verwirrt / crab and proud
дорогие и уважаемые, рубящие в инглише, у меня к вам просьба. не проверите полторы странички текста для меня?
тутаThrough huge wall-sized glass windows of Tegel I see dark Belin sky speckled with dancing snow particles. It's December, what do you expect, snow falls in permanent waves, forms layers on airplanes and landing strips somewhere there and on cars in the parking lot and people somewhere nearer. The sky is ineffably rusty, blue-rusty, and snow whirls in cycloidal trajectories, irrational sinusoids and squints. Who would have thought, only two or three days ago it was 46 degrees Fahrenheit and now it's suddenly winter.
My flight is delayed because of the snowdrifts, no surprise. It's not that there is any storm warning but just in case, for safety. I came here just before the check-in was supposed to start but because of all of this mess I was forced to stay here and wait for two hours and I'll he waiting for two and a half more, vainly entrapping gleams of the small white traitors outside the window with my eyelashes. They stick to heat harder than kamikaze-moths.
Three months in Berlin and I never learned neither any German language, nor any German patience.
The next half an hour I spend either half-asleep in a chair of a waiting room, either on a date with a usual Starbucks plastic cup. It's stifling in a coat, it's boring being here, I even have nothing to read because they don't sell Daily Telegraph here unlike Spiegel.
“We met at an airport”. This is what I'm going to tell Bob if he ever asks.
I met him in a smoking area: he was all odd fringe obscuring his face, tight jeans and one and a half bag. As I would know later that was all his luggage to move to Glasgow. Do you think it is a coincidence that both of us were headed there? Not really, we were just smoking not far from our terminal.
We talked weather and this bloody snow, I was picking up his accent with my subconsciousness, he was smoking, sucking too deep, hollowing his cheeks like a cheap whore.
He's moving to Glasgow because he wants to start a new life. It's the same old story: a new life, but it's like the old one. To be honest, I have no idea what he has found in our half-boondocks, what he sees in this aggressive word – “Glasgow”.
“Nobody's playing jazz in Munich, but you have an entirely different music scene, so I've heard”, he explains to me. Of course, we're moving from one place to another only to make ourselves something worthy, to make the scene.
It's still an hour till the check-in starts, and I've leaned his name only ten minutes ago.
He laughs, talks of money, of makings and jobs, he says he's almost skint, and the only thing I can think about is that I want to take him home. Judging by his body language he's going to come along. His smile is too pert, he keeps his legs open too much, he hardly ever moves his fringe from his eyes. All his appearance screams that as soon as the airplane lands we will already know where we will be heading afterwards. I'll just say offhandedly: “Why waste your cash on an airport hotel?” We'll go to my place and end up fucking in my dim, packed with records bedroom. Nothing romantic, just a necessary, expected outcome.
I'll tell him that he can stay at mine for a start, until he finds some other place, the only possible not voiced aloud alternative for rent being a morning blow-job.
He'll be constantly looking for a job and giving piano lessons, and nobody will need his fucking double-bass. As well as his German. He will be looking for a band to play with, same as me. Electro-jazz, ethnic-folk. But hardly anything will come of this.
My girlfriend will never come from London to live back in Glasgow, not even when I'll write a song for her. In the end he'll be the one to make a piano arrangement for that song, but it won't leave my flat. Everything will slide on some vague trajectory: far-fetched desires and nights, spent mostly in my tormented bed, embracing unknowingly, not but under our own inertia, not but in despair, just nothing romantic, a necessity, you do understand, don't you.
And if someday I am going to be looking at my ceiling, rusty-blue Scottish sky outside the window, heights spat with snow streams, and only him in my bed for the last three month so far, this will be yet more proof that actually our only ambition for a long time now has been being no one.
вот тут оригинал, если надо
тутаThrough huge wall-sized glass windows of Tegel I see dark Belin sky speckled with dancing snow particles. It's December, what do you expect, snow falls in permanent waves, forms layers on airplanes and landing strips somewhere there and on cars in the parking lot and people somewhere nearer. The sky is ineffably rusty, blue-rusty, and snow whirls in cycloidal trajectories, irrational sinusoids and squints. Who would have thought, only two or three days ago it was 46 degrees Fahrenheit and now it's suddenly winter.
My flight is delayed because of the snowdrifts, no surprise. It's not that there is any storm warning but just in case, for safety. I came here just before the check-in was supposed to start but because of all of this mess I was forced to stay here and wait for two hours and I'll he waiting for two and a half more, vainly entrapping gleams of the small white traitors outside the window with my eyelashes. They stick to heat harder than kamikaze-moths.
Three months in Berlin and I never learned neither any German language, nor any German patience.
The next half an hour I spend either half-asleep in a chair of a waiting room, either on a date with a usual Starbucks plastic cup. It's stifling in a coat, it's boring being here, I even have nothing to read because they don't sell Daily Telegraph here unlike Spiegel.
“We met at an airport”. This is what I'm going to tell Bob if he ever asks.
I met him in a smoking area: he was all odd fringe obscuring his face, tight jeans and one and a half bag. As I would know later that was all his luggage to move to Glasgow. Do you think it is a coincidence that both of us were headed there? Not really, we were just smoking not far from our terminal.
We talked weather and this bloody snow, I was picking up his accent with my subconsciousness, he was smoking, sucking too deep, hollowing his cheeks like a cheap whore.
He's moving to Glasgow because he wants to start a new life. It's the same old story: a new life, but it's like the old one. To be honest, I have no idea what he has found in our half-boondocks, what he sees in this aggressive word – “Glasgow”.
“Nobody's playing jazz in Munich, but you have an entirely different music scene, so I've heard”, he explains to me. Of course, we're moving from one place to another only to make ourselves something worthy, to make the scene.
It's still an hour till the check-in starts, and I've leaned his name only ten minutes ago.
He laughs, talks of money, of makings and jobs, he says he's almost skint, and the only thing I can think about is that I want to take him home. Judging by his body language he's going to come along. His smile is too pert, he keeps his legs open too much, he hardly ever moves his fringe from his eyes. All his appearance screams that as soon as the airplane lands we will already know where we will be heading afterwards. I'll just say offhandedly: “Why waste your cash on an airport hotel?” We'll go to my place and end up fucking in my dim, packed with records bedroom. Nothing romantic, just a necessary, expected outcome.
I'll tell him that he can stay at mine for a start, until he finds some other place, the only possible not voiced aloud alternative for rent being a morning blow-job.
He'll be constantly looking for a job and giving piano lessons, and nobody will need his fucking double-bass. As well as his German. He will be looking for a band to play with, same as me. Electro-jazz, ethnic-folk. But hardly anything will come of this.
My girlfriend will never come from London to live back in Glasgow, not even when I'll write a song for her. In the end he'll be the one to make a piano arrangement for that song, but it won't leave my flat. Everything will slide on some vague trajectory: far-fetched desires and nights, spent mostly in my tormented bed, embracing unknowingly, not but under our own inertia, not but in despair, just nothing romantic, a necessity, you do understand, don't you.
And if someday I am going to be looking at my ceiling, rusty-blue Scottish sky outside the window, heights spat with snow streams, and only him in my bed for the last three month so far, this will be yet more proof that actually our only ambition for a long time now has been being no one.
вот тут оригинал, если надо