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Feb. 18th, 2006 08:07 pmThere are temples to Mercer in every major American city.
Of course, he exaggerates his own importance. He always has. But it's fun to think of the stadiums that way, and hell, he sometimes gets a little buzz on Super Bowl Sunday from that cloud of pure, raucous energy of sport.
Italy, though...Italy's different this month. Turin's suspended on a thin wire that pulls him through eons, connecting the here and now to the shadow of Olympus. It's like that every two years (in the beginning, every four): he can't stay away. Couldn't, if he tried. It's not as strong or sweetly painful as it was last time -- the old grounds, the old city, the hum -- but Mercer's been there since the torch was lit, and he'll disappear the instant it's extinguished.
If anybody went looking for him, this is as far as they'd have to go, and they'd probably spend the whole time laughing about what a creature of habit their dear Enagonios has become. To which he'd offer little more than a fuck off and a whack to the head (Mercer prides himself on his eloquence, and sometimes, brevity's the best way to get the point across); predictability has nothing to do with it.
Like they could turn down a chance to touch that wire, too, if it were offered. Spread their arms, hear the echoes of crowds long-departed.
This is Mercer's festival nowadays, set in an ever-changing temple, and he's enjoying every damn minute.
Of course, he exaggerates his own importance. He always has. But it's fun to think of the stadiums that way, and hell, he sometimes gets a little buzz on Super Bowl Sunday from that cloud of pure, raucous energy of sport.
Italy, though...Italy's different this month. Turin's suspended on a thin wire that pulls him through eons, connecting the here and now to the shadow of Olympus. It's like that every two years (in the beginning, every four): he can't stay away. Couldn't, if he tried. It's not as strong or sweetly painful as it was last time -- the old grounds, the old city, the hum -- but Mercer's been there since the torch was lit, and he'll disappear the instant it's extinguished.
If anybody went looking for him, this is as far as they'd have to go, and they'd probably spend the whole time laughing about what a creature of habit their dear Enagonios has become. To which he'd offer little more than a fuck off and a whack to the head (Mercer prides himself on his eloquence, and sometimes, brevity's the best way to get the point across); predictability has nothing to do with it.
Like they could turn down a chance to touch that wire, too, if it were offered. Spread their arms, hear the echoes of crowds long-departed.
This is Mercer's festival nowadays, set in an ever-changing temple, and he's enjoying every damn minute.
