No x~x~x~x~ Plan B
The truth, each our own//understanding where we come from
Perhaps I can claim that it is well known that people are want to lie; falsehoods in webs spun big and small.
The token of an excellent lie tried outrageous in its account that reveals a notorious truth, as of yet too uncouth to say outright. It is manners, it is public safety, it is politeness and professionalism to triple dip the truth in all assortments of sugar.
Glazed, frosted, sprinkled, candied or caramelized, it stretches the imagination to conjure a verb with as many synonyms. Do we say it? Do we consider the consequences in our maturity, having been punished for our brash and bold attitudes?
Gentle words for children, for some there is critical education about the basic and normal occurrences, and then there are the lies that spark stark denial. There is the travesty that hides the hysteria which preceded the survival skills tucked within teachings regarded as cryptic wisdom. Clever tradition passed down, ripe for interpretation and miscalculations. Misappropriations wielded against the truth upon which its relation invokes repression, retaliation.
Regarding my favorite people with critical eyes and arms length embraces, receiving their humanities in all that delights and frightens me. I reflect that which I see in them as myself and consider our cryptic origins, speculations that travel along the lines that draw constellations in the sky. My silence fills the night in rich possibilities in a deluge of fancy. Not just dialectic dialogues between negations of the truth at its face values, the black or white.
Rather those numbered fantasies and possibilities, all equally a conjured dream that certainly could include inlkings of reason. That which the truth of my insanity, ignorance, and (if I may be generous) creativity could prove any preceding circumstances to lead to the present.
That ocean of thought, the river flowing in through the channels of my gray matter, unblocked in my awareness circumstantially, carrying the drift wood of infinitely delicious ideas. What then latches to some as if to a lure…
Magnets, gripping trash at the end of 100 meter long twine tossed into the LA river, digging bullets out of long decayed bodies. I observe, I am looking from the outside at a reality of someone who has it much worse than I.
I hesitate to pass judgment, lest we even agree that the death of certain people truly is a tragedy.
I empathize, our lives intersect. I taste the truth that negates the lie I was taught to misinterpret my eyes. I begin to feel in my bones and internal organs the lifestyle that was promised, the hard work and the bootstraps. The few that escaped the rat race glorified to keep us running and drunk with hope.
Each morning I forge ahead through life’s storms, awakening amid the discomfort of disability and pollution, marching to work not for passion but as a lifeline. Whatever scope of my agony is the currency of existence you provide to me, paid rent and a bed providing sanctuary from a grimmer reality. Perhaps one you have, perhaps one we have shared. Perhaps something beyond my imagination, and you do not have the time or money to conceive the notion I may be worthwhile to understand.
If I could pay you to understand me I would, to let you know to leave me be. My profilicity grows in time and I lack that je ne sais quoi… am I trying to be liked? Respected? Successful or loved or understood? Accepting of these futilities, accepting that I’ll chase them endlessly.
I know all this, I know, and I run. I run on the fumes of hope, I chase the dramatic irony of the observer and feel the earnest pain of the worker. I exit or observe my body, straddling that line between disassociation and detachment. The commercialization of eastern thought, the western mindfulness and all its clinical benefits with none of the spiritual ethic. The religious freedom to impose your beliefs on others under the guise of some sick secularism, and if I leave the institution unnamed each person could substitute what they know the be the case .
Our own truth.
Talking to you like listening to your story, in all its possible gibberish, peculiarities and inconsistencies, allowing all the space to reach the truth buried within the double speak and respectful small talk. I ask the question that lets you know, yes I am a human, with ears and a brain and I took what you have told me and sympathized in my heart that this circumstance is your truth. As tall as it may be, I am but a shorty, who am I to deny.
This is an issue of safety, of respect. If I lie to you, know it is only with the best intents. If you had checked if I was as real as you perceived, like Icarus you may burn your wings. Flip flap, enjoy your breeze, it is your world and mine, but to say it as it were, I would have lost our mind.
