Truth is a myth. I was reading a chapter from Boorstein's
The Creators, the one about Dostoyevsky. It was talking about when he first received public success and his homies bust in his place at 4 in the morning shouting about his triumph in capturing truth,"That is truth in art!". Truth. srsly?
In my current view, truth is arbitrary. perspective. depends on what you had for breakfast. Not just to say that it's only individual. There is also a unity in that each person's truth is exactly as valid as the next. Sure, you can find similarities but that doesn't discount any less prevalent view. It's whatever any group decides. It's culture. I have never really gotten into asking about "why we're here". purpose. ultimate explanation. Though, in the hard times, I wished for a manual to guide me through the pratfalls of human experience, I've never believed that the information existed to be documented and published.
At the same time, I demand unabashed, immediate authenticity in performance. That could be labeled truth as well. A certain forthright honesty.
Truth used to feel like catching some air in a ornate lidless gold box and hollering about it, not realizing everything around it is air too. Fireflies in a jar, in a field of fireflies. Perhaps it's just an expansion of the old definition of truth for me. Love has certainly expanded. All these concepts start to bleed together, expand, encompassing all.
The truth is, there is no truth. Aspirations to mythology.
Apparently, in Dostoyevsky's time, though, truth was about speaking freely, as that sort of thing could get you in a heap of trouble with the czar. But, there was also this romantic quality of tapping into the essence of something in a way others cannot. Certainly, presenting something in a particular way can jiggle an onlooker's perspective. I suspect these ideas are not new or novel but intensely simple. I find there may not need to be such anguished struggle and search. But then, we are just people. Who am I to say what it takes to feel like you understand something.
{criminy. this post could go on forfuckingever. gotta wrap this puppy up}I'm saying, in essence, it may not be necessary to be so precious about the idea of truth. or love or art, for that matter. They're all "is".
{outta sight, man. far out. *toke*}There is something about New Jersey that doesn't let a person get pretentious.
{or does it}
young lad in a shirt rack at old navy.
