Hmmm. It's been slightly over twenty four hours since I posted about finding a human bone in a field and no one has left a comment to the effect of "Oh my, Mr. Node. Human bones, you say? What's the tantalizing backstory?" You'd think you'd get a spasm of interest or stomach-gripping anxiety (human bones, people!) but no. I guess you all went out and bought that Archer Prewitt album I recommended, and now you're sliding down into a pool of melted mellowness right now on those smooth Prewitt stylings. The only conclusion I can come to is that my audience is a crew of jaded hipsterites nonchalantly shucking the human bone reference from the shells of their psyches. "Oh yeah," they say, sneering at their friends' record collections, "human bones. I suppose that's unusual".
It also occurs to me that, given my elliptic-to-cryptic style and penchant for pouring hooey into the autobiography, you may have thought that I was just making it up. Well I wasn't. I was examining a genuine human bone, right next to a genuine cat skull, and the field of frozen soybeans couldn't have been more actual. Even the little pile of airplane wreckage was there. In the interest of full disclosure, I assumed the coroner, and I omitted the dead tree charred by jet fuel, the rotting footbridge in the middle distance and that staple of bucolic scenes, the gradually collapsing barn. Also missing: the gully formed by the impact of the jet, the trespassing relatives of the victims and my cameraman.
Have a dandy weekend.
1 comment:
One of the things I like most about weblogs - and indeed, anything internetty - is the element of uncertainty. A few words, a few digital images, and we're supposed to believe? I find the whole thing faintly aburd but hugely entertaining. The problem comes when you want to be taken seriously, but if you live by ironic reserve, you die by ironic reserve (Arggh! Someone's poisoned the ironic reserve! Call 911! No wait - call "911"!)
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