‘umbrella’ blasting from the speakers some 20 meters away
the dying light of the dying day hugging, sheltering my back
they were watching a building
‘ was gutted, the work was everywhere’
stand on a chair
Restless
their body towers above us sitting on the concrete floor
imposing with friendly intentions
their hands holding a laptop on both sides
and then only one balancing bravely at the bottom-centre
the other hand is busy carries a cigarette between middle-finger and pointer
fingers traveling from mouth, back to the laptops left side holding it with care given the precarious
circumstance.
they are speaking with a loud voice
the matter was burning with importance
‘we were thinking of those who fucked in the building’
‘utopias are dirty you see’
their hair is tidily braided in two
secured with two hair ties that resembled neatly folded bandanas
the top of their hair is covered sheltered
a silk scarf that wraps from the back of the neck back to the front of it
( an intriguingly beautiful play of knots and textures)
back and forth
from left to right goes their head their eyebrows following the words on the screen furiously
who is faster?
their pupils glued to the words so intensely that the mouth could hardly release the sound of words fast
enough
racing minds, squinted eyes and wrathful spit raining from their lips
daringly close burns the cigarette between the fingers
‘water is the enemy and the presence of forever’
their black heavy jersey skirt is waving subtly against the mid may blue
as if trying to soften the urgency of their reading
like water, slowing them down ‘
we are no longer slaves of our memories’
the cigarette no longer lit
a person in the audience sitting across from me shares the same experience instead of hammering their
thoughts into the keyboard of their notes app his illuminated face is smiling
chuckling quietly for himself, from time to time
his hands are folded, as if in prayer
his legs crossed one in front of the other
carrying its dead kin
the ant crawls with ease on the brick floor
‘ we are no longer slaves of our memories’
a lovesong to the barricades, ‘falling for them as you built them’
tornadoes of words, made them grow more and more animated, a crescendo exceeded to a breaking point
after the last words of their text were uttered their demeanour changed
their body collapsed into nervous relieve
head going back and forth from up to down, shyly
green eyes thankful .
By Anna Ammerer
@annaammerer