Veritas

What I’m supposed to be is a wordslinger, a son of that tribe of men conversant with the strange secrets of the universe, an oracle in the wilderness acquainted with the esoteric voices that spring from God’s vast belly, a hierophant who brings the great unwashed closer to the sacred and arcane truths of the cosmos.

What I’m supposed to be is a storysmith, a Zen musician of mortal emotions, a connoisseur of the spirit, a warrior-poet who drinks from the cup of life deeper than most of my brethren, who intimately experiences humanity, who understands what makes us rapt or wretched or divine or damned.

What I’m supposed to be. The truth is much more sober.

I’m hardly a prophet. The sum of my knowledge regarding the human condition can be boiled down to this: one day we were born, some day we will die, and all the unoriginal and repetitive melodrama in between is merely diversion. The bone of our celebrated free will is when we decide whether to take what we want or beg for what we need. The difference between the path of the fist and the way of the palm is that one holds the knife while the other suffers the wound. Of cosmic mysteries and principles I can profess no more insight than a chunk of coal.

That, more or less, is also true with regards to my capacity to experience depth of emotion. There was no real cathartic moment to write gloomy songs about. One day in my early teens emotions started sliding around me like raindrops on grave wax. The feelings that do come through taste adulterated, barren, and impotent. To illustrate: when my brother died in a tragically ordinary car accident, I pretended to cry behind dark glasses so as not to upset my kin. Not that I didn’t love the poor bastard. I’m just so far gone that had I been tasked to write Schindler’s List I would’ve put some ninjas in there. For starters. When one’s heart sits in a jar of formaldehyde under the bed long enough, one starts forgetting the taste of tears.

The only competency I claim to possess that qualifies me a seat in the crooked table of this allegedly noble craft is my willingness (enthusiasm, enemies would argue, is a better word for it) to chuck the truth out of the window in the name of entertainment. Screw truth, man, this is reality. I want my facts sensational, grandstanding, boorish. I want my truths uncouth, unwashed, unavoidable.

Strangely enough, for a specialist in the art of bullshit, one of my great fears is to believe my own pretensions. My paranoia spurs me to be painfully honest-- to myself, if to no one else. I am a truth masochist. Whenever I take some time off to assess my situation I take pains to be truthful about my own motives and feelings and the morality of my actions. That doesn’t necessarily mean I will do the moral thing when faced with a situation wherein I will profit by the immoral choice. I will lie or steal or cheat-- but I will not rationalize. I think that makes me even nastier than the liar, thief, or cheater who sincerely believes in the ultimate morality behind the immoral action.

And now, back to our regular programming.