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arrowsbane · 6 years ago

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(extra)ordinary

@shanastoryteller @ink-splotch If I ever wind up being half as talented as you guys, I’ll be the happiest fox alive. So yeah, this one is for you guys. It’s short, but I might continue it later some time.

*Walking Whales borrowed from Vathara’s fic Embers. Go read it. Go. Now.

Let’s tell a story where Aang isn’t the Avatar who ends the Hundred Year War.

Let’s tell a story where he doesn’t have that tremendous burden weighing on a peaceful heart, and thin bird-like shoulders; or the misery of war clouding his spirit-filled eyes.

But remember, for all that things change, things must stay the same.

True, Aang is not the hero of the Hundred Year War; he is not the Avatar to bring about peace. But he is still the Avatar. He will always be the Avatar born after Roku. And now he will be the Avatar whose death drops the burden onto an infant’s tiny shoulders.

This is a world where Aang clung to Gyatso like the child he was, seeking comfort in the only father he had ever known. This is a story where the Fire Nation descended upon a temple still housing a child-Avatar and his kin.

This is a story where Aang stays.

This is a story where Aang dies.

…

Sozin’s Comet roars bright in the sky, and the monks of the Southern temple call up a breeze to chase away the sweltering heat. There’s a crackle as grassy scrub on the cliff-face bursts into flame, and a teenaged monk flutters down to suck the oxygen from the fire. The next thing he knows, he is face to face with an armored body, and fire comes for his life.

He is the first to die – unnamed and unknown in this story. He is one of many faceless children, gone too soon. Murdered because a tyrant dreams of subjugating the world. His death is senseless, but it is not meaningless.

His death warns the others.

…

The Monks move quickly – Air is Freedom, but it is not always kind. Scything winds cut down soldiers, razor-sharp and blindingly cold. It is not enough. It will never be enough.

The younger children, teenagers and infants are herded into the greater sanctum, and sealed in - safe. The bison take to the skies with bellows of rage and fear. There is chaos. There is death. There is war on both sides.

The children are supposed to be safe.

But this is not a kind story.

This is a story where Aang stays.

This is a story where Aang d i e s.

Aang stands his ground, and refuses to leave Gyatso’s side. They battle, back-to-back. Aang is kind and good and shows mercy – Gyatso doesn’t command him not too.

He doesn’t need to, not after Aang sees his kin cut down like sheaves of wheat.

Aang has Kuruk’s rage, and Kyoshi’s bull-headedness. He’s got Roku’s red-hot tears on his cheeks, and agony burning in his bones. He’s got Yangchen and Tian, Song and Min Wen. He’s got a thousand voices tied into his being and Rava wound tight around his soul.

He’s got a thousand reasons to stand and fight, and only one to turn and run.

So he stays.

And he dies.

…

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang - but with a whimper.

A whisper.

A breath.

One last plea.

The echo of a boy ripples out across the world.

‘Save them’, it whispers, ‘Save my people’.

And so the world answers.

In the oceans, the walking whales* raise their heads and listen, before diving deeper towards the poles – where they will sing to the arctic wolves, the otter-penguins, the polar-bear dogs.

In the air, the Bison soar above the clouds, carrying monks and nuns dressed in tear-soaked robes of orange and saffron.

The dragons rage and roar, and they cast Makoto from their hearts and minds, strip her of her name and self. She-who-was-once-kin is no longer theirs; something Sozin will rage over as his life-long companion withers in mind and being until she is a beast of fire-and-flame-and-nothing-more.

And deep beneath the earth, the badger-moles burrow up to the temples, opening up escape routes for an entire people who are in need of asylum.

…

All across the world, Air Nomads – benders and non-benders alike – flee into the night, flee on the winds, on sea, under earth and sky. They hide away in the depths of the Northern Air Temple, in chambers deep beneath soil and bedrock, hollowed out by ancient Badger Moles as a hidden temple of last resort. The old stone statues are worn with age – from a thousand-thousand hands carefully cleaning away dirt and grime as the ages passed.

