JustPrompts: Nicole Krauss Quote
Dec. 31st, 2008 03:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fey_fireWhen will you learn there isn't a word for everything? -The History of Love, Nicole Krauss
Takes place a few days after this talk.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sand_andwater is mentioned with her mun's permission.
Monday, 08/12/29
Gone.
Four letters, a single syllable. Completely inadequate to encompass what had happened and how he now felt, no matter that the word had been repeating in the back of his mind all weekend.
She was gone.
Rory tried his best to arrange his face in, if not a cheerful smile, at least a relaxed look before he walked into the Serptichore studio Breaker Street was currently using for practice sessions. Judging by the greetings he got from the rest of the band, he was reasonably successful.
“So what's on tap for today besides practice?” he asked, removing his guitar from its case to hook it up. Maybe if he could immerse himself in work, in the music, he could ignore the dull ache that had taken up residence between his heart and his diaphragm. Maybe.
“There's a planning meeting for our first set of videos this afternoon.” Sascha made a face. “I heard a whisper that they're planning to dress me up as Marie Antoinette and Junie as Madame du Pompadour. I have no idea for what song.” She bit her lip as Junie winced. “Think we can talk them out of it?”
Rory summoned a sympathetic smile. “They do have creative control, Sasch. I strongly suspect our main function at this meeting will be to smile and nod in the right places.” He reached over to give her shoulder a squeeze. “But we can try,” he added soothingly at her oh-so-delicate shudder.
They continued setting up amid the resulting chuckles. “Hey Rory,” Kreske called from over by his drum set. “We were talking about heading over to The Columns for New Years Eve. You know, grab at least one relaxed party together before the real fuss and furor over the release gets underway. Morrie's coming too, a'course. You up for it?”
“Sounds good.” Yes. Distractions. He needed as many as he could line up right now, and partying with his friends certainly beat brooding alone in his apartment. “Give me a time and I'll be there.”
His band mates traded pleased smiles. Had he been that much of a hermit lately? Junie glanced up from her tuning and asked, “Do you think Pippa might want to come? No pressure, but we won't be playing, and we've all missed her.”
Ah. Pippa. Of course they'd want to – well. He knew he'd have to tell them sooner or later, so sooner it was. Best to get awkward moments like this over with quickly, or so he'd heard, rather like pulling off a band-aid. And if the wound underneath was barely crusted over, too bad.
“Pippa's gone,” he said softly, then hurried on to answer their widening eyes. “She went back to Venice, for further studies with her glass-making instructor.” Who was also her lover for a bit, a nasty voice spoke up from the baser parts of his brain. Rory squelched it.
It took some time for Nil to insert a question into the silence. “Is she coming back?”
Not When is she coming back? Given how his face likely looked, they could tell his lover hadn't just left on some short-term educational trip. “I don't know. I don't know if she'll want anything to do with me if she does. I just ...” His voice faltered, nearly cracking. No words.
Eloquent expressions surrounded him. Sascha looked particularly dismayed; he wondered if she was thinking back to the gossip and laughter she and Pippa had shared after their double-date. “She just left? Left you?” It was Dave's turn to squeeze her shoulder as he asked, “Man, are you going to be okay?”
God, I wish I knew . “Of course,” he answered, maybe just a shade too quickly. “She's doing something she needs to do. I'll do what I need to do. That's all.”
Nobody looked convinced, and Rory couldn't blame them. He swore he could feel the fractures in his facade of composure, rubbing him raw as he clung to what threatened to shatter into fragments. Not here. Not now.
As he had for virtually all of the band at one time or another, Nil came up to him, measured him with too-understanding eyes and asked the question Rory didn't really want to think about. “You want to talk it out, auld boy? Practice can wait.”
He was shaking his head even before the bass player finished. “Nothing to be said, Nil. Not now, anyway.” Nothing adequate, nothing that would make sense out of the pain. It would feel too much like ... trying to quantify the loss. Pain. Loss. More four-letter words.
Rory felt tension creeping through stomach and shoulders, sending clutching fingers up his neck. He needed release, needed – abruptly he turned from Nil, grasping the neck of his guitar, pulling out a pick. “Junie.”
