Winter work: passing time
The little AU: Winter Work: Passing Time
slashfairy
G
~~
They lose track of the days, things not being sequential ceasing to matter after awhile. It's more about when the three strands of their lives, thick multi-threaded many-hued vari-textured strands, weave around each other in close proximity tying elaborate Celtic or Maori or sailor's knots to secure moments together for them, not about calendars and clocks and maps.
Viggo doesn't write anything but what's going on at the moment unless he's been asked to write a forward or a commentary or a speech. Even the things he eventually reworks that become stories in his books, or books in themselves, are written in the moment. He admires people who can pull a story out of time, find a beginning, a middle, and an end, but he can't do it himself. He can only steal the words as they appear before him and wait until they've fit themselves together to show him what they're meaning to say, meaning to help him say.
He goes to the Ivy, knowing it's one of Orli's hangouts when he's home in London, knowing Orli's in Argentina perhaps looking for places that left traces on him when he was young. He doodles and sketches in his notebook, the leather flap untied and folded back under it, pencil idling away on the blank paper while he drinks and eats and thinks and listens for the words.
He captures something, some small bit out of sequence but matching perfectly other small bits carefully stored in other pages of this notebook, waiting to be woven into a poem or painting or bit of truth as time and place allow. He remembers the intricate costumes, wall hangings and upholstery and flags, of Middle Earth and has a moment's vision of each of them as threads in the tapestries of each other's lives, but the words for that only smile at him and float on, just out of reach for now.
weeks passing: losing track of time
slashfairy
G
~~
They lose track of the days, things not being sequential ceasing to matter after awhile. It's more about when the three strands of their lives, thick multi-threaded many-hued vari-textured strands, weave around each other in close proximity tying elaborate Celtic or Maori or sailor's knots to secure moments together for them, not about calendars and clocks and maps.
Viggo doesn't write anything but what's going on at the moment unless he's been asked to write a forward or a commentary or a speech. Even the things he eventually reworks that become stories in his books, or books in themselves, are written in the moment. He admires people who can pull a story out of time, find a beginning, a middle, and an end, but he can't do it himself. He can only steal the words as they appear before him and wait until they've fit themselves together to show him what they're meaning to say, meaning to help him say.
He goes to the Ivy, knowing it's one of Orli's hangouts when he's home in London, knowing Orli's in Argentina perhaps looking for places that left traces on him when he was young. He doodles and sketches in his notebook, the leather flap untied and folded back under it, pencil idling away on the blank paper while he drinks and eats and thinks and listens for the words.
He captures something, some small bit out of sequence but matching perfectly other small bits carefully stored in other pages of this notebook, waiting to be woven into a poem or painting or bit of truth as time and place allow. He remembers the intricate costumes, wall hangings and upholstery and flags, of Middle Earth and has a moment's vision of each of them as threads in the tapestries of each other's lives, but the words for that only smile at him and float on, just out of reach for now.
weeks passing: losing track of time