It’s here in this darkness, lit only by flaming torches that are as terrifying as they are comforting, that the shattered nation grieves.

“What about the Avatar?” rumbles an old Monk who had tended to the gardens on the terraces so high above them.

There’s a hiccup, and a muffled sob from the children of the Southern Temple, huddled together for comfort and warmth, and then –

“Aang’s dead,” whispers a boy no older than nine. He shivers and ducks into his temple brother’s side.

From across the chamber, a Nun dressed in saffron robes, her face chalk white, begins to sob inconsolably. Twelve summers ago, she had birthed a son named Aang.

The Monks and Nuns have no mothers or fathers, no blood brothers or sisters, no sons or daughters. They do not mourn for individuals, it is not their way. But nobody says a word. Her temple sister winds a robed arm around her shoulders, and clutches her close in a firm embrace. No shushing noises are made, no reprimands. The cave is silent, but for her gasping cries.

…

Air is the element of Freedom. People say that the Air Nomads found peace after giving up material possessions and removing themselves from the world…

The sad truth is, that they fled the world, and lost their temples in a storm of fire… it was only when they hid that they found a bare shadow of the promised peace.

What is peace? What is it worth when your children are born never knowing the sun on their faces, or the wind carrying them across the world?

…

After Air, comes Water, an avatar of change and adaptability. The truth is that change is like fighting an uphill battle in a world on fire.

Nanuq is a curious child, always asking why. Why is the sky blue? Why do the seals call? Why do the polar bear dogs howl at the moon?

Nanuq never asks why the ice cracks in the spring, or why the ocean follows the moon.

Had she lived another six years, the elders would have known to train her. If they had been paying attention, they might have known sooner.

But the world is at war and the sky is filled with black snow, and so Nanuq dies in a raid when she’s ten years old – unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, down by the water, giggling as it bent to her will.

…

Then Earth stands firm. If only for a handful of decades. Earth is substance, strength and determination – or pig-headed stubbornness, depending on who you ask.

Temujin is born in the rings of Ba Sing Se, and enlists in the Dai Lee when he’s barely sixteen years old. He’s named the Avatar not long after, and his life becomes that of war for the next fifty years.

Temujin is strong and steadfast - and very, very pig-headed. But he is also kind, and has a heart broken by war and famine and sorrow. Even stone walls fail in the end.

…

Fire is power and will and energy powered by the heat of the sun.

Hiro is both lucky and unlucky in being born into an earth-nation colony.

Lucky because a life under the red-hot iron first of Azulon, who even in his sunset years is every bit dictator of his youth, would have been terrible –

and unlucky because he’s not even seven and already a firebending prodigy when he sneezes and shoots ten feet into the air.

He’s seven, and got the power of the universe at his fingertips and there are angry-starving-raging people who don’t care that he’s a child or that he could be a force for good. He’s Fire Nation, and has the power of the universe in his fingertips and that’s more than enough to condemn him to death.

Death comes on a rusted, blunt farm tool. Death comes too soon.

Fire is power and will and energy powered by the heat of the sun, but even a candle flame can be snuffed out with a pinch of two fingers.

…

Air comes in the fall, and is gone before spring thaws the world oncemore.

Air that is trapped below ground can only be stagnant and dying.

Air is an infant born sickly, and a mother weeping silently.

Air is a puff of wind, too small to be considered a breeze.

…

Water is the element of change. Last time, this time, next time.

Water is patient. Water will wait. Water can grind down mountains, carve rivers a mile-wide into valleys, and turn cliff-faces into waterfalls.

Water always, always wins.

Water is change.

…

The identity of the current Avatar is a mystery – after Hiro’s death, confusion is rampant. Where will the Avatar Spirit go when there is no Air for it to inhabit next?

…

The truth is, the latest Avatar has no idea that he is a bender at all.

