Primavera: Babel, 3
The little AU: Primavera: Babel, 3
slashfairy
~~
Karl's other language is patience.
He's got plenty of German, a little Maori, some odds and ends of Klingon and Elvish and Rohirric, such as it is, but his real second language is patience.
Not by choice, mind you, but of necessity.
After all, it's all about the fun of it. The only thing- the only thing -that could have gotten him to leave New Zealand is Viggo. Otherwise, he has no doubt, he'd still be there, maybe with Nat, have two kids now, maybe not with Nat and still having to work out visitation, etc., but he'd still be in New Zealand, maybe even still in Wellington but more likely Auckland, and it'd still all be about the work paying for a life he could have fun in, not the work being the be-all and end-all of his existence.
And fun is odd, really. You can't rush it, or rush at it. You can't really sneak up on it, or plan it necessarily, or so Karl has decided while he's mulled it over as he sanded the big beam that became the mantel, or put together the driftwood bench that's outside the front door now, where they sit to empty sand out of shoes and pet dogs after playing pick-up futbol on the crab-grassy lawn.
How can anyone possibly think, with a career built around the quiet delights of the New Zealand Film Industry, that he'd be about anything heavy and serious and commercial and Hollywood? Not if he can help it. He's about the fun. Caesar? Cupid? Shortland Street and "The Kiss"? Sweeper, for God's sakes. The Price of Milk with Russian classical music and Hindus and Cows and baby shoes? He's not sure he's sacrificed anything by coming to live with Viggo and not parlaying that into more of a Hollywood life- there's no fun in Hollywood. Ask Orlando.
Fun is more likely to be around if he lets it come to him, so he's learned to be patient, to not scare it away. He's learned to sing little bits of rock songs, or tags of arias he heard around the house, Wagner, you know, that stuff, not that he knows it but it sounds good. He'll play a little air guitar if he senses fun kind of lurking in the corner wanting to join in but nervous-like. And he's learned to be patient.
So that when Nat discovered him with Vig and tossed them both out, he was patient, because if he wasn't the fun that was being Hunter's dad would be lost forever (even though it was unbelievably hard, if it hadn't been Vig nothing could have gotten him to leave New Zealand, nothing) and he needs that, that fun, in whatever degree he can have it. And when Orli first figured out it was Viggo AND Karl, because of the home Karl had made Viggo, and been understandably put out and angry and hurt and destroyed, he was patient (as patient as he could be) because Viggo's no fun if he's grieving for Orlando, and it's all about the fun, innit?
Fun, for him, is the sap rising in the trees in Spring, the fish running, the flocks flying the other way, young in train; it's about the change in colours, in the way things feel and taste and what they mean about things changing and things staying the same. Fun is not cotton candy alone: it's the whole idea of carnival, of traveling entertainers, of the need for entertainers and the need for travel and the need for pink fluffy confection on a hot day in the midst of a season's hard work. Fun is the spark that lights the match.
It's not about the pain, or the effort, or the importance, or the weight, or the art or the strength and power or the control, although he's learned to factor for all those things because they're important to people in the fun line of work he pursues called acting. It's about the fun, and for him to have enough room in his life for fun, for him to hear it and be able to whisper encouragements to it, endearments, to praise it, he's had to learn patience.
So patience is Karl's second language. He doesn't remember exactly planning to learn it, but he's so fully bilingual now he can't imagine not having it to work with.
Babel, 2, Babel, 1
Brighter Than Sunshine, version one.
Version two (Live in St. James' Church, Picadilly.)
slashfairy
~~
Karl's other language is patience.
He's got plenty of German, a little Maori, some odds and ends of Klingon and Elvish and Rohirric, such as it is, but his real second language is patience.
Not by choice, mind you, but of necessity.
After all, it's all about the fun of it. The only thing- the only thing -that could have gotten him to leave New Zealand is Viggo. Otherwise, he has no doubt, he'd still be there, maybe with Nat, have two kids now, maybe not with Nat and still having to work out visitation, etc., but he'd still be in New Zealand, maybe even still in Wellington but more likely Auckland, and it'd still all be about the work paying for a life he could have fun in, not the work being the be-all and end-all of his existence.
And fun is odd, really. You can't rush it, or rush at it. You can't really sneak up on it, or plan it necessarily, or so Karl has decided while he's mulled it over as he sanded the big beam that became the mantel, or put together the driftwood bench that's outside the front door now, where they sit to empty sand out of shoes and pet dogs after playing pick-up futbol on the crab-grassy lawn.
How can anyone possibly think, with a career built around the quiet delights of the New Zealand Film Industry, that he'd be about anything heavy and serious and commercial and Hollywood? Not if he can help it. He's about the fun. Caesar? Cupid? Shortland Street and "The Kiss"? Sweeper, for God's sakes. The Price of Milk with Russian classical music and Hindus and Cows and baby shoes? He's not sure he's sacrificed anything by coming to live with Viggo and not parlaying that into more of a Hollywood life- there's no fun in Hollywood. Ask Orlando.
Fun is more likely to be around if he lets it come to him, so he's learned to be patient, to not scare it away. He's learned to sing little bits of rock songs, or tags of arias he heard around the house, Wagner, you know, that stuff, not that he knows it but it sounds good. He'll play a little air guitar if he senses fun kind of lurking in the corner wanting to join in but nervous-like. And he's learned to be patient.
So that when Nat discovered him with Vig and tossed them both out, he was patient, because if he wasn't the fun that was being Hunter's dad would be lost forever (even though it was unbelievably hard, if it hadn't been Vig nothing could have gotten him to leave New Zealand, nothing) and he needs that, that fun, in whatever degree he can have it. And when Orli first figured out it was Viggo AND Karl, because of the home Karl had made Viggo, and been understandably put out and angry and hurt and destroyed, he was patient (as patient as he could be) because Viggo's no fun if he's grieving for Orlando, and it's all about the fun, innit?
Fun, for him, is the sap rising in the trees in Spring, the fish running, the flocks flying the other way, young in train; it's about the change in colours, in the way things feel and taste and what they mean about things changing and things staying the same. Fun is not cotton candy alone: it's the whole idea of carnival, of traveling entertainers, of the need for entertainers and the need for travel and the need for pink fluffy confection on a hot day in the midst of a season's hard work. Fun is the spark that lights the match.
It's not about the pain, or the effort, or the importance, or the weight, or the art or the strength and power or the control, although he's learned to factor for all those things because they're important to people in the fun line of work he pursues called acting. It's about the fun, and for him to have enough room in his life for fun, for him to hear it and be able to whisper encouragements to it, endearments, to praise it, he's had to learn patience.
So patience is Karl's second language. He doesn't remember exactly planning to learn it, but he's so fully bilingual now he can't imagine not having it to work with.
Babel, 2, Babel, 1
Brighter Than Sunshine, version one.
Version two (Live in St. James' Church, Picadilly.)