mardi, juin 14, 2005
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In the examination room a girl. number 8 on the list. Drug Discovery, the two hour exam progresses. She does not open the paper. There are 15 mins for them to read through the questions before the actual start. But she doesn't seem too eager. She came in later: she wanted to study more, do some last minute revision. I write, just like they do. She seems small, and young. too young. 1985, I find out later. Only a year younger than me. But seeming 4 or 5 years younger. A small rounded face, soft, like a girl still growing up. A young girl. No she is not my type. But my eyes are set on her for her pecularity, and contradiction. Half messy hair, tied back, high up, falling forwards. Nevertheless a medium-length fringe shields her eyes. She bends over the table, thin, slender arms. A long sleeved blouse, wide-necked, a flaky blue beige mickey mouse emblossomed on the front. A wooden bead necklace hangs from her neck, six-edged wooden star pendant dangling. Two broad zebra-striped loops run over each side of her shoulder, platicky looking, disappearing under her blouse. Twin baby-blue loops hang from her earlobes. A bright yellow watch, big broad plastic band which was the rage, chunky on the left hand. On the right wrist, one black and one white rubber bands intertwined. Probably from 77th Street, I wonder what words, life and death? She writes slowly, unsure. And pauses to think. So young, so like a street girl in appearance. What is she doing here, I wonder. So out of place, so many accessories. Not flashy, but silently accessorised. A compromise between studies and parties. Stop reading, write more, she writes too little. An earnest expression on her face, a gentle struggle. There is more to her life than the formal world of lines and words. Perhaps a little like jingz. She holds up a Shaker. the veritable mechanical pencil, The One, The Shaker. So recognisable, yet so old. She does a little twirling on her lower fingers, ah, definitely a student. But the twirling is not swift. Then again, it is a big clumsy shaker. and it is an exam, the less twirling the better. So colorful, so full of life. STill the child, and the student, and the young girl on the streets. Just like after this, she'll just smile and shrug it off, and disappear into the crowd in the malls. A pair of jeans, slightly washed out. A white studded belt, broad.
disclaimer: the following is a piece of descriptive writing on an anonymous person, who was unaware. and you really dont have to read it if you're not interested. it was, after all, one A4 page of written words.
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In the examination room a girl. number 8 on the list. Drug Discovery, the two hour exam progresses. She does not open the paper. There are 15 mins for them to read through the questions before the actual start. But she doesn't seem too eager. She came in later: she wanted to study more, do some last minute revision. I write, just like they do. She seems small, and young. too young. 1985, I find out later. Only a year younger than me. But seeming 4 or 5 years younger. A small rounded face, soft, like a girl still growing up. A young girl. No she is not my type. But my eyes are set on her for her pecularity, and contradiction. Half messy hair, tied back, high up, falling forwards. Nevertheless a medium-length fringe shields her eyes. She bends over the table, thin, slender arms. A long sleeved blouse, wide-necked, a flaky blue beige mickey mouse emblossomed on the front. A wooden bead necklace hangs from her neck, six-edged wooden star pendant dangling. Two broad zebra-striped loops run over each side of her shoulder, platicky looking, disappearing under her blouse. Twin baby-blue loops hang from her earlobes. A bright yellow watch, big broad plastic band which was the rage, chunky on the left hand. On the right wrist, one black and one white rubber bands intertwined. Probably from 77th Street, I wonder what words, life and death? She writes slowly, unsure. And pauses to think. So young, so like a street girl in appearance. What is she doing here, I wonder. So out of place, so many accessories. Not flashy, but silently accessorised. A compromise between studies and parties. Stop reading, write more, she writes too little. An earnest expression on her face, a gentle struggle. There is more to her life than the formal world of lines and words. Perhaps a little like jingz. She holds up a Shaker. the veritable mechanical pencil, The One, The Shaker. So recognisable, yet so old. She does a little twirling on her lower fingers, ah, definitely a student. But the twirling is not swift. Then again, it is a big clumsy shaker. and it is an exam, the less twirling the better. So colorful, so full of life. STill the child, and the student, and the young girl on the streets. Just like after this, she'll just smile and shrug it off, and disappear into the crowd in the malls. A pair of jeans, slightly washed out. A white studded belt, broad.
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