Word: powder
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...goes crazy." She has weird rituals. Ask her about her injury-free career, and she scurries for a balance beam to knock wood. Most refreshing, unlike so many world-class gymnasts, who sound as if they've spent too many hours in airless gyms inhaling chalk powder and practicing the mantra "I just want to do the best I can," Moceanu is forthright. She admits she wants to win--but is prepared to lose. "That's what makes you stronger," she says. "The hard times...
...when he comes back to earth. "The doctors don't like to hear me say that. But this is safe. It's just like air." Of course, laughing gas isn't the only remedy at his disposal. There are injections of Dilaudid, doses of hallucinogens, various vials of white powder, a pack of Benson & Hedges and a daily highball. "I'm an Irishman," he declares. "I can handle my liquor! Whaddaya...
Other works seem to threaten a powder-keg of tensions, hidden under a ominous veneer. Long Nguyen's "Soul Boat No. 7" -- the title itself a sardonic jab -- seethes with the Hades-like passage of a boat slowly assuming the shape and qualities of its passengers. The nightmarish metamorphosis, replete with shadily defined forms and oil gloops that seem to jump out at selected spots, continues to haunt the viewer with its fearsome evocation of adaptation and voyage gone awry...
...DAUGHTER'S NURSERY BEARS NO RESEMBLANCE to the Chinese orphanage where she spent four of the first seven months of her life. Upon awakening, she is greeted by the sweet scent of powder and fresh sheets, not the eyewatering stench of disinfectant. During the day, bright light filters through the two windows, stimulating her to explore, just as the darkened orphanage room, with its chipped blue paint, encouraged her to remain idle. And when she prepares for sleep, her cribmates are stuffed animals, not two other children...
There is a double-jointed consciousness at work in the dramatics of big weather. Down in the snowstorm, we are as mortal as the deer. I sink to my waist in a drift, I panic, my arms claw for an instant, like a drowning swimmer's, in the powder. Men up and down the storm collapse with coronaries, snow shovels in their hands, cheeks gone a deathly color, like frostbitten plums...