I reread my post from this morning and realized I'd omitted something. When I'd spoken of photography I'd mentioned truth and meaning but I'd only hinted at self-deception. There is deception of others, too. Cropping shots to hide unwanted elements, boosting contrast and sharpness, adjusting color saturations and hues. Often the resultant image is only a vague reflection of the initial capture. There is an element of stretching truth, bending light to fit your need. There is an appreciable dishonesty in trying to depict something truthfully, honestly.
Tonight I had the dinner of champions. As to what kind of champion, I'll let you decide. Having a catlike aversion to the rain, I dreaded even the thought of venturing outside, so I scoured my cupboards in search of a meal. I'd found a can of tuna fish. I checked the label and was delighted to find that it hadn't yet expired. But what was I to eat with it? A can of tuna fish by itself is a meal fit only for a cat. I turned to my refrigerator, and in my rummaging I found expired hummus, dried out rotted basil leaves from last summer, a decomposing lime - probably also from last summer - and ambiguously expired hard cheeses - which had ruined any hopes of a tuna melt. Then I'd remembered: bread! I yanked open the door to the freezer, where I'd placed a stash of sliced bread (nearly a year ago). I pulled out two pieces and threw them into a pan on top of the stove and turned on the flame. This is the way I have to toast bread, because I don't have a toaster; opulence is sin my friends.
As I thawed the cryogenically frozen bread, I wondered what I might pair the tuna sandwich with. I pulled open pantry after pantry, finding oddities like pistachios, honey, marshmallows, pumpkin puree, sugar and breadcrumbs, until I found an aggregate of canned beans; Bush's. They had been the remainder of my surplus rations from last year's burn. It was a playa miracle that I'd found them today. When I opened the can I found pale accretions of fat that had floated to the top of the goo the beans were stewing in. It looked like a cyst had ruptured beneath the lid. I scooped it out and dumped the contents of the can into the pot and placed it on a low flame. Minutes later I was greeted by the sweet smell of success; toasty bread, tasty tuna and baked beans perfumed the air, dancing madly toward my nose.
Dinner was served and I was a tumbledown Toucan Sam.
It was a meal fit for a bum. I know this because now I have bum breath. Which is like cat's breath, only worse. The stale, acrid stench loiters on my lips, lingering too long in the doorway, delaying departure. I've brushed my teeth but it seems to have no effect.
I wonder how long it will be before I have bum bumm.
I await it, inhaling deeply, expecting it at any moment to come up, dancing madly at my nose.
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