Photographers, artists, poets: show us FAKE.
A beautiful group of hydrangias from my
garden: notice the depth of the image and wonderful colours, all achieved by my
Nikon DSLR camera, you think. No, the photo was taken by an average digital
camera. Afterwards I put it into a photo programme called Ribbit, and played
with it. I accentuated the colours and made the background a bit blurry. I
added a mirror frame. On top of all, the hydrangias are not in my garden, but
in the flower department of the local supermarket.
I do not tell lies, cannot be bothered, and at my advanced age, would probably forget what I said, so I stick to the truth. At the most in my working days, I avoided telling the truth which cancelled the lie out. You asked about a problem, the answer being I will have a look and hope that it is forgotten I do not need lies to prove who I am.
In my younger years, I might have told a few porkies to save my skin, my reputation, and to make sure that mum and dad did not worry. I remember in the far distant dark ages I had a boyfriend, the first boyfriend. We decided to spend a week-end at the seaside where his aunt lived. I never saw his aunt, never met her, but we had a nice week-end at the seaside. I remember arriving home (I was living with mum and dad at the time.
“Did you have a nice week-end?”
“Yes mum”
“How was his aunt, do they have a nice house” etc. etc.
Questions, questions, questions. I swore at this moment I would never put my children through this third degree, should they ever spend a week-end away from home, and I never did. I was just always one step ahead of them, and knew what they would do before they knew their selves.
I think that was the only time I ever purposely told an untruth, but everyone was happy and could sleep at night peacefully.
Eventually I moved out to another country, lying was no longer necessary, I was on my own.
Today at the age of 66 I can look back on life with a clear conscience.
How many of our politicians, country leaders can do that. How many journalists can honestly say they did not fake the picture, did not even photo shop the picture to make it look more sensational and really write the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. That is one of the reasons why I only read the local newspaper, Solothurner Zeitung. The obituaries are the best page, there is never a lie. You cannot hide a death. We did find a couple of skeletons in a nearby building site, but they were from the middle ages where there was once a chopping block, so that qualifies as history. Local news is always honest. Everyone knows everyone else in such a small area and the dark truth always leaks out eventually.
I often wonder if our politicians and despots in other countries can sleep well at night after living a life of lies. They probably count bank notes instead of sheep to fall asleep, or perhaps some even count the corpses they have walked over on their way to wealth and luxury.
I do not tell lies, cannot be bothered, and at my advanced age, would probably forget what I said, so I stick to the truth. At the most in my working days, I avoided telling the truth which cancelled the lie out. You asked about a problem, the answer being I will have a look and hope that it is forgotten I do not need lies to prove who I am.
In my younger years, I might have told a few porkies to save my skin, my reputation, and to make sure that mum and dad did not worry. I remember in the far distant dark ages I had a boyfriend, the first boyfriend. We decided to spend a week-end at the seaside where his aunt lived. I never saw his aunt, never met her, but we had a nice week-end at the seaside. I remember arriving home (I was living with mum and dad at the time.
“Did you have a nice week-end?”
“Yes mum”
“How was his aunt, do they have a nice house” etc. etc.
Questions, questions, questions. I swore at this moment I would never put my children through this third degree, should they ever spend a week-end away from home, and I never did. I was just always one step ahead of them, and knew what they would do before they knew their selves.
I think that was the only time I ever purposely told an untruth, but everyone was happy and could sleep at night peacefully.
Eventually I moved out to another country, lying was no longer necessary, I was on my own.
Today at the age of 66 I can look back on life with a clear conscience.
How many of our politicians, country leaders can do that. How many journalists can honestly say they did not fake the picture, did not even photo shop the picture to make it look more sensational and really write the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. That is one of the reasons why I only read the local newspaper, Solothurner Zeitung. The obituaries are the best page, there is never a lie. You cannot hide a death. We did find a couple of skeletons in a nearby building site, but they were from the middle ages where there was once a chopping block, so that qualifies as history. Local news is always honest. Everyone knows everyone else in such a small area and the dark truth always leaks out eventually.
I often wonder if our politicians and despots in other countries can sleep well at night after living a life of lies. They probably count bank notes instead of sheep to fall asleep, or perhaps some even count the corpses they have walked over on their way to wealth and luxury.
In the UK, I think you have to have a university degree in lying to become a politician.
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