Sokka is a son and a brother and a warrior-in-training. His mother died in a raid, his father is away at war, and his little sister is always off playing with her magic water or listening to Gran-gran’s stories about the old days.

Sokka doesn’t have time for make-believe, or hope, or playing at being a Waterbender. He’s too busy hunting and trapping and fishing, too busy trying to train up a pack of four-year-olds and take care of his entire village – small as it is.

It’s a little bit ironic – because in the end, it’s why he’s going to survive.

Everybody is looking for a bender of great power.

Extraordinary, is the term people use to describe the Avatars.

Funny word, don’t you think. Extraordinary. Extra Ordinary.

Nobody is looking for an (extra)ordinary boy…

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joanabeleza · 4 years ago

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THREE WOMEN: A Poem for Three Voices (Sylvia Plath)

Setting: A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE: I am slow as the world. I am very patient, Turning through my time, the suns and stars Regarding me with attention. The moon’s concern is more personal: She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse. Is she sorry for what will happen? I do not think so. She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event. I do not have to think, or even rehearse. What happens in me will happen without attention. The pheasant stands on the hill ; He is arranging his brown feathers. I cannot help smiling at what it is I know. Leaves and petals attend me. I am ready.

SECOND VOICE: When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it. I watched the men walk about me in the office. They were so flat! There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it, That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions, Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed, Endlessly proceed-and the cold angels, the abstractions. I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed: ‘Have you seen something awful? You are so white, suddenly.’ And I said nothing. I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation. I could not believe it. Is it so difficult For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth? The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples. I am dying as I sit. I lose a dimension. Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures! The silver track of time empties into the distance, The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup. These are my feet, these mechanical echoes. Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs. I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death. Again, this is a death. Is it the air, The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel? Is this my lover then? This death, this death? As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name. Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE: I remember the minute when I knew for sure. The willows were chilling, The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine- It had a consequential look, like everything else, And all I could see was dangers: doves and words, Stars and showers of gold-conceptions, conceptions! I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look, Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river. There is a snake in swans. He glided by; his eye had a black meaning. I saw the world in it-small, mean and black, Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act. A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn’t ready. The white clouds rearing Aside were dragging me in four directions. I wasn’t ready. I had no reverence. I thought I could deny the consequence- But it was too late for that. It was too late, and the face Went shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE: It is a world of snow now. I am not at home. How white these sheets are. The faces have no features. They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children, Those little sick ones that elude my arms. Other children do not touch me: they are terrible. They have too many colours, too much life. They are not quiet, Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances. I have tried and tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ, And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare. I have tried not to think too hard. I have tried to be natural. I have tried to be blind in love, like other women, Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one, Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look. But still the face was there, The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,

The face of the dead one that could only be perfect In its easy peace, could only keep holy so. And then there were other faces. The faces of nations, Governments, parliaments, societies, The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind: They are so jealous of anything that is not flat! They are jealous gods That would have the whole world flat because they are. I see the Father conversing with the Son. Such flatness cannot but be holy. ‘Let us make a heaven,’ they say. ‘Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.’

FIRST VOICE: I am calm. I am calm. It is the calm before something awful: The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves Turn up their hands, their pallors. It is so quiet here. The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks. Voices stand back and flatten. Their visible hieroglyphs Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off. They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown. I am a seed about to break. The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen: It does not wish to be more, or different. Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary. O colour of distance and forgetfulness! – When will it be, the second when Time breaks And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart – Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial. Waiting lies heavy on my lids. It lies like sleep, Like a big sea. Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug

Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal. And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE: I am a mountain now, among mountainy women. The doctors move among us as if our bigness Frightened the mind. They smile like fools. They are to blame for what I am, and they know it. They hug their flatness like a kind of health. And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did? They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs? I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments. It is a place of shrieks. It is not happy. ‘This is where you will come when you are ready.’ The night lights are flat red moons. They are dull with blood. I am not ready for anything to happen. I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE: There is no miracle more cruel than this. I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves. I last. I last it out. I accomplish a work. Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations, The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces. I am the centre of an atrocity. What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence kill and kill? It milks my life. The trees wither in the street. The rain is corrosive. I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors, The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.

