Wednesday, December 1, 2010

A Slap in the Face

On the question regarding the nature of truth, posed by the eminent phrenologist, Vingar Inyurred, I think a bit of stream of consciousness prose is in order. So, dear reader, let your consciousness flow as free as lightning, as booming as thunder, and as gratefully surprised as waking eyes, because I have no intention of trying to make any sense.

It seems to me that truth resides somewhere between the walking stick and the common aphid (is there such a thing as a common aphid? Methinks aphids are pretty common anyway); somewhere between auditory hallucinations and the rhythmic toms of the Zen drummer; somewhere between gang rape and The Gong Show. Yet, throughout history, from the famous Allegory of the Cave right through Hunter Thompson, we seem to be obsessed with the search for it. Which only proves the point that we are indeed a pathetically stupid species. The truth is before us like the nose on our face, like pre-ejaculatory sensations, like the burn of infection, like the acute pain of passing kidney stones. It is right there. Truth is not universal. It is not expedient or opportunistic. It is not good or bad. But I think what perhaps we are really obsessed with is the notion that truth holds some sort of legacy, when in fact, it only lasts as long as you can see it. We are obsessed with the notion that truth transcends our mealy lives; that truth defines right and wrong. The truth is perceivable, but only when we perceive. There is truth in every moment, but that is as long as it lasts. So, perhaps a little exercise is order. Stretch your hand out in front of you. Now, with your eyes open, open yourself to seeing your hand. Is it there? Yes? Then that is the truth. Now, close your eyes. Can you still see your hand? No? Then, that is the truth. It should be clear by now that truth exists in each moment, whether our eyes are open or closed. The question as to whether your hand is there when your eyes are closed further illustrates our desire to complicate the truth. If it is or it isn't, if you know or don't know, makes no difference, because truth is not determined by outcome, proved all the more potently by my feelings for the nun.

I love the nun, in every way that you might currently be defining it. This has never happened to me before. I try to retreat into the constrictive world of expectations, but it simply will not go away. Eyes open, eyes shut, exactly the same. Love pulls me out of all my maelstroms and all my doldrums. It is true because I constantly perceive it; constantly find it sitting quietly, patiently in my psyche. I know it's true because it is always sitting there on the edge of the mushroom, 'closer to my face than the water in my eyes'. And speaking of tears...

Nothing lets me break my heart with more power than the taste of her tears. They desiccate me like spider venom, dehydrate me like sahara sun, raisin me in salty folds. But loving her is my sprinkler, my soaker hose, my mosquito hatching puddle. And just to be clear, I will never drink my own urine. Sterile, my ass!

So anyway, the truth is just sitting there. There is absolutely no fucking need to ponder it. The walrus doesn't muse over the enormity of his penis; over the truth of giant cockness. Humans do (and understand that you'd better have a walrus sized cock when trying to fuck the largest of pinnipeds). Swarms of insects do not mentally masticate upon the truth of windshields. They are flying. That is the truth. That truth serves them all they need. Bats with blind, haddocks with deaf, oxen with dumb. Flying, lying on the bottom, shitting methane. The truth. No need for expansion or parsing. Porn stars with implants. The truth is called big tits (that they don't bounce is aesthetically unpleasing, if not a little creepy).

No lesson here. Maybe a plea, a simple request to open your eyes and ears, your hearts and vaginas, and sense, with whatever each tool provides, what is sitting, criss cross applesauce, on the edge of your floating floor, but don't look down. No telling what you might see.

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