Monday, August 8, 2011

ACRE

Aaron's irony is ironic.
When looking over a bustling intersection teeming with cars, condos, cafés, and cyclists, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
When standing before a farm, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
They are crotchety, curmudgeonly, old-man words, and around-thirty Aaron loves uttering them with faux nostalgia and a grin.
When reclining in the sun room of the cottage, overlooking the trees and the boy in the life jacket cannonballing into the choppy lake, Aaron sweeps his hand still clutching Guinness and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
I laugh. I always do. This time, though, it isn't his joke that makes me laugh -- it's the fact that he still tells this joke, again and again, with undiminished gusto and grin. His mere telling of this joke is now funnier to me than the joke itself. The joke has now become meta. Who else but Aaron would pack post-modernism with him to the cottage?