The truth hurts. Does all truth hurt? Like mortality. Sticks like a pinprick. Prick. Antonin Artaud said (forgive me if I paraphrase I was 19 when I saw this) I refuse to accept my own death. When I was 19, I interpreted this to mean that there were pigs shoving death down our throats. Death was the ultimate in defeat and conformity. Now dare I say approaching middle age I think it means live life to the fullest. If possible. But the truth. Does it matter? Since meaning changes with every decade, is the truth only for today? In America, the sick paradigm of at once glossing over the truth and presenting bad news every hour on the hour is in play. No one says 45 million Americans had an orgasm today and half of them with another person! No one says good news! Just INSECURITY all day long. Insecurity of image and borders and life insurance and fear day in day out. But fear doesnt change the outcome! Ill die before I get life insurance! Because they should pay! After all its me that has to die. What did we do before we had all of this NEWS? Yesterday I was writing about EBOLA SONG from LIBERIA. Incidentally, I got off work at 830 and bought like a hundred bucks worth of groceries and found I couldnt carry them ten blocks. So I got a cab. I put the kid in the back seat with all the food and climbed into the front seat with the regal cab driver. Where I declared that since it was gypsy id pay $7 minimum to get home. We started talking and it turned out HE was from LIBERIA. I asked him how it was there a he visibly sftened and told me that his wife had just gone home to fetch the children. It touched me this real life man, and i squeezed his hand when i dropped a twenty on him. His smile was radiant as I unloaded the groceries onto the street. Because his reality of emergency plane tickets was more important than my fear of lack in the US. GOD bless that man and his family tonight.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Aug 2014 04:36:09 +0000
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