Yarn: blue, orange, yellow, all bright; each of the strands are currently being woven together on the bus by a petite lady of all black apparel, hair the heterogeneous mixture of black and white split evenly along proportion lines, her hands at spasmodic occasions move swiftly, and then they slow to a crawl for the majority: up and over and through the pointed and polished bamboo sticks, each of the two about four millimeters in diameter.
She is interrupted through, most rudely because of the entrance tone into the row by a tallish woman with eyes aged with adamantine years, then at this very present even appraises the book pages splayed open upon her lap with a heavy critical grain like some butt-swatting primary school teacher with an avid and much used switch of yesteryear.
She causes the yarn weaver beside her a momentary lapse of focus on her accouterments, forcing the yarn weaver into a creative stasis, a conundrum into whether or not she is able to continue these threads of reasonable interlock.
She does though, as soon as the “Critical Book Appraiser” quits at her continual shifting from one fanny half to the other, for the hands stop their static snowy movement and evolve into those of a prime mover.
Indubitably.
In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause
1 month ago
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