Friday 29 March 2013

98 - Lying

A magazine told me that they want to publish one of my poems. This made me happy, but since I have to provide them with a brief description of myself I am now wondering if this is a chance for me to attempt some myth-making.

I could tell them that I'm living in East Africa, where I'm a lion hunter. Do people hunt lions? Even if they do, I'm not sure I want to join their number. Instead of being a hunter, I'll be some kind of saviour (the sky's the limit after all). How to tell them I'm adored while letting them know that I'm extremely humble?

I think instead I might cast myself as a former soul singer who lost his voice in a carpentry accident. Cut down in my prime, when the ink was still wet on my record contract, I've taken to writing bitter doggerel and drinking back the tears as I recall how my gruff vocals used to soar over the heads of the young and the old as they sat captivated in some smoky basement bar.

I could hint at danger. Perhaps I should include a picture of me wrestling an anaconda. 

Thinking about all this lying makes me tired. Even if I could bring myself to invent some story about having escaped from the orphanage and lived feral in the woods for a significant part of my childhood before being rescued by a millionaire lion hunter, I'm not sure I'd have the motivation to keep the lie going. It'd take a lot of work. Perhaps it would be best to keep them guessing; this time a picture of me on a ranch with my followers, next time some photoshopped pics of me, all ab-tastic, as I work on my kung fu amid idyllic scenes.

No, I've lost enthusiasm for the idea. I think I'll keep it simple and tell them how simple old me leads a fairly simple life. I'll leave out the flashy stuff about how I sometimes ride my bike really fast downhill or how one day I might try to take some cooking lessons.

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