I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting. I shall be a sky and a hill of good: O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity. I am breaking apart like the world. There is this blackness, This ram of blackness. I fold my hands on a mountain. The air is thick. It is thick with this working. I am used. I am drummed into use. My eyes are squeezed by this blackness. I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE: I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love. It is a love of death that sickens everything. A dead sun stains the newsprint. It is red. I lose life after life. The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all. So she supports us, Fattens us, is kind. Her mouth is red. I know her. I know her intimately- Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb. Men have used her meanly. She will eat them. Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end. The sun is down. I die. I make a death.

FIRST VOICE: Who is he, this blue, furious boy, Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star? He is looking so angrily! He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel. The blue colour pales. He is human after all. A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood ; They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love? I have never seen a thing so clear. His lids are like the lilac-flower And soft as a moth, his breath. I shall not let go. There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE: There is the moon in the high window. It is over. How winter fills my soul! And that chalk light Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices, Empty schoolrooms, empty churches. O so much emptiness! There is this cessation. This terrible cessation of everything. These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers – What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument. And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth Open in its gape of perpetual grieving. It is she that drags the blood-black sea around Month after month, with its voices of failure. I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north. I shall move into a long blackness. I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman, Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack. I feel a lack. I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets. See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral. I shall not be accused by isolate buttons, Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case. I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused. The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE: I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl. She is crying through the glass that separates us. She is crying, and she is furious. Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats. It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice. She is crying at the dark, or at the stars That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open. And from the open mouth issue sharp cries Scratching at my sleep like arrows, Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side. My daughter has no teeth. Her mouth is wide. It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE: What is it that flings these innocent souls at us? Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists, The little silver trophies they’ve come so far for. There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald. Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red; They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water ; they have no expression. Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water. They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments. I see them showering like stars on to the world-

On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones, These pure, small images. They smell of milk. Their footsoles are untouched. They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal? Here is my son. His wide eye is that general, flat blue. He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant. One cry. It is the hook I hang on. And I am a river of milk. I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE: I am not ugly. I am even beautiful. The mirror gives back a woman without deformity. The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity. It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen. It is usual in my life, and the lives of others. I am one in five, something like that. l am not hopeless. I am beautiful as a statistic. Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth. The red mouth I put by with my identity A day ago, two days, three days ago. It was a Friday. I do not even need a holiday ; I can go to work today. I can love my husband, who will understand. Who will love me through the blur of my deformity As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless. So I walk Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well. And I learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue. The body is resourceful. The body of a starfish can grow back its arms And newts are prodigal in legs. And may I be As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE: She is a small island, asleep and peaceful, And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye. The day is blazing. It is very mournful. The flowers in this room are red and tropical. They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for tenderly. Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces. There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know. There is my comb and brush. There is an emptiness. I am so vulnerable suddenly. I am a wound walking out of hospital. I am a wound that they are letting go. I leave my health behind. I leave someone Who would adhere to me: I undo her fingers like bandages: I go.

