Americans,
claude le monde no networks, no nukes, not notcakes
how we do: + you are # |
11:06 am | 17 August 2004 | CLICK part two CLICK part two My sister had been beautiful. I suppose she still was, but in a different way. Once, her eyes had been the anchor of every expression, clear, as though a film were being projected onto the inside of her skull�radiant. After the accident, she was like a caryatid: aware of her eyes� blankness, she tried to keep them closed, and consequently her face moved very little. She became the surface of a sea only lightly ruffled by wind, while hundreds of feet below enormous things shifted about. After some months had passed, we found a first-floor apartment in the city for her, tiny enough to manage on her own. Inside, she had her typewriter, a few records, a closetful of black clothes, and a few pieces of furniture. Organization became essential, then, and she gave in to it with a defeat she strove not to display elsewhere�she had always been so messy, heaps of fabric and art supplies strewn in happy chaos. When we moved her, she politely requested that those now-useless things be discarded. As I lugged boxes crammed with expensive paints, brushes, and yarn to the curb, a teenaged girl in a rusty Chevy pulled over with a squeal. �Are you just throwing those away?� she said, round-eyed. �Yeah,� I said, straightening and wiping my brow with the back of my hand. �My sister�can�t use any of it anymore. You want it?� She nodded hungrily, began piling her backseat with my sister�s things. When I told my sister what had happened, she nodded, slowly. �I�m glad it went to someone who can see what she�s making,� she said. �Someone who can stand it.� I agreed, a little puzzled. tune in tomorrow for part three unless otherwise noted, all work contained herein is � claudia sherman, 2002-04. |