The little AU: autumn dreams: hymnal
The little AU: autumn dreams: hymnal
slashfairy
~~
He posts poems in obscure dialects: Daffy Duck and Margaret Atwood, The Little Tramp trumping, nearly, his disappointment in, his rage at the machinery of political economics, the economics of non-policy, and watches as the leaves fall from the trees and everything is laid over first white, then grey, and even the holiday's feast is barren of former life as though the lights were draining the last bits of power from the nearly broken-down generator of Con-Ed.
Then Henry calls and says, This was the deal, remember? When I turned 21, I would have to start making my own life? Building up what you have, what Mom has, chosen family? Don't fret. You are always chosen, always family, Dad.
But he didn't feel welcome. He felt like the frayed-elbowed man with a kitten in the crook of his arm, knocking at the back door for some left-over yams, a bit of thigh-bone, some jokes, a few notes of song sung round the table, a like-minded discussion about the country, a drink raised in salutation to absent friends.
I'm sorry, he says to his son. I behaved badly.
No, his son says to him. But you sulked, a bit, after. That's how I know.
~~
Karl texts from LA where filming's just finished. Meet you anywhere you want. He texts back: Wait for me there/ dunno where I'm going. Never one to chase reality, now he can't find where he's left his dreams. Two days later he texts Karl: Ranch: Snow, bring boots. Karl packs.
~~
Orlando sends snaps of various places glimpsed between airports; Viggo follows the weariness of the trip in the way Orlando's face sags, dulls, nearly stops moving. Orlando tries not to be in the shots he sends, but sometimes Mir takes them, and he's there next to whatever monument/market-stall/inscription it is, smiling into frame, wanting to participate, longing for privacy, longing for a safe place.
~~
Another year looms, so much further away than 28 days that none of them can see it over the curvature of the earth, its dawn not even hinted at.
And yet: the poets still write, though the words be cacophonous to some, for others they are balm in Gilead; and the snow still falls, stripping the world of empty sound, and there are moments alone even in the camera's glare and gossip's babble, moments to remember being loved for one's self, not one's deeds or belongings.
~~
Every day is the blessing. Every choice the mitzvah. Every breath is the amen. One is never not singing praise.
slashfairy
~~
He posts poems in obscure dialects: Daffy Duck and Margaret Atwood, The Little Tramp trumping, nearly, his disappointment in, his rage at the machinery of political economics, the economics of non-policy, and watches as the leaves fall from the trees and everything is laid over first white, then grey, and even the holiday's feast is barren of former life as though the lights were draining the last bits of power from the nearly broken-down generator of Con-Ed.
Then Henry calls and says, This was the deal, remember? When I turned 21, I would have to start making my own life? Building up what you have, what Mom has, chosen family? Don't fret. You are always chosen, always family, Dad.
But he didn't feel welcome. He felt like the frayed-elbowed man with a kitten in the crook of his arm, knocking at the back door for some left-over yams, a bit of thigh-bone, some jokes, a few notes of song sung round the table, a like-minded discussion about the country, a drink raised in salutation to absent friends.
I'm sorry, he says to his son. I behaved badly.
No, his son says to him. But you sulked, a bit, after. That's how I know.
~~
Karl texts from LA where filming's just finished. Meet you anywhere you want. He texts back: Wait for me there/ dunno where I'm going. Never one to chase reality, now he can't find where he's left his dreams. Two days later he texts Karl: Ranch: Snow, bring boots. Karl packs.
~~
Orlando sends snaps of various places glimpsed between airports; Viggo follows the weariness of the trip in the way Orlando's face sags, dulls, nearly stops moving. Orlando tries not to be in the shots he sends, but sometimes Mir takes them, and he's there next to whatever monument/market-stall/inscription it is, smiling into frame, wanting to participate, longing for privacy, longing for a safe place.
~~
Another year looms, so much further away than 28 days that none of them can see it over the curvature of the earth, its dawn not even hinted at.
And yet: the poets still write, though the words be cacophonous to some, for others they are balm in Gilead; and the snow still falls, stripping the world of empty sound, and there are moments alone even in the camera's glare and gossip's babble, moments to remember being loved for one's self, not one's deeds or belongings.
~~
Every day is the blessing. Every choice the mitzvah. Every breath is the amen. One is never not singing praise.