среда, 24 октября 2007 г.

I Aistear dtreo Atha Clíath-memories of experiences in the capital of the island green (III)


Kracht on stone gravel and mud. The loading area of the Frontkippers ever steeper slopes. Ratsch. A hoarse thunder. The cluster is located. Small dust clouds dance around. With shovels kohleschwarzen push him apart. Steel on stone metallic clanks. Bagger scratching the soil. Krrk. His diesel köttelt and smokes. The gasifier's not doing more long. Pneumatic drill fragmenting the rocky earth, tar and squawking is milled apart concrete, pipes disintegrated under the force of intersecting Flex into their individual parts. Srrrrrrrrrk. Ting Ting.

Pneumatic Hammer wuppern the ground level. Welding on into old dirty forehead, smeared with the dirt. Blaubehoste hub wipe the dust from their eyes, move their helmet correctly and drain new concrete slabs. Rast Lose steam engines, spray sparks, press and roll, rumble, beat grubbern and clatter. Trucks set back. The backhoe turns. The excavator leader drops the cigarette between the pedals. Accidentally. And here will soon scorching hot new skin on the main artery of the city stuck together. The city lives, the city quivers.

The boulevard in upheaval. On photographs were lush trees here. Currently there are construction site lattice and fences. In the narrow escapes squeeze between the fences to double the gelbblauen double-decker buses. Motors resent, to the howl If the gas pedal. Small cars are clamped in between. No one honks. The sidewalks in front of people burst. All are waiting for their buses. None grumbles. A maze of shopping bags is the way to the slalom track.

Since hardly trams travel and there is no subway, everything goes here and every bus, seems's. The überfülltesten bus stops in the world, there is probably in Dublin. O'Connell Street has a very special sound these days. Unablässiges, lively stuff in many languages and volumes durchschwirrt the gray afternoon air on both road sides.

Many wait at the traffic lights (which perhaps only lights in the world with a digital countdown second, which shows how many seconds or red), to hinüberzusausen. The construction noise. Countless small charity groups crow Christmas Carols and clatter with slotted cans. Schmalztriefende Panflötenweihnachtslieder zähfließend dripping from the speakers before Clery's department store and glued the pavement. A blonde woman with grellhellblauer jacket leans on the shop window and smokes. They snips the dump on the klangklebrigen stones. An itinerant preacher whiskeytrunkener keeps his small mountain sermon. His head resembles one in the sunlight become limp broccoli Rose, rotbärtiges his face is oily. He huddles both arms into the sky and jangles curses on those who are wronged. The city is alive. The city quivers.

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