Friday, July 24, 2015

versions of truth

It's on the bottom floor. Twenty-four single chair sized columns within two large ones.
Thirty-three rows.

The name of the seminar appealed to me but not as much as the job title of the guy speaking.
He's a journalist turned this, and I want some insight into how he sees it while I watch him from a back row which allows a chair or two between people.




Someone asks him about confidantes in the press, and he says he only has one.
One person with whom he's willing to spill all the beans.



If I were to review his work, which sounds strangely like a judgment and I am obviously in constant review of things, I would say that my favorite thing was his honesty. And of all the seminars I went to this is the one where everyone stayed till completion.




Of course he could have been lying but I don't think he was. Because why would you admit to a large room that sometimes (heck, it sounds like most of the time) you are trimming the truth.



Which makes sense, I think, because if you've lived a certain number of years (whatever number that is for you) then you realize you only carry around your tiniest sliver of a speck of truth. And you're really only going to save all the absurd notions for those people who know how ridiculous you are because sometimes they actually agree with you.




Because sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's not. But always, always.
We have to find something to help us or someone else smile.


Because that's like yoga for the face. And that's supposed to be good for us. And good is good. And obviously I've now run out of words.



Today I am grateful for a journalist who shared a secret with a roomful of people.




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