While pondering the idea of the Noble Lie, the term “No-Bull Truth” popped to mind. Just to be sure I hadn’t accidentally concocted a neologism, I Googled “No-Bull Truth” to see how many results I would get. With or without the hyphen, I got only 308 results. One of the results was from Padre G, who started his September 12, 2003, entry with “The first no bull truth is nothing is ever what you think it is.” For what it may be worth, Google found 47,500 results for “Noble Lie.” That’s probably a good measure of the Truth/Lie ratio today.

Strictly speaking, Padre G is right to say “nothing is ever what you think it is.” Quantum physicists tell us what we see is never real because our observation of it changes it. At the sub-atomic level, they say, we know with certainty that we cannot know certain things at all. On the other hand, at least one thing is always “what you think it is”: Noble Lies, Nasty Lies, and “Not-on-purpose” Lies are, as Nietzsche said, “a condition of life.” That’s one No-Bull Truth we all know. Another is that we can’t even believe our own senses. So what?

We know we can’t know everything. Those who believe in an omniscient (and therefore omnipotent) deity would say “only God” knows everything. But we obviously don’t need to know everything. One wag said, “All we ever need to know is what to do next.” Another said, “All we ever need to know is what we want.” As a general rule, we need to know more than that, but we don’t need to know everything. By definition, all we need is “adequate knowledge” and “adequate certainty.” So the question is how much do we need to know. Is enough ever enough?

This morning I thought “In Depends Day” might be an original concoction on my part. But, no surprise, Google found 100 results. So it’s not new, but it’s sometimes nice to know “we are not alone” in our creativity. Being unique is, after all, quite similar to being alone and isolated. Many patriotic citizens of The United States of God Bless America will celebrate “The Birth of a Nation.” Few will mention the 1915 film because today is like Xmas, a day on which even curmudgeons should probably keep their cynicism to themselves. But too much shit has happened. Merde!

Paul Harvey, the wannabe heir to Will Rogers, said “In times like these, it helps to recall that there have always been times like these.” To which we are supposed to respond with something like, “Ah, how true.” Harvey’s dictum is Bible-Belt for “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” Or just plain Bible for “there is nothing new under the sun,” with the implication that “in much wisdom is much vexation” and “those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.” Truth be told, there have never been times like these. These ain’t gonna be recalled as the Good Old Days.

Near the end of his life, Kurt Vonnegut made a speech at Albion College. At one point he said roughly, “Tonight, write a six-line poem, rhymed, no fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can, for you, don’t tell anyone, don’t show it to anybody. Tear it up, scatter the pieces in widely separated trash receptacles. And you’ll find out you have been rewarded big time.” I can’t say I did as he suggested (of course), but I can say this: most so-called poets can’t play tennis with a net. Kurt’s up in heaven now.

Forster asked, “How can I know what I think till I see what I say?” Talk about a rhetorical question! The case can be made that there’s no way to know what one thinks except to see what one says, but, as they say, talk is cheap. As a practical matter, the only way to know what one thinks is to see what one writes, and only when one writes with what should be called the “threat” (not “hope”) that somebody, especially some stranger, might read it. The corollary is that not writing with that As If is not thinking.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. said, “Why can't somebody give us a list of things that everybody thinks and nobody says, and another list of things that everybody says and nobody thinks.” He apparently didn’t even bother to punctuate that statement with a question mark. He was merely saying something that “everybody thinks” and “nobody” (else) says. The reason nobody has given us such lists would seem to be that doing so would take too long. But both potential lists get shorter with each passing day or so, especially the first one. Soon nobody will say anything except what everybody thinks.

One of the adventitious benefits of writing doggerel (which is what my poet friend calls any poetry that rhymes) is that the “discipline” of finding words that sound like other words can sometimes expand one’s vocabulary. For instance, suppose you want to find a euphonic counterpart for the term “wishful thinking.” You might stumble across the word “blink” and discover one of its meanings, albeit rather obscure, is “to refuse to recognize or face.” And, voila! “Wishful thinking” leads to or produces “Willful blinking.” But, come to think of it, willful blinking is more often the cause than the effect.

