Some days, the picture tells the story, and other days, I want to add something. Or explain myself.
The image is from a parking lot, obviously something that was underfoot at the time. Late October, be a good guess. I’m frequently drawn to images that involve asphalt or other paving as there seems to be a texture. I’ve written about the smell of hot, weathered, wet concrete in the summertime, in some horoscope.
I have lots of images of that.
The Death of Purple Prose didn’t entirely translate to five hundred pixels wide. The image was done on an iPhone, then briefly tweaked in Apple’s Aperture, then reduced as a web-safe size image. That’s where it loses the impact and detail. Might never have really been there, except in my mind’s eye, not that it matters to anyone but me.
It was a purple pen, like a Bic, shattered on the ground. In a parking lot, if memory serves, and frequently, my memory doesn’t serve. Which is why I take a picture, to remember. But I do recall the cute-meet metaphor, the death of purple prose.
Where does that term come from? Purple Prose? (Rhetorical.)
Whenever you say Purple Prose, I think of Hamlet
Oh that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw, resolve itself into a dew…
purple prose if I’ve ever read any. Shakespeare may have been the master of the stuff; bodice rippers don’t even come close.