Novella-play without notes.
PERSON WITHOUT NAME
A novella-play without notes
P a r t I
Man without name... does he exist? Is he sitting now on the edge of sun this September's evening when painterly colors are beginning to flow from the trees?
Deafguy scratched his head.
From point of view seen ,he, an artist drawing himself...A spot, a short stroke. A small spot on his shirt. A stroke of laundry powder on canvas... Every day he must repaint the expression of his face, his self-expression and its imaginary reflection. Aging it , changing its clothes, changing its hopes. He paints chin covering in turn with bristle and shaving cream... Over and over, as if in frames of cinema, making eyes move... blinking... supporting, as though with suspenders, the theory that time exists...
Deafguy started to smoke.
If you follow a calendar and a certain confluence of painterly colors, it is quite easy to convince people, for example, that autumn has come.
- Time exists, is that it? - answers an imaginary interlocutor, raising his eyebrows.
- Why did you decide to repaint leaves as spots, throwing them around and about ? - a question that nobody would ask.
Shifting move that disturbs the head.
Somewhere there, there, a bench... not painted... Deafguy sat down.
When time becomes so important, each ticking second, then, there is already no time; you become used to the aftertaste of guilt, with which you spend your day, since all that you are trying to do in this period is so miserably small that it's even a shame to show it to imaginary Sir Time, so ancient with his long cane... therefore, it would be even better if there were no Time, as very busy businessmen like to repeat.
But ,if I say, just say to myself: "There is time... Take your time", then, even if it seems strange, Feeling of Guilt is without any feeling of guilt for he transforms into some kind of Peacefulness and Contentment... As if you would pronounce: "God exists" and
,therefore, have calmed your rebellious soul...
But we could believe ,though, in one thing: that ,nowadays, if you listen to music, that you listen in order to forget about time. You forget about it in spite of pages of paper completely covered by musicologists, where Sir Time sits, as if on a throne... and only modern physicist-researchers could eject him from that place, quantumally speaking, so that all that you conceive of as time can be just grains, similar to granules in homeopathy...
"Scientific American", an issue from last year, laying curled up on the corner of the bench. Deafguy takes the magazine.
Essence of creativity - it is to begin with a blank white sheet and to finish with a full
black one... forgetting ,meanwhile, to eat the pills we call food.
Artist, face blurred by paint, brushes instead of knives and forks, wrinkled mushroom suit...found the article about time frankly boring.
Reasonings about time seemed to him to be the next on line to waste what could be
,otherwise, so valuable...
To forget, to forget oneself... At present, Big Colors are in fashion...
- So, who said that at the beginning the world was monochrome ? - Is there anybody who asks such a question?
Page 5. Interconnection between color and sound in synesthesia. Deafguy doesn't give a damn about this dumb matter; to his ear- drum all is patter. Rustle of closing lists... leaves...
Starting steps... Artist startled...
Deafguy crosses his legs.
Somewhere there, old cinema sneakers of black and white; dark pants with yellow sun's remaining reminders ; snow knitted jacket, long as the longest winter...cap- gauze-bandage...not noticing that its' not saving from illness is not less, nonetheless...
So wanting to speak... to cry... but time flies...someone's shadow left a clothes heap lying under a tree...
Deafguy throwed the magazine and went to the fountain out of work which looked like a forgotten swimming pool on the street.
Artist swallowed an illusion and screw up one's courage drawing near Deafguy, deciding definitely to try to report at least any sense of life-creativity-out-of-time, spilling his part of soul at the cup of imaginary tea...
- You know, - he started quite frankly, fighting with cardiac insufficiency, - I never can distinguish a rubbish from contemporary art... of consumption.
Deafguy took out cigarette, gave a low.
- Yes-yes, - Creator continued, trying to cough up a smoke, - I'm picking up spots from painterly colors... and heart periodicly falling out of my pocket... probably it's not mine, not mine... (continues to cough).
Deafguy to offer him to smoke.
- But I... kh kh... I... kh... I... just... kh... (tries to move away) And these Big Colors... kh... fishioned... they are also not mine... I didn't create them...
Cover of magazine turned pale.
Now the attention of both of them was attracted by little girl with one half of body, she decided to drown oneself into the fountain... if you could call like this this stone puddle... She jumped, and painterly colors from her spread about tiles and rusted pipes...
Splash of emotions...
- People, hear me! I appeal to you! - head-globe of artist begins to turn, - how you can leave the portrait unfinished, to allow to people, and especially children, to walk with unfinish drawing arm or leg, with hole instead stomach, with remainder of hay instead hear... And, understand, that all your quasicreations, they all now move around in space!.. People, hear me!
Deafguy tried to clean his ear, pulling out a pencil from there.
- Yes-yes!.. And how much of sniffles yet we will expend on what afterwards will exhibit in galleries!.. - artist, not suspecting that fact, gave an occasion for an interesting statistics...
Deafguy offered him hanky.
- Time cures... only time... - shed a few tears over, artist thanked him...