Wednesday, December 5, 2012
They would make lousy spies.
As I walk the streets in Sardinia, I go relatively unnoticed. Or so I suspect. I’m the real observer. Noticing people more than they notice me. Just the way I want it. Let me be the spy. Maybe that’s my real profession. My calling. Being a spy. More than a writer. Gives me the sense of the romantic. Spying on people. Learning stuff about ‘em. Their traits. Their ways. Their secrets. Best of all, I look inside people. I psychoanalyze my friends and acquaintances. I wanna know what makes ‘em tick. What lies beneath. It’s all right if people don’t know me. If they lack curiosity. That intrigues me about many people. The absence of curiosity. They go about their lives. Without really noticing life. Without being aware. Of what’s really going on. My Italian true love thinks that people really notice. That they are keen observers. That at the laundromat, they are spying on us. Watching to see exactly what we put into the washing machine. Whether it’s sheets or towels or underwear. To tell the truth, I doubt that they care. They would make lousy spies. –Jim Broede
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment