Honesty, Hormones, Humanity

Over cold black coffee,
I learned to talk less.
Learned to pace floors in warpath.
And how to pass polygraphs.
A shoe with a thumbtack.

By apathy newscast,
I'm servile as a eunuch,
A tendril of raw wonder,
smashed before I knew it

There is a reasonable debate, in my mind, over the necessity of truth in writing. I am of the belief that, for the sake of the art, any fabrication is acceptable. That is, I never learned to pass a polygraph, however as a metaphor this statement fits some calloused groove of how I've felt about life over the past few years. I've learned to lie for the sake of personal freedom or in defiance of authority. It's a declaration that I find it acceptable to lie to the institutions that loom large over our lives.

My life has been interesting, I don't know if it would inspire good film as of yet; but as a writer I see moments where it might have been more conspicuous, more meaningful. Hypotheticals that may have revealed a greater truth about the microverse we inhabit, possibilities riding the coat-tails of actual events that speak more succintly about what the event really meant. Chronological manipulation that says more about the architecture of my experience than a strict, wholly factual diagram ever could. And think of life, is it merely the events that mattered? Or the what-ifs, the possibilities, the longing for unlikely returns and separations, the way a dream trickled into consciousness until it became the lens you viewed life through. Truth, cold empirical facts, have their value in the sciences, in politics, in the courtroom; and it is here where anything else represents corruption. But in trying to transcribe the caterwauling human experience into a single tome, or a few lines of verse, the "truth" is far less important than commitment to reality. I make things up when I write, but in an effort to pull back the curtain further. And never to conceal. That being said, an attempt to glean a factual understanding of the events in my life via this blog or online writings may prove futile. And in fact, I'm considering a partitioning of my online posts between this and myspace. The former for topical and "artistic" endeavors or musings, the latter for personalized ("true") accounts . Of course, these buckets may not be clear-cut and I won't be scratching my chin thinking how I can fulfill some obligation that I haven't outlined in black marker.

Keep it real out there.