SECOND VOICE: I am myself again. There are no loose ends. I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments. I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened, Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again. These little black twigs do not think to bud, Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain. This woman who meets me in windows-she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit. How shyly she superimposes her neat self On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs. She is deferring to reality. It is I. It is I – Tasting the bitterness between my teeth. The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE: How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off? How long can I be Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand, Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon? The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow Lap at my back ineluctably. How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property? How long can my hands Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling? It is a terrible thing To be so open: it is as if my heart Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE: Today the colleges are drunk with spring. My black gown is a little funeral: It shows I am serious. The books I carry wedge into my side. I had an old wound once, but it is healing. I had a dream of an island, red with cries. It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE: Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house. The swifts are back. They are shrieking like paper rockets. I hear the sound of the hours Widen and die in the hedgerows. I hear the moo of cows. The colours replenish themselves, and the wet Thatch smokes in the sun. The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured. I am reassured. These are the clear bright colours of the nursery, The talking ducks, the happy lambs. I am simple again. I believe in miracles. I do not believe in those terrible children Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands. They are not mine. They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality. I shall meditate upon my little son. He does not walk. He does not speak a word. He is still swaddled in white bands. But he is pink and perfect. He smiles so frequently. I have papered his room with big roses, I have painted little hearts on everything.

I do not will him to be exceptional. It is the exception that interests the devil. It is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill Or sits in the desert and hurts his mother’s heart. I will him to be common, To love me as I love him, And to marry what he wants and where he will.

THIRD VOICE: Hot noon in the meadows. The buttercups Swelter and melt, and the lovers Pass by, pass by. They are black and flat as shadows. It is so beautiful to have no attachments! I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

The swans are gone. Still the river Remembers how white they were.

It strives after them with its lights. It finds their shapes in a cloud. What is that bird that cries With such sorrow in its voice? I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?

SECOND VOICE: I am at home in the lamplight. The evenings are lengthening. I am mending a silk slip: my husband is reading. How beautifully the light includes these things. There is a kind of smoke in the spring air, A smoke that takes the parks, the little statues With pinkness, as if a tenderness awoke, A tenderness that did not tire, something healing.

I wait and ache. I think I have been healing. There is a great deal else to do. My hands Can stitch lace neatly on to this material. My husband Can turn and turn the pages of a book. And so we are at home together, after hours. It is only time that weighs upon our hands. It is only time, and that is not material.

The streets may turn to paper suddenly, but I recover From the long fall, and find myself in bed, Safe on the mattress, hands braced, as for a fall. I find myself again. I am no shadow Though there is a shadow starting from my feet. I am a wife. The city waits and aches. The little grasses Crack through stone, and they are green with life.

#sylviaplath

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drubblernews-blog · 8 years ago

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New Post has been published on http://drubbler.com/2017/01/31/many-revolutions-man-is-one/

Many revolutions. Man is one

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Tamara Larina, January 31, 2017, 7:03- REGNUM

“, the Governor, on the area of learn life is fight!

it is not yet too late, Governor,

however, think for himself. The Lord is with you! ”

b. Grebenschikov

Wave a white handkerchief. Shot. Blood. In these five words — circuit at all times. Any perpetrated by faceless authority could completely before selecting assassination of a particular person: who gave the order, who waved his handkerchief, who washes his hands “. Replaced the historical scenery, and the essence of one. The only difference is who shouts in my ear “Crucify, raspniego!”, an angry crowd, the members of the great Sanhedrin or eternal state logic needed. You remain one-all before the ethical essentiality toggle switch that has only two positions: “on” and “off”. Thee do iotvechat’, Governor! “On” is killed. And after the wait: return the karmic boomerang. Metaphysical impact of rifle-pangs. And the travails of the dominant will allow the inevitable tonic — retribution.

in the heat of the performance events 9 janvarja1905 year. “Bloody Sunday” launched the historic carousel, which inexorably word written by Russia’s revolutions and wars. On canvas convex historical specificity Director World nature of violence and power, at the same time plays in the drama theatre of the old school. But in parallel, immerses us in the sacrament of spiritual battle. Clicking the same tumbler “Inc/ex” between vengeance and mercy, artistic director BDT is a humanist response to spilled blood — forgiveness and nonviolence. “Eternal truth” requires a ritualized symbolic form. So Mighty plays already in their game Director-experimenter. And it’s delicious!

