Thursday, December 4, 2008

Blinded by you Open Mind

First Impressions

Ball bearings, painted white with blue droplets, encased in glass; they swiveled and slid against their encasements as if suspended in oil. Their lithe fluidity came in stark contrast to the body within which they moved, for as the eyes danced effortlessly, the frame was made of iron: solid, but possessing some hidden, inner tension.
The reporter was calm, even confident. His brow glistened with a reflective sheen, but that was merely the lights for the cameras, certainly. He asked his questions politely and framed them fairly. The president’s answers were informative, concise and relevant. It was pure gold. He was getting the truth. He was getting results. He was an agent of the masses, doing his duty – for what other explanation was there? He had been invited to the official residence of the president, he had been allowed to film an interview and they had shaken hands.
The interview progressed. The president remained fixed in his chair. He sat back, slouched, but not at ease. He was not nervous, not angry, not frustrated, not embarrassed – but not at ease. There was a profoundly disturbing calm about him, the placidity seemed as much a part of him as of the cool sun above or the refreshing sea breeze through the trees. The reporter asked another question.
The president answered.
Again, a question.
And again, an answer.
This continued, unabated. The interview was long, but the president never seemed pressed for time. He even expounded his answers and gave them context – as if to convey more than the facts to the interviewer, to achieve an understanding. The attempt; however, was mere formality. There was no desire. The president had no interest in successfully educating the journalist in a new point of view; a new value system; a new school of thought. He knew he could not succeed.
The interview concluded: a success. The journalist had gotten ten fold the material he expected to. He had material on policy, intrigue and even a possible international scandal. He left Sochi confident and with a feeling of purpose.
He left as blind as he had come. They had talked. Strolled. Shook hands. Sat down. Discussed. But never during the entire trip had they communicated. For, although all the words had been translated into English, the language was always Russian.

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