154. Parc du Cinquantenaire. Turning off the iPod to listen to Queen being played at an outdoor concert. Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango...? In front of the triumphal arch, hundreds of people are sitting on the grass, relaxing and listening to live covers of classic tunes. Outside of the park gate facing Merode, several carnival trucks are blinking their festive lights, enticing kids and young adults alike to games of duck pond, ring toss, and crossbow shooting. Summer is just around the corner.
155. Genetic Engineering, in Me talk pretty one day, by David Sedaris.
...Faced with an exciting question, science tended to provide the dullest possible answer. Ions might charge the air, but they fell flat when it came to charging my imagination -- my imagination, anyway. To this day, I prefer to believe that inside every television there lives a community of versatile, thumb-size actors trained to portray everything from a thoughtful newscaster to the wife of a millionaire stranded on a desert island. Fickle gnomes control the weather, and an air conditioner is powered by a team of squirrels, their cheeks packed with ice cubes...
156. Side by side, they are running, each with one hand clutching a shared piece of cloth. What a way to ensure identical speeds! Trailing them, I can see the soaking wet back of the grey T-shirt on the left runner, whom I imagine is the would-be slower of the two, judging by the amount of sweat. As we run past the park gate facing Schuman, the grey T-shirt slightly slows down. He turns sideways and, with the free hand, holds on to the elbow of his friend, who too loses speed briefly to run down the small steps between two uneven grounds. As they repeat the whole scene at the next set of steps, I tell myself to think of a better excuse the next time I feel too lazy to run, something that beats being vision-impaired.
155. Genetic Engineering, in Me talk pretty one day, by David Sedaris.
...Faced with an exciting question, science tended to provide the dullest possible answer. Ions might charge the air, but they fell flat when it came to charging my imagination -- my imagination, anyway. To this day, I prefer to believe that inside every television there lives a community of versatile, thumb-size actors trained to portray everything from a thoughtful newscaster to the wife of a millionaire stranded on a desert island. Fickle gnomes control the weather, and an air conditioner is powered by a team of squirrels, their cheeks packed with ice cubes...
156. Side by side, they are running, each with one hand clutching a shared piece of cloth. What a way to ensure identical speeds! Trailing them, I can see the soaking wet back of the grey T-shirt on the left runner, whom I imagine is the would-be slower of the two, judging by the amount of sweat. As we run past the park gate facing Schuman, the grey T-shirt slightly slows down. He turns sideways and, with the free hand, holds on to the elbow of his friend, who too loses speed briefly to run down the small steps between two uneven grounds. As they repeat the whole scene at the next set of steps, I tell myself to think of a better excuse the next time I feel too lazy to run, something that beats being vision-impaired.
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