Ain't that the Truth

Tim,

How’s it goin man? Where you been, what you doin and all that good shit? In the absence of any answer that I can understand or hear, I will assume that you are doing just fine. Your coffin probably sleeps better than this futon I’ve been resting my bones on for the last year. I’ve come to believe that there are a finite amount futon mattresses in the world. They never get destroyed, just passed around from dorm room to bachelor pad to guest room ad infinitum. That and futon mattresses are just ancient bedding that’s been compressed by time, spilled beer, and sadness. No one is ever happy sleeping on a futon. NO ONE. And that’s the god’s honest truth. Maybe you can confirm that for me though, since you’ve crossed the threshold and all. Tell God I said “Hello”.

Speaking of the truth, I met a mystic the other day. And by mystic I mean a patient that came in for a pulmonary function test, because his lungs were gross. He and his wife were both clad in black like they stopped by on their way to a funeral. The kind where black leather ball-caps, t-shirts, and scrubs were acceptable attire. They were (and still are as far as I know) Black, so I thought they were mourning in solidarity with the folks in Sacramento who were protesting the killing of Stephon Clark. Not the case, although I choose to believe otherwise even if it wasn’t intentional and they’re just aging beatniks. That is my truth.

Anyway we made small talk and shared a yuk or two, and then I moved on to some other patients. A few minutes passed in silence then he gets up and approaches the desk with a look that says he’s going to tell me something. Licking his lips, the way you do when you’re about to enlighten the ignorant, he struts up to me and says, “You seem like an educated young brotha,” (thank you), “how many languages you think are in the world?” I ponder for a moment and asked if we were also talking about the dead ones too, and I start doing a rough count in my head. The answer is definitely something I can come up with in a few seconds. Do I include Pig Latin, and the “jibber jabber” talk the girls used to do in school? What about Morse Code, and body language? If I do that then I have to throw in gorilla grunts, dolphin speak, whale yelling, insect thorax vibrations, the bumble bee jigs, and pheromones? Them’s is language too.

Thankfully he saved me from the tortuous exercise and asked, “What if I could prove to you that there are only two languages, but many dialects?” He said this while thrusting his held up fingers at me to make sure I knew how many two was. I tell him to blow my mind, and then the wise old magical black man did just that (not really, but being mildly amused is not as interesting as brain explosions). According him the only languages are truth and lies. Everything else is just auditory flavor and flourish. He added that you have to learn the truth before you can understand the lies.

Sure thing. I’m picking up what you’re putting down Wise Old Magic Black Man (does Magic Johnson count as a Magic Black Man or for that matter Black magicians?). Now all I can imagine is that poor sap in the cave watching shadows and Plato yelling down to him, “IT’S NOT REAL, MAN!” He probably wouldn’t believe him though, and just believe he’s getting trolled. Plato: Greece’s most famous troll and part time philosopher. I haven’t even told you the best part! After his appointment I never saw him again. That’s a lie. I scheduled his next appointment for two weeks out, but that breaks the whole magic negro trope and it was working so well for me. As ridiculous as what he said was though, I thought about it for the rest of the day.

I don’t necessarily agree with the sage’s assessment of language, but let’s run with the thought experiment. “Cogito, ergo sum” applies to this in a twisted way. Too bad I wasn’t quick enough on the draw to regurgitate this theory at the time, but you’re reading it now so it still counts. “I think, therefor I am.” Descartes was attempting to reason the core of our humanity, and there is something elemental about the beliefs we hold. In my dealings with other residents of this giant blue sphere I’ve met people who adamantly swear that George Lucas actually intends his Jedi weapons to be “Life Savers”, grown adults that believe in the boogie man, and all manner of odd and diverging beliefs. To varying degrees each one of these people believes this is the truth, and belief is strong. Belief is what conjures up tall thin men standing in the shadows. Belief is what tells us that the walls have ears, that they’re out to get us and what ever they’re using it’s in the water. It tells us who the enemy is, and above all else it tells us we're right.

Tim, you and I both know that no one is right 100 percent of the time. I’d like to think I’m right maybe a quarter of the time I take a stab at something or come to some conclusion and that’s a high estimate. I’m pretty sure I was right to stop talking to the woman who sent me anonymous “fuck you” birthday presents (more on that another time), but I’ll never be sure of why she sent them to me. Maybe she was sending me a cryptic signal trying to tell me that she’s been abducted by aliens, and she needs someone to feed her dog. Maybe she just wanted to reach out to a friend. Depending on what I believe, that becomes my truth given I cling dogmatically to that notion and the absence of any other information. This is the kind of thinking that makes the earth flat, that renders bodies expendable, and turns lies into tomorrow’s headlines. I think, therefor I’m right though I’d be hard pressed to deny anyone else’s truth.

You ever just get stuck on a thought like a moth on a light bulb? I’m guessing yes since there’s not much else to do when you’re dead and buried. That’s what I choose to believe. I also believe that the man that appeared to me in the clinic is the Johnny Appleseed of truth. Wandering the planet dropping little kernels of wisdom to sprout and grow into more weird little theories. I wonder what would happen if he planted a seed on top of you? Would your truth become corporeal and walk the earth? Would it be you? Would you even want to come back? For all I know you could be living a full and vibrant afterlife running amok with all the hooligans that have gone before us. Those giant space boots of yours stomping holes in the clouds, because that’s what Heaven is like according to Looney Tunes, and I refuse to believe in Hell. If there is a god or a pantheon of aliens that set all this in motion, I would hope they didn’t share our lowly pension for retribution and stick us in time out for not wearing their favorite color. That would be pretty lame.

I wonder what spurred that guy to tell me that little kernel of wisdom. I’m glad he decided to share, and provide me with a glimpse into a stereotype. It would have been better if he revealed himself to be the devil by laughing maniacally and whipping out his club tail only to vanish in an explosion of hell fire. I’ll take what I can get.

Ok, Tim. I gotta go. The cat is staring at me again, and if I don’t move she’ll look so deeply into my soul she’ll get lost in the field of tumbling tesseracts that is human consciousness. I’m not sure if that is true, but for all anyone knows I’m not lying. Write me sometime. I’m pretty sure the postal service has to deliver mail as long as it’s paid for. Even if it is from a dead man.

Love,

Jordan