before running the breathtaking existential carousel Viewer to reveal the behind the scenes trekvizit arrange techniques, makeup artists finally lessirujut artists. Apokalipsicheskaja soot (or smoke of Fatherland) for all persons. And the origin of-here we go. With heavens angels of death — the people with no properties in the magrittovskih bowlers (thanks for the allusion to the artist Sergei Illarionovu costume, and for otherworldly chiaroscuro — artist lighting designer Stas Svistunovichu). Angels with a cast iron on the stage wings, begin to makabr. The Governor is the Centre of this dance. Thin, sinewy bulk work actor Dmitry Vorobiev (BDT from 2014 onwards, the main role in the “Thunderstorm”, “from the life of puppets,” “Anguish”, as well as Gustav in “Drunk”).

All the wife and son of the Governor, colleague-official (wife’s lover), Bishop, humpbacked lackey, goose-nuns, soldiers, passers by with a dog, “Piero” in White Hooded-cones, ropes with gimnazistki all the COGS and wheels of chaotic universe in 11 episodes. Flowing in daily life, but at the very beginning of the play: serif there forever stood watch.

Killed many-forty-seven people; of these, nine women and three children, all girls. Goratrupov-flying in the middle of the Governor’s apartments, just covered with a sheet. “The offscreen cold voice (Vasily Reutov) is an inner dialogue with himself a hero and the text from the author:” he was not afraid of death and represented her only from the outside: here is it vystreljat, and it will fall; then the funeral music, bear, and that’s all … Similar to elder gardener Egor calm and looming, referring to the Governor: “the people will kill. And there’s nothing we can do about it. ” Overturned cart. The stage started rolling red apples. The pain and horror of human life a prisoner in a cell with his own monstrous act. Dreams. Apparition. The Governor, pulling up the bony knees to face softly and bitterly crying in a wet pillow: “Spare me! Come to me, come anybody. Pity me!»

and how grandly sounds Symphony internal agony as accurate in Orchestra performance. For subliminal hero meets video. The big portals are projected close-ups of actors (in the negative), frames mounted with an impeccable taste in tact psychic reality of what is happening on stage. Artist-animator Boris Kazakov and young videohudozhniki Oleg Mikhailov, Kirill Malovichko, Maria Heaven created a miracle. Graceful scenography Alexander Shishkin that compresses, Ashy-gray will stage. The population of clip art parts and people alludes to Pieter Bruegel the Elder. If in the nuthouse, silently moving walls and ceilings. Hangs huge, poisonous-green, heartless, as a symbol of Empire, velvet canopy. Black master’s table dlinoyu v zhizn. Rare red halos as traffic lights in deep darkness.

it is difficult to imagine in our cynical time that perhaps such samorazoblachenie statesman in cyclic nightmares of conscience. Today, self-evident fact when the system by issuing title, excluding from human to human, and as “significant person mutates forever. and therefore seems a little implausible (as some slozhnosochinennyj a compliment toward power) suddenly speaking in Member State cult of genetic diseases of the intelligentsia. For scenic Governor waiting death becomes a purgatory, and its parish of appeasement. Sitting in a Hall feel physically otpadajushhuju in Governor husk. The grain remains.

Generosity to the doomed erupted only Gimnazistka (her face without makeup). Wrote a letter to the Governor: “yesterday I prisnilis’ your funeral and I decided to write you. And swear, that I will pray for you and will cry about you, as if I was your daughter, because I am very, very sorry for you. ” On the reliability of the young actress Alexandra Magelatova close to documentary film.

Gimnazistka closes running in circles. It suddenly turned out to be head and shoulders above all truths, and all revolutions. Drozhitee a huge shadow on the gray wall. Petite and shhuplaja on the deserted stage one leads battle with giant retribution. Panting from the compassion and jumping rope, is coined: “the final Person to love. — What should I love? — Man. ” Finally, Andrei Moguchi launches the Viewer so easy mantra (string poet Tadeusz Ruzhevicha). Very timely catechesis in the 100-year anniversary of the revolution. And I don’t want to look for any other meanings Besides this.

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