Lessons on Being (More or Less Discerning)
I know the truth as lies in country clothes,
in poison, where our mouths stagger open,
snake’s tongue in flicker on our chins.
—Kevin Killian
I know the truth as lies in country clothes,
in poison, where our mouths stagger open,
snake’s tongue in flicker on our chins.
—Kevin Killian
When I was social, having long ago
come to realize that everybody
fabricates any number of things,
but in my early 40’s or, at best,
upwards into my 30’s, late bloomer
that I was (and I have said this again
and again), I began to judge that fact
less and, instead, began to enjoy the
sleuthing through the blather that
would be emitted by friends, lovers,
partners, people I was generally
interested in getting to know, to
get at what, exactly, each felt the
necessity or the whimsy (or what
ever the compulsion of each)
about which to be untruthful or
misleading. This was my way
to engage. It was honest and
yet it set aside honesty as a
myth. It made the process
much more interesting and
real. “Liar” stopped being a
bad word. To put it bluntly,
if I already haven’t, “honesty,”
then, became a discovery of
each person’s untruths. And
so it went. When I was social.
Now that I am not, and on the
day of the third indictment of
a former president of my country
in just a few short months, The
United States vs. that man who
muddled truth so severely for such
a mind-boggling swath of the
population of a nation that, sadly,
remains a-okay with escaping
reality, my game of discerning
real from unreal with those
with whom I was interested
enough to discern seems
utterly exhausting. I’d
rather my life be less of a
performance and more of a
window through which to
view my soul. Or, and maybe
this one would be too much,
even for me, a mirror held.
up so that anyone with whom
I crossed paths might get
even a small glimpse of
themself. This last notion
is so exclusive of me that
it is not me at all. And
anyway, where would I
get such a mirror. So,
I will surely continue to
do what I know at the
very least a bit better
than anyone else’s
truths or untruths,
displaying myself
upon page after page
in search of my own truth.
But today I wonder
to what end? And how
honest shall I truly be?
come to realize that everybody
fabricates any number of things,
but in my early 40’s or, at best,
upwards into my 30’s, late bloomer
that I was (and I have said this again
and again), I began to judge that fact
less and, instead, began to enjoy the
sleuthing through the blather that
would be emitted by friends, lovers,
partners, people I was generally
interested in getting to know, to
get at what, exactly, each felt the
necessity or the whimsy (or what
ever the compulsion of each)
about which to be untruthful or
misleading. This was my way
to engage. It was honest and
yet it set aside honesty as a
myth. It made the process
much more interesting and
real. “Liar” stopped being a
bad word. To put it bluntly,
if I already haven’t, “honesty,”
then, became a discovery of
each person’s untruths. And
so it went. When I was social.
Now that I am not, and on the
day of the third indictment of
a former president of my country
in just a few short months, The
United States vs. that man who
muddled truth so severely for such
a mind-boggling swath of the
population of a nation that, sadly,
remains a-okay with escaping
reality, my game of discerning
real from unreal with those
with whom I was interested
enough to discern seems
utterly exhausting. I’d
rather my life be less of a
performance and more of a
window through which to
view my soul. Or, and maybe
this one would be too much,
even for me, a mirror held.
up so that anyone with whom
I crossed paths might get
even a small glimpse of
themself. This last notion
is so exclusive of me that
it is not me at all. And
anyway, where would I
get such a mirror. So,
I will surely continue to
do what I know at the
very least a bit better
than anyone else’s
truths or untruths,
displaying myself
upon page after page
in search of my own truth.
But today I wonder
to what end? And how
honest shall I truly be?
