I was trying desperately not to make eye contact with anybody (like all good New Yorkers) while sitting on the train home last night (yes, actually sitting for a change). I happened to look up and noticed an advertisement for the Whitney Museum of American Art featuring a print of a woman painted by Picasso, and I started wondering who in the hell he must have dated. From the look of it he probably fished them out of the same pond that Captain Kirk got all the triple-breasted green chicks from. It occurs to me that I have frequented that same fishing hole. Although most of the women in my life have had their eyes and noses placed in what is generally considered to be the correct or aesthetically pleasing regions of their respective faces, their insides have all been quite as twisted and misshapen as a cubist train wreck. Being around me, as I was then, certainly added torque to the twisting, but like attracts like I suppose.
The process that I have been going through for the past year and a half has been one of untwisting, of ironing out the lines, creases and wrinkles of my life; of airing out, starching and pressing my stagnant spiritualism (it smells April fresh now).
Now that my nose is back on the front of my face and my eyes are back on either side of and slightly above it, the view has changed. I can clearly see the truth and have started to see the nature of Truth. Some say that “the truth hurts.” The proprietors of a certain concentration camp franchise six decades or so ago thought that “the truth shall set you free.” But I believe that truth is a three-edged sword: there is one view, the opposing view, and the space in between the two opposing views, without which there would be no possible differentiation between the two opposing views. This space is what old Pablo was exploring, and it is the close examination of and reflection on this third truth that leads us to a deepening sense of the Truth.
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