"The artist is in search of his 'truth'" (Barthes, 151).
The project I've been forming in this figurative womb of mine is an ethnography of myself. An attempt at my truth. Truth is a tricky thing sometimes. It often reveals itself in unexpected places and inconvenient times. The truth is rare, and when I see mine standing there, a moment of reverence is declared. I make gentle eye contact with it, and when I blink, it disappears.
When I look for my truth, it hides in shadows, under makeup and baggy clothes. It's running from me! I chase it down alleyways, through crowded courtyards, and parking garages. It's gone. I give up. As I turn to head home, a piece of me breaks, something fundamental, and I fall to the ground. It's humiliating. But the truth is right there. And it's humiliating how close it was the whole time. It's all so humiliating. But I kept looking, with a limp that slowly healed day by day.
As I chased after the truth, I left footprints and chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I described it to strangers in hopes they'd seen which direction it ran. I recited poems about it to them, to glazed eyes and vacant expressions. They told me the truth was right there, standing on the sidewalk, in a long black coat. I couldn't see it anywhere. So I kept looking. I continue to look.
But the chase is a delight! So what if it's futile? My legacy is the attempt. So what if my project is born, and seems dishonest? The attempt is my legacy.
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