My mind does a stocktake.
Almost as if...something in my psyche has made me physically sick in the first place, & I am busily trying to rectify it toward a speedier recovery.
I am awake at 4.30 am…
& I’m trying to track back to when I first became a
slave to the illusion that not only was the truth sacrosanct…but I had to tell
everyone about it.
Like a child with shitty nappies…
I show it off.
My ‘truth’. Proud as punch. So what??
It is truth. There is no denying that.
But the question occurs to me louder than ever before…
Why the hell do I imagine anyone else cares about the
contents of my diapers??
Here is the thing; about the only time I feel awake, alive,
creative…
Is when I write.
And film…I guess, when I get to do it...But when I’m not filming…I write.
When I am moved…I write about these so-called truths.
That’s fine. Like
keeping score.
Moral inventory.
'The unexamined life', and all that.
Fine. OK.
But when did I become enslaved by the notion that this was
of any use to anyone else?
Why do I imagine I am showing any particular special integrity
by telling others about my extraordinary inroads into the ‘integrity’??
My truth is hideous enough for me.
Why do I feel duty bound to show it to others?
The real truth?? My search for the truth has been one
disaster after another.
I have done more damage to people in pursuit of my integrity
than as a result of any lies I told.
A few days ago…I was on the verge of posting these words-
“My truth is the most hideous of ungainly ugliness.
It frightens small children and adults alike.”
Clearly a preamble to what I write now...but I dismissed it. Not truthful enough.
Somehow…too trivial, ephemeral.
Even pompous.
Or perhaps it was the most truthful…indeed the most USEFUL
truthful of any of my indulgences in the realms of candour to date??
“My truth is the most hideous of
ugliness.
It frightens small children and adults alike.”
Spot on, really.
Because over time…somehow…I have come to convince myself
that just because I am driven to ‘the truth’…it follows that there is an
audience for it.
It has some cache with the public.
Why?
Why would I assume this?
By virtue of the fact that it is what I perceive to be the
truth alone?
As if- even were it true, & perception renders it at
best, arguable- by virtue of the fact that I had some inherent truth contain
therein…it had become automatically publishable?
Consumable? A commodity?
My quest for truth has been disastrous enough.
I have even captured on film what a nightmare this quest has
actually turned out to be.
I real terms, and in real time.
Real emotions, real hurt, real people.
The truth is…I am hideous at relationships; mainly because I
am useless at the little deceptions necessary to keep them afloat.
I am honest to a flaw.
And the average relationship cannot last 5 minutes without
lies.
And it was this I wanted to capture on film.
But why??
And...more to the point...where?? As I was asked recently, pointedly...
"Where is this famous film?"
For I was asking the self same thing.
Where is this famous fucking film I have been crapping on about for YEARS??
The truth is…I claim to be a film maker…but really…
I am not.
I have spent all the money & time I have, capturing this elusive truth…
When the real truth is…
There is no film.
And it is unlikely there will ever be one.
Because the truth is just too bloody difficult to capture.
On film, video, a box brownie or otherwise.
At least...I can't seem to manage it.
Truth is just too tough.
It does not make for a good story.
I wasted my life, my time, and my money on truth.
And I have to show for it…
What?
A lot of crapping on about this ‘famous truth’…when the
truth is…
The truth has cost me dearly.
The truth is…
Peel back the layers…searching for truth in relationships,
in me, truth in truth…
There is actually nothing left.
I tell people I am a film maker.
Bullshit.
I have not made a film at all.
I have lost almost everything in this quest.
Spent a lot of time…
Captured a lot of footage…
But there is no 'film'.
I doubt I will ever live to see any film.
I am not a 'film maker'.
Lie of lies. I thought I was…but I am not.
Why?
Because of my dogged perserverance to find the elusive truth.
Like capturing time in a bottle.
If i found any kind of truth...
It is that the lies were a lot easier, less costly, a
lot less destructive to other human beings…
& would have made a MUCH better film.
So what am I doing here?
I am sifting through the remnants of my existence, trying to
make sense of this mess.
Trying to salvage something from the wreckage of my foolish
crusade.
Trying to camouflage the pathetic charade with the cloak of ‘integrity’.
"The truth will set you free…"
Bullshit.
I flew like an eagle on the wings of bullshit.
The truth will bring you down to earth like a lead balloon.
And leave you...Sick as a dog, at 4.30 no, 4.50 am.
So what conclusion do I arrive at, here?
I have done all sorts of jobs.
All sorts of jobs that I hoped would take me to
other, better jobs.
I have made a job out of looking for my job.
Until my so called job became ‘truth hunter’.
A 'made up, invented job'. Like the ‘crocodile hunter’. With an inherent fallacy contained in the name that escapes all but the rigorous.
Built upon bullshit...escaping all but those trained to scrutinize for bullshit.
This beast has chewed me up, and spat me out. And what is left?
Something I knew all along.
I have searched a lifetime to find the truth of who I really
am.
And the truth?
Under all the bullshit…
There is nothing here.
Except an overgrown child…
Still showing people the contents of his shitty nappy.
That has never paid off.Not even in the most pathetic, desperate of scat sites will such a spectacle find an audience…paying or otherwise.
Here I am…a product of the same world I have come to
despise.
A man…built on nothing more than the piss and wind of his
own…
Nothingness.
And I have the gall to wonder why I never married.