About forty years ago, long before having a “mentor” was cool, I had one. He once told me, way back then, that all books should be written in 800-word sections because, according to him, the first books we read as children are almost always of that length. The creator(s) of this site might consider offering an exactly 800-word option here. Blaise Pascal apologized for the length of his 16th Provincial letter because he didn’t have time to make it shorter. And he would surely say writing 100 words takes longer than writing 800 words. Hard to believe? Try it sometime.

John Steinbeck said, "In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person—and write to that one." Picking a real person you know works great, until you “use them up,” after which you will become Spam. That’s the time to create a reader, the same way one might create a character in a novel. I write to a fellow I named Noah Montgomery Vale. He lives in the made-up town of Vane, Oregon. His best quality is his short memory.

Atman. In Buddhism, it means “self,” but it is sometimes translated as “soul” or “ego.” Belief in Atman is, they say, the primary result of ignorance and the cause of all misery. It is the essence of Samsara, the cycle of birth, decay, and death. Yada, damn yada. Buddhists, they say, need to understand Atman. All of which is a kind of Budd-Shit for anyone who has spent, say, twelve years with a German Shepherd dog named “Atman.” For what it may be worth, Atman, also known as “Wolf,” was born on the date Vonnegut died, and “passed on” today.

Some famous writer (whose name I can’t recall) wrote that somebody had advised, “When you sit down to write, don’t think about what to write, write what you have been thinking about.” The problem with that advice is that most of us write in order to think about something else, something other than what we “have been thinking about.” For instance, I’ve been thinking how glad I am that nobody knows what I have been thinking about, in the so-called “privacy of my own mind.” But, as they say, “Use it, or lose it.” All work and no play …

Le quatorze Juillet. Le jour de gloire est arrivé. Most days the pendulum swings to and fro between Schmerz and Langeweile, but today it swings between Douleur and Ennui (smiley face winking). Uncle Alex used to say, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.” And his nephew used to say, “We are here on Earth to fart around. Don’t let anybody tell you any different.” Mohatma Mahoney still says, “If you’re not in pain, you can’t complain.” Nobody believes the Mohatma either. Maybe in France, but not here. Nothing is more un-American than a satisfied customer, n’est-ce pas?.

She asked, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I was pretty sure she didn’t want the truth. She had not wanted the truth for a long time, especially not my version of it. So, sure, I knew better. But sometimes what we want is to feel better instead. That’s what she wanted at the time. She wanted me to tell one of them-there little white fibs. I, however, wanted to discuss the pros and cons of Noble Lies. That would have made me feel better. In the end I compromised and simply said, ““Yes, honey, it’s an honest dress.”

E. H. White once wrote: “I awake in the morning, torn between a desire to save the world, and a desire to savor the world. That makes it hard to plan the day.” We may infer that it was a recurring problem. The term “paralysis by analysis” pops to mind. Sometimes the opportunity cost of decision analysis exceeds the benefits. One thing leads to another, but one thing usually leads to more than one other thing, often leading to what are called “wicked problems.” The solution locally is simple: to save the wicked world, Savior it. No analysis, no paralysis.

One of the vacations offered by Rekall Inc. is called “Hubby-Daddy Halcyon.” It’s not nearly as exciting as “Blue Skies on Mars,” but there was a time when it was quite popular. The scenario is roughly the same as “Father Knows Best,” but, come to find out, “Hubby-Daddy Halcyon” has a surprise ending. For what seems to be thirty years, you are married to Lori, you raise two children, then she goes nuts and suddenly dumps you. At which time you meet Melina, who tells you your real name is Schopenhauser, and you wake up. Cool, but not for everybody.

Mighty Casey struck out. Somewhere men were laughing, children were shouting, and a band was playing, but there was no joy in Mudville. Really? No joy in Mudville? We know better. There were several people who were delighted with the outcome. At least nine. And anyone who has ever been a pitcher can tell you there was one who was about as happy as a hurler can be. Eventually Casey’s failure led to what we now know as the Mudville Maxim, which states: “One man’s whiff is another man’s whoop.” (Casey retired after the game, and therefore became a philanthropist.)

Sean says, “I don’t know a lot, Will. But let me tell you one thing. All this history, this shit … Look here, son. This is not your fault.” Will, nonchalant, says, “Oh, I know.” Sean says, “It’s not your fault.” Will, smiling, says, “I know.” Sean says, “It’s not your fault.” Will says, “I know.” Sean says, “It’s not your fault.” Will, dead serious, says, “I know.” