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trans_92010-10-26 07:57 pm
vissernone.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92010-10-26 07:57 pm
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Given and Lost Something Infinite [Open]
Aside from her son, the thing Eva's most excited to find is that the media library has some of Jorge Luis Borges' classic works. Pulling Dreamtigers up on the pad, she sits in a corner of the media library and tries to unwind. Her conversation with Dani has made her wildly angry, and since there's no paperwork for her to attack, no people on the other ends of telephones to verbally battle, no Peter to listen to her vent and rage, she can only think of two ways to ameliorate the burn: literature and wine. And she doesn't have wine.
"'You suffer captivity, but you will have given word to the poem.' God, in the dream, illumined the animal's brutishness and he understood the reasons, and accepted his destiny; but when he awoke there was only a dark resignation in him, a valiant ignorance, for the machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of a wild beast," she reads aloud to herself every few paragraphs.
A passerby might find her actions unusual or annoying, as she drums her finger on the table, taps her feet against the floor and speaks as she reads. Occasionally she talks to herself, "what do you think, Eva?" or taking the dead author to task over whatever statement catches her eye. She alternately scrunches her nose and bites her lip. Anything to remind herself, as always, how blessed she is to still be in motion, to have a voice again with which to say anything or nothing.
The familiar words she used to read, before Yeerks and wars and violence, before even parenthood and certainly before Stacy, are soothing. Even as the words nestle up and awaken the darker memories of her history. Even without wine or Peter or paperwork or purpose.
"Dante, filled with wonder, knew at last who he was and what he was, and he blessed his bitter sufferings. Tradition has it that, on waking, he felt he had been given - and then had lost - something infinite, something he would not be able to recover, or even to glimpse, for the machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men."
Eva smiles sadly and pretends to dog-ear the imaginary page.
"'You suffer captivity, but you will have given word to the poem.' God, in the dream, illumined the animal's brutishness and he understood the reasons, and accepted his destiny; but when he awoke there was only a dark resignation in him, a valiant ignorance, for the machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of a wild beast," she reads aloud to herself every few paragraphs.
A passerby might find her actions unusual or annoying, as she drums her finger on the table, taps her feet against the floor and speaks as she reads. Occasionally she talks to herself, "what do you think, Eva?" or taking the dead author to task over whatever statement catches her eye. She alternately scrunches her nose and bites her lip. Anything to remind herself, as always, how blessed she is to still be in motion, to have a voice again with which to say anything or nothing.
The familiar words she used to read, before Yeerks and wars and violence, before even parenthood and certainly before Stacy, are soothing. Even as the words nestle up and awaken the darker memories of her history. Even without wine or Peter or paperwork or purpose.
"Dante, filled with wonder, knew at last who he was and what he was, and he blessed his bitter sufferings. Tradition has it that, on waking, he felt he had been given - and then had lost - something infinite, something he would not be able to recover, or even to glimpse, for the machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men."
Eva smiles sadly and pretends to dog-ear the imaginary page.