She understood his gesture, or maybe the look on his face. Something, anyway, made her take up her own guitar, her heavily lacquered nails poised on the strings. When he struck an intricate opening, she answered him.
Many times during their club gigs, the two of them had warmed up after a between-sets break with an improvised duet, half dueling guitars and half joyous jam session. They traded flashing passages, flavored with the Latin rhythms of her background or the Celtic inflections of his, while the others put in little bits of support as they chose. He'd hoped to keep up the tradition during their tours, wanting to give a little something extra to the fans who paid to see them in concert.
But this, this was for Rory and no one else. He poured out a cry through his fingers that he wouldn't or couldn't let out in any other way. His guitar wailed like a bean sidhe of old; Junie's moaned chill as a bone-biting wind. Listening to the back and forth, their four band mates sat with instruments silent, yet they gave their support all the same.
All of Rory's tension left his body to pool in familiar points, the clench of his jaw, the driving rhythm of his heel against the floor, but most of all the fierce, precise movements of his fingers on strings and frets. Time and place faded to irrelevance behind the call unanswered, the passion unrequited, the need unfulfilled. Pippa.
Púca rarely cried, but he'd sobbed for her that night. Some part of him still lay curled on his living room carpet, weeping tears he now tried to exorcise through music. Tried, knowing he couldn't succeed.
He closed the duet with a final barrage of notes, a burst of unsated hunger. Before the reverberations had quite faded, they were interrupted by slow applause. Rory swung around to find Vince Gereghty leaned against the door he must have slipped through while they played.
“Superb, children.” That was all the superlative Vince would allow himself before he slipped back into producer-mode. “Something for the next album, I take it? Got any lyrics in mind for that one, Rory, or is it too early? Sounds like the melody is still in the formative stages.”
Rory stood, chest rising and falling as he tried to reclaim speech. He felt sweat trickling down his neck, saw it beading on Junie's forehead. “That ... was improv,” he finally rasped. That was agony. “I'm glad you liked it, but I may not be able to come up with lyrics for that one.”
Vince nodded philosophically. “I understand. Still, we might do well to include an instrumental here and there. Not everything has to have words with it, after all.”
Still breathing hard, Rory took three steps backward to find the nearest wall and lean against it. “How right you are, Vince.” Especially when the words just don't exist.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 1314
Takes place a few days after this talk.
sand_andwater is mentioned with her mun's permission.Monday, 08/12/29
Gone.
Four letters, a single syllable. Completely inadequate to encompass what had happened and how he now felt, no matter that the word had been repeating in the back of his mind all weekend.
She was gone.
Rory tried his best to arrange his face in, if not a cheerful smile, at least a relaxed look before he walked into the Serptichore studio Breaker Street was currently using for practice sessions. Judging by the greetings he got from the rest of the band, he was reasonably successful.
“So what's on tap for today besides practice?” he asked, removing his guitar from its case to hook it up. Maybe if he could immerse himself in work, in the music, he could ignore the dull ache that had taken up residence between his heart and his diaphragm. Maybe.
“There's a planning meeting for our first set of videos this afternoon.” Sascha made a face. “I heard a whisper that they're planning to dress me up as Marie Antoinette and Junie as Madame du Pompadour. I have no idea for what song.” She bit her lip as Junie winced. “Think we can talk them out of it?”
Rory summoned a sympathetic smile. “They do have creative control, Sasch. I strongly suspect our main function at this meeting will be to smile and nod in the right places.” He reached over to give her shoulder a squeeze. “But we can try,” he added soothingly at her oh-so-delicate shudder.
They continued setting up amid the resulting chuckles. “Hey Rory,” Kreske called from over by his drum set. “We were talking about heading over to The Columns for New Years Eve. You know, grab at least one relaxed party together before the real fuss and furor over the release gets underway. Morrie's coming too, a'course. You up for it?”
“Sounds good.” Yes. Distractions. He needed as many as he could line up right now, and partying with his friends certainly beat brooding alone in his apartment. “Give me a time and I'll be there.”
His band mates traded pleased smiles. Had he been that much of a hermit lately? Junie glanced up from her tuning and asked, “Do you think Pippa might want to come? No pressure, but we won't be playing, and we've all missed her.”
Ah. Pippa. Of course they'd want to – well. He knew he'd have to tell them sooner or later, so sooner it was. Best to get awkward moments like this over with quickly, or so he'd heard, rather like pulling off a band-aid. And if the wound underneath was barely crusted over, too bad.
“Pippa's gone,” he said softly, then hurried on to answer their widening eyes. “She went back to Venice, for further studies with her glass-making instructor.” Who was also her lover for a bit, a nasty voice spoke up from the baser parts of his brain. Rory squelched it.
It took some time for Nil to insert a question into the silence. “Is she coming back?”
Not When is she coming back? Given how his face likely looked, they could tell his lover hadn't just left on some short-term educational trip. “I don't know. I don't know if she'll want anything to do with me if she does. I just ...” His voice faltered, nearly cracking. No words.
Eloquent expressions surrounded him. Sascha looked particularly dismayed; he wondered if she was thinking back to the gossip and laughter she and Pippa had shared after their double-date. “She just left? Left you?” It was Dave's turn to squeeze her shoulder as he asked, “Man, are you going to be okay?”
God, I wish I knew . “Of course,” he answered, maybe just a shade too quickly. “She's doing something she needs to do. I'll do what I need to do. That's all.”
Nobody looked convinced, and Rory couldn't blame them. He swore he could feel the fractures in his facade of composure, rubbing him raw as he clung to what threatened to shatter into fragments. Not here. Not now.
As he had for virtually all of the band at one time or another, Nil came up to him, measured him with too-understanding eyes and asked the question Rory didn't really want to think about. “You want to talk it out, auld boy? Practice can wait.”
He was shaking his head even before the bass player finished. “Nothing to be said, Nil. Not now, anyway.” Nothing adequate, nothing that would make sense out of the pain. It would feel too much like ... trying to quantify the loss. Pain. Loss. More four-letter words.
Rory felt tension creeping through stomach and shoulders, sending clutching fingers up his neck. He needed release, needed – abruptly he turned from Nil, grasping the neck of his guitar, pulling out a pick. “Junie.”
She understood his gesture, or maybe the look on his face. Something, anyway, made her take up her own guitar, her heavily lacquered nails poised on the strings. When he struck an intricate opening, she answered him.
Many times during their club gigs, the two of them had warmed up after a between-sets break with an improvised duet, half dueling guitars and half joyous jam session. They traded flashing passages, flavored with the Latin rhythms of her background or the Celtic inflections of his, while the others put in little bits of support as they chose. He'd hoped to keep up the tradition during their tours, wanting to give a little something extra to the fans who paid to see them in concert.
But this, this was for Rory and no one else. He poured out a cry through his fingers that he wouldn't or couldn't let out in any other way. His guitar wailed like a bean sidhe of old; Junie's moaned chill as a bone-biting wind. Listening to the back and forth, their four band mates sat with instruments silent, yet they gave their support all the same.
All of Rory's tension left his body to pool in familiar points, the clench of his jaw, the driving rhythm of his heel against the floor, but most of all the fierce, precise movements of his fingers on strings and frets. Time and place faded to irrelevance behind the call unanswered, the passion unrequited, the need unfulfilled. Pippa.
Púca rarely cried, but he'd sobbed for her that night. Some part of him still lay curled on his living room carpet, weeping tears he now tried to exorcise through music. Tried, knowing he couldn't succeed.
He closed the duet with a final barrage of notes, a burst of unsated hunger. Before the reverberations had quite faded, they were interrupted by slow applause. Rory swung around to find Vince Gereghty leaned against the door he must have slipped through while they played.
“Superb, children.” That was all the superlative Vince would allow himself before he slipped back into producer-mode. “Something for the next album, I take it? Got any lyrics in mind for that one, Rory, or is it too early? Sounds like the melody is still in the formative stages.”
Rory stood, chest rising and falling as he tried to reclaim speech. He felt sweat trickling down his neck, saw it beading on Junie's forehead. “That ... was improv,” he finally rasped. That was agony. “I'm glad you liked it, but I may not be able to come up with lyrics for that one.”
Vince nodded philosophically. “I understand. Still, we might do well to include an instrumental here and there. Not everything has to have words with it, after all.”
Still breathing hard, Rory took three steps backward to find the nearest wall and lean against it. “How right you are, Vince.” Especially when the words just don't exist.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 1314
