After-zumba-ice-cream eve produced a curious statement from my partner in crime. Before she joined me, I was waiting in the evening street (abandoned for the day but for yours truly), pressing my beak against the shop window of a frame store. I was trying to look at the street-lit pictures on display in the back, and photographs and reliefs... A woman came by, on her way home I guess, and saw me a little too late (I was a bit in a niche). I suppose she must have thought me strange and a bit suspicious, because she would stare at me for the next ten steps, even turning several times afterwards. No, it wasn't my looks that troubled her so, it was that i was looking at the paintings so closely. Yes, lady. I am the infamous old-wives-tales painting eater. I snack them down with frames an' all.
My friend then jogged up and I mentioned what went down and she mused on how she would describe this anecdote just as it was, without any fantastic elements, whereas I instantly produced a tale of a creature that gorges art. She did it so that the vast gorge between my need for actual account and witty fiction became even more apparent... I have to think about what that means. It would be foolish to assume I can still stand on both sides as I did in younger years - or perhaps I can do that now even more easily, twisting and turning the tone of my narrative the way I see fit with the slightest of mentions?
0 comments:
Post a Comment