"Goonan, Kathleen Ann - The Day The Dam Broke" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goonan Kathleen Ann)

at the very least, forget to eat. And it could be worse. Plagues of violence
had, of course, been much more popular than plagues of deep thought, but how was
I to know that there was a plague of Bemused Midwestern ism abroad, wherein
Thurber skewered Salvador Dali by contrasting Dali's upbringing with his own,
where that stratum of interested yet detatched observation and acceptance and
trust in some essen tial goodness of life would render the victim practically
help less, though perpetually deeply amused?
As I say, it could have been worse.
The trip to Columbus took three times longer than scheduled. Only two trains a
year took the eastern loop and we were exten sively briefed on disaster plans.
We were held up more than once by angry citizens. As we zipped across North
America at 200 kph, I drank in golden prairies, red rock towers I had climbed in
virtual, the ghost towns and ghost cities of our great and former nation. In the
club car we dined on farm oysters and vat-grown beef. As we sipped wine from
crystal which did not shiver, we exchanged rumors that the engineer had run over
more than one protester; it was routine. What were they protesting, I won dered?
An explosion shook the train just out of Denver. I felt the tremor in my bunk
because it was foreign to the so-smooth ride. I found later that they simply
shed the last seven cars, which had been damaged (I heard that we were a hundred
cars in all, and it was certainly a daunting journey to try and get from one end
of the train to the other; after awhile the cars began to repeat themselves and
it became boring) and swept on through the diamond-starred night. I lay on my
back in my bunk and saw the stars undomed for the first time, with only a thin
layer of glass between myself and the night sky. Perhaps you might understand
why I would never want to try and find my way back to a dome, somewhere. Here
the stars burn for me every night, and surpass any of the wonders civilization
has to offer, for me at least.
The rails did not click they were all of a piece; grown; but my mind clicked, my
heart clicked as if a new kind of blood surged through it. I was heading toward
You and I felt it even then and I was young. But not as young as I am now.
Another log. I put on a glove to shield my hand as I shove it in among the other
disintegrating logs; I step out onto the front porch for a bit and G.E. nudges
my thigh wishing for a run. Silly dog I think no I am busy and she wags her tail
and sits, lifts her nose and samples the air for You. Yes, even she knows You. I
have told her about You in the pheromonal language she understands. And I have
you indelibly lodged pheromonally in my DNA, one of those small benefits left
from the Flower Cities which you distrusted and despised, more's the pity.
Frigid wind ruffles G.E.'s brown fur, and freezes what face I've left avail able
after wrapping a scarf around it. The ridges are like waves, all around me,
varying shades of black in the night, and the stars remind me of You. I love the
view of space here more than just about anything.
Are you coming? I'm afraid You will not, if I tell You more, but I must; the
sheets infused me with dread Midwestern honesty, really the source of all my
troubles let me tell you. No doubt you will be confused on wakening. I cross my
arms over my breasts and cannot help remaining on the porch though my nose burns
with cold, waiting for You possibly threading up the dirt road, my voice
immediate in your mind I did tell you purple did I not, and give you the
numbers? Please. At least for a night or two; don't turn back no matter what for
it is dangerous once you are past Banff, the weather is uncertain, there are
golden moun tain lions and grizzlies, stupendously enough, and you will need