote-- but they cannot spoil the air for your sight! Trust only with the color of your eyes!" He passed around the next corner as I said this. I let my body fall slack. I lay for a few minutes, and someone approached me from behind. Their voice asked calmly, but not without pedestrian concern:
"Have you fallen, miss?"
posted by Tongue-tied Lightning at 10:38 AM
3 Comments:
I was considering this just now while smoking a cigarette on the balcony of the apartment where I'm staying in San Francisco (I'm really loving this city, by the way - let's all move out here after college? please?). I just posted that comment 2 posts down 5 minutes ago (have a look Light-Tongue Tying, I'd appreciate your thoughts). I can't explain my affinity to light and shade, but that beauty - it really is a secret beauty - is the essence of my enrapturement with film as art (Robert, I bought a great book by Tarkovsky on filmmaking at City Lights yesterday, which I was just reading on the balcony - I thought you might be interested in it).
Though the human eye and visual cortex constantly adjusts for the light spectrum of its present environment, thereby for instance rendering to the untrained eye an object the same color in different light, daylight is in fact bluish, while filament bulbs (which are "cooler," in degrees Kelvin, than daylight) produce an orange glow. Shadows outside, however, are more blue than direct daylight. I am well aware that there is a scientific explanation for this, though I do not know what that explanation is off-hand - and I do not wish to know right now. It just strikes me as beautiful for some reason, the shifting of colors of light and the blueness of shadow, and I feel blessed to be able to recognize that, to appreciate its beauty beyond its function. Thanks for the post, Alex.
Artistic creation, after all, is not subject to absolute laws, valid from age to age; since it is related to the more general aim of mastery of the world, it has an infinite number of facets, the vincula that connect man with his vital activity; and even if the path towards knowledge is unending, no step that takes man nearer to a full understanding of the meaning of his existence can be too small to count.
Andrey Tarkvosky
(perhaps that should be the epigraph of this blog)
Sorry to be posting so much, but speaking of film:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/19/movies/19shel.html?8dpc
I was just hanging out with Michael Roiff last week... he had a hamburger, I ordered a burrito. What an entourage moment.
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