I am not saying this innocently: we once had a black bear skin by the fireplace in the family house, when I was a child. I don't know the whole history about it, I think my dad had trapped it, or maybe he had bought it, I am not sure. In any case, it was by the fireplace downstairs, a relatively small skin, but it looked enormous to me. I loved it and used it as n accessory to many make belief games, but it also gave me recurring nightmares. In my dreams, the skin was a live bear, except it was not quite a bear, it was something malevolent, with a mind developed as a man's mind could be. And interestingly enough, I never made the connection until I became an adult. And seeing the black bear of the museum, I immediately thought about it.
Blogue d'un québécois expatrié en Angleterre. Comme toute forme d'autobiographie est constituée d'une large part de fiction, j'ai décidé de nommer le blogue Vraie Fiction.
Thursday, 10 April 2014
A Black Bear
I am not saying this innocently: we once had a black bear skin by the fireplace in the family house, when I was a child. I don't know the whole history about it, I think my dad had trapped it, or maybe he had bought it, I am not sure. In any case, it was by the fireplace downstairs, a relatively small skin, but it looked enormous to me. I loved it and used it as n accessory to many make belief games, but it also gave me recurring nightmares. In my dreams, the skin was a live bear, except it was not quite a bear, it was something malevolent, with a mind developed as a man's mind could be. And interestingly enough, I never made the connection until I became an adult. And seeing the black bear of the museum, I immediately thought about it.
Poor old bear. Bet he wishes he'd been turned into a Busby instead.
ReplyDelete