31 V 2002 - 00:02 - verba13

n. leans over the counter, grasping a book: "you've got to read this, you will enjoy it so much!.." students pass, quieting suddenly as they enter the library (although still loud enough that she will reflect that there is never a really quiet place in the whole of the school) -- she weaves bright stories of childhood in tehran as she works on her books, covering them with plastic, protecting them, a mother to us and them both. her words seem to echo with the hot streets of home, gravid with a foreign tongue -- she and so many who came seeking a better life, to smile gently, remembering, bearing their gods on their backs:

a. weaves around her instrument, twisting it around its support. she breathes. there is movement in the tired lunchtime audience; a note breaks. she is compared to a constipated monkey. and yet she makes something of her piece, she is able to ignore the rising tones of the conversations and concentrate on filling the room: which doesn't know her at all, not the hyperventilating laugh, not the voice which could be so articulate if only she'd let herself say what she meant without interrupting herself. she opens her mouth to complain about her reed, of shoddy construction, raises her coach's praises to the stars. in this way she cloaks herself from the rest:

the school is quiet, set with cooling brown tile. brushes scratch against newsprint. one student gives a bird its eye; another, a lake its water. a teacher moves from table to table, using careful example to hand down this ancient art. ancient art, ha: said so often of calligraphy, the phrase has lost its meaning, becoming merely empty syllables. yet for the three thousand years of legend, this is the way it has been done. the grinding of the ink-stick against its stone, the slow addition of water, the first movement of the wrist: this becomes the world set down in the eight basic strokes, the distillation of a culture loving of scholarship.

saturday, the jewish sabbath and also, recently, orchestra day. this is the rehearsal day of choice for youth orchestras around the bay, since sundays are often taken up by matinee performances. the sight of so many intent on drawing concord from their instruments is to be savored, as is the blending of this mass into a coherent whole. the concertmaster amuses the cellists across from him with his impossibly angry glare, seeming as if he would like to beat his entire section into submission with his violin. not surprisingly, he restrains himself, and what is left is to arc the groundless melody to cover the half-melodic whirrings of the other, more prepared sections...

sunday. day of rest for the christians, and today, easter by the orthodox rite. the early morning sees a throng of people spilling out of the big golden-domed holy virgin cathedral on geary street. a friend mentions a call from another older, more religious friend: "she said that this year, she was simply unable to stay for the liturgy, and yet she didn't leave the church until 1 a.m., imagine that!" later in the day, the streets outside st. cecilia in the sunset and grace cathedral on nob hill and quite likely all the other cathedrals of this young city teem with worshippers, freed from sermons to perform tasks and clog traffic everywhere --

i. sits on the exercise bicycle and does his english reading. not one in that room is using the machine on which he sits; all is pro forma, a nod to a twelve-trimester requirement in physical education that all in this particular class consider ridiculous. the room is animated, even if the equipment is still; there is discussion instead of what russia might have been called in latin and of bodhisattvas. everyone is a potential escape; collective dislike of the weight machines overcomes any division between sophomore and junior. the words of i. twist over and around themselves; his soft accent commands attention, the tones beautiful enough to force a gasp of wonder...

p. is gentle, kind, arrogant; in another this might be enough to turn away from him, but the one softens the other and there is no thought of turning away, ever. in latin class, his eyes widen and his eyebrows cock themselves of their own accord; lean arms release the edge of the desk, his knees, everything. he bursts with energy and is beautiful, translates a passage, sits again in his chair and settles, still. he runs to join his friends, first to leave, and it seems he is another of the uncommonly proportionate people who make up this unreal school. conversation proves it impossible to limit him thus, to whitewash his complexities...

go to the project description page
go to the week of 8 May-14 May
go to the week of 15 May-21 May
go to the week of 22 May-28 May
go to the entries for 29 May-31 May