time last year a line of metal fence posts was made to miraculously blend into
the foreground. The fence posts had been in place for several
years. They had patinated quite nicely, but each had a bright white
tip, which gave them
sufficient "look at me" to dominate the visual through the day,
and into the evening.
I must have been
present at last year's 'foreground beautification committee
meeting'. There are only two of us committee members, and measures
are not implemented without consultation between members. So
possibly I am overly adept at offering an appearance of listening during
these meetings, because I can still recall a sense of surprise at the
sight of the committee chairwoman painting the white tips of metal fence
posts with a can of mat black spray paint.
reaction to my question was, "We talked about this."
Followed by a look that suggested I was unnervingly close to final
While walking the path between now and
this time one year ago I have had several more occasions to reflect upon my
listening skills as they appear to me in conjunction with memory. The
conundrum remains. Either I have absolutely mastered the art of
appearing to listen, or I am increasingly forgetful. The former branch
of this conundrum, would make me pompous to the point of joining the obnoxious.
The latter branch suggests a lack of those mental activities necessary for
the maintenance of declining memory.
There is of course one other possibility.
This other possibility reflects, unkindly perhaps, upon the chairwoman
herself. There is that chance she maintains an imaginary dialogue with
her fellow committee member. And if this could be demonstrated I would
remain pure and full of vigor.
Seductive though this other possibility
strikes me sometimes, I have only to reflect upon the amount of time I have
spent this past year looking for my glasses, to realize the fault lies
somewhere in my own dark soul.