I Never Was a Gardner

Lies, Lies, Lies!

A writer crafting lies.

"Believe none of us ..."

The words aren’t even mine.
Stole them from John Gardner’s
journal.

Published after he died.

Not even his journal, then.
Not anymore.

More damned lies.

Hemingway, proclaiming that the goal
of a writer is to pen one—just one—
true sentence.

Is it that sentence?
Or is it itself a lie?

What does he mean by “true” anyway?
True to my heart? (My heart? That lump
of muscle in my chest, that pretends
it feels, when it’s just stealing
the idea from my brain?)

True to my experience?
The experience of a brain
that has evolved to fool others,
and through the ability
to fool others can fool itself
most of all?

True, by virtue of a proper metaphor,
when a metaphor by definition
is not what it claims to be?

Or can it be? What if the mask
something wears is its own face?
Does he reveal himself by it,
or hide? Or both?

Life, my child, is like a great ocean.
The waves rise, and then they fall …
They rise, and then they fall …
They rise, and then they fall …
They rise, and …

You know, that’s a pretty
nauseating question.

Nausea. Satrte. The overwhelming awe
at - and absurdity of - existence. Why
is there something, rather than nothing?

Why do we ask why?

Ask, with our words.
Words. Damned words,
that lie half the time,
and then can’t capture the truth
when they try to tell it.

Half the time? How would I know?

And if I know, why can’t I tell
when each half is?

Nausea. Sartre. The overwhelming awe at -
and absurdity of - existence. But then I
remember. Remember the things I love
can make me nauseous with awe.

Plane rides. Parachute drops. Landscapes,
that stretch out beneath me as I gaze over
precipices at bare peaks, or those dappled
with snow under half cloudy skies.

Fresh snow, on a November hillside,
with long stems of grass poking up through,
and me suddenly overcome with stage fright
as I drive past, even though
I’m the only audience.

A first look. A first kiss.

Soul kiss.

Do you have to believe
in the soul to have one?

Because I don’t. But I do.


Damned lies.

It's all
damned lies.

"Believe
none of us."