Part II: "All the scarves are lying..."

You said each scene can be played by you in hundred different ways... The same thing happens to words... You can tell about the same subject creating each time a particular mood, to serve the meal under any, invented by writer, sauce and that degree of sincerity that this person wants to allow himself or herself... But from all the variants "there can be only one" and you're responsible for what you have chosen first of all to yourself...

That's why today we're drinking only tea... At the beginning we'll be watching like lychee flowers will be floating and dissolving in the white-hot water... and not a drop of something a little bit stronger... This is just this very ingredient that can take the chattering one far enough from what he intended to do in the best of possible ways...

Especially since the talk of "Shame" cannot take it... No one talk about any of your films can take it... But "Shame" is Your movie in a special way... Because it "should be, at least, sixteen times better" for you to play in it...

I don't promise to say what you like because I try not to lie about things I think important to myself... I will say about what I saw within the frame and a little bit within whose whom I was watching, and you must try to forgive if this will turn out something of what you didn't mean to talk about...

I'll enter the world of Brandon Sullivan as if before this entering was nothing at all... not a single word, not a single frame... Let it will be one more man whom I didn't know and cannot know before meeting you...

Listen...

Silence... long soundless pause that keeps the man floating in his heavenly blankets... want to touch him, otherwise I cannot understand are they exist for real – the harmonious people?.. a some kind of balance... he's still on two scale pans and doesn't move for not to disrupt what can be achieved only through tremendous efforts... one can try to reach it... almost to no effect... always...

I feel that it will be better to not touch him... He never allows to touch him... belongs only to himself because he knows that the intruding from the outside to the inward threatens to ruin that marble sculpture which he makes of himself for all his life, cutting off all that is unnecessary... everyone who's "unnecessary"... everyone...

Slow sweep of lashes as a point set at the end of a very good sentence… Brandon draws the curtain of blanket before my nose and leaves still not allowing to cross the border of his personal territory...

Brandon's body is roaming around the apartment... These movements are so habitual for him that seem almost mechanical... Steps forth... Steps back... Fresh water flows into the throat... The old one is poured down the toilet... It's like pouring of sand from one container of hourglass to another or shifting tiny weights from left scale pan to right to save the precious balance within... something in his world must remain the same... at least, he makes every effort for it's to be this way...

His nudity belongs to him in these minutes as much as no clothes might have no meaning – would it be t-shirt and boxers or bathrobe lazily thrown over the shoulders... And to him, and to me it's absolutely make no difference are they on his body or not… The camera that's cutting the head off this body no worse than a brilliant invention of Monsieur Guillotin is quite another matter... It looks sad and disappointing... You must admit that even the most perfect body needs a head... And if it has the living brains in it, it's able to beautify this body even with the perfection of all its rest parts... I remember the Brandon's head very well and I'm remastering all the frames in my mind without worrying of all those who cannot succeed with this trick and those for whom, for some reason, this head didn't seem important at that moment...

The ritual of each new morning... Or settled morning ritual pinned to the brain by darts' arrow or taped to the cupboard's door...

Shower jets should embrace the body... The hand should embrace part of the body and move up and down... shower and masturbation together and separately... before and after... what's the difference?.. Just as a mark in a short order of morning hours before "train in the subway"... as a swing of large living pendulum clock that can have no place in Brandon's clean apartment... The moment of orgasm is cut off by Guillotin's knife as head the minutes before... and, therefore, it has no meaning, no sense... The Pleasure is diluted with water and flows away along with it into nowhere without a trace... This man doesn't remember when he asked himself: "What for?"... He didn't try to answer the question of all questions: "Why?" even longer… The balance is a delicate thing, and the words with question mark at the end are similar to a military garrison keeping step through the thin bridge...

The intrusive cuckoo from a long line of dolls for game gets out of the phone and tries to remember: "My body is ready!" but now it's not her time and not her number in his list...

I'm standing next to Brandon in the subway and waiting for our train...

You know, it's very difficult to know him now... he looks like a prosperous employee of prosperous company... Just is what girls prefer for "good acquaintance"... But I want to turn away and step aside... If he will decide to look and smile, this smile will be the one "for dear future company's clients" or smile of Brandon himself?.. There's some kind of unnaturalness in all of his appearance... some mismatch to himself, you feel it, no?.. the scales are still keeping their unruffled balance, but now on one of them as the weights turned out to be perfectly polished shoes, all buttoned coat, hands hidden in the pockets and scarf hiding from my view the beloved neck... This scarf is scaring most of all... why?.. sorry, still don’t have an answer for this question... Just a banal heater for chilly time of the year... but it seems to me that this foppish scarf is lying...

And here's the coach of our "Blaine the Mono"... Never thought they exist somewhere – perfectly half-empty coaches in half-empty subways... Remind me the name of this ideal city...

For "time-to-work" hour it's almost a cosmic empty space... no obsessively clicking on the iPhone buttons "Angry Birds" players who have forgotten that there's a beautiful world around them... Nor lovely music flows in the ears through the cozy wires nor stored-up e-book texts... The passengers can without problems examine the figures of each other, as they say, "from top to toes"...

Brandon's just sitting in the train... he's not bored, maybe in his ears is ringing the melody of soundtrack that so strangely discordant with whom I'm watching now and with what's going on around him... a good taste for music... to whom it belongs?.. to Brandon himself?... but prosperous employee of prosperous companies hardly will be the ones from the circle where people prefer such musical piece... They are too tired mentally, no?.. Maybe to one who stands there, behind the scenes and quietly but persistently hints from time to time that we all should to delve into this guy as deep as we can, even if he hung a large padlock on his doors?.. Riddles in the dark are increasing and waving with blue (or black) scarf that is still hiding from me the beloved neck...

You said that true shouldn't interfere with a good story, but story that wants to look real must be peopled with characters at least remotely resembling people living somewhere in our time and our space...

Subway-dynamo languishingly sighting and chewing Brandon with her gaze seems to have been bred in the laboratory special for this passenger luv-story... Or maybe it's just need to travel more often in the empty coaches of empty subways, where are sitting significantly sighting women who quickly and invariably cause sincere arousal in naive men who are going somewhere on their morning businesses...

Brandon's travelling by train often… and dolls offering to him to look, between times, under their bonnet that covered with hand he meets at every step... He's watching the action that's taking place before him reminding the lazy cat that not in a hurry at all and patiently waiting into what will turn the play of mouse with a languid pouch of sighs in her bosom...

It seems, his paw with a Guillotin's knife is always ready… If he feels tired or a piece of cheese will seem not so fragrant, he will always have time to cut off from the situation everything that's unnecessary... and with it all the mouse's feelings, brains, senses, timid and not very timid claims for "participation"... everything for what in this life you have pay with your soul...

I'm watching into His eyes, but believe You...
I'd like to become his squire, it's even better to be some maid under the cover of the squire, and, untying after another tournament the leather braid of dusty armour, to take the part of fatigue, tears and pain hidden under the homespun linen, soaked with sweat and blood of endless battles with himself... or, at worst, to pull off the hated blue (or black) scarf and turn on the old almost rotten shaggy rock...

"Sometimes milk is getting warmer, but now it gets cold..." and I'm going to put on the stove our next pot with cold water...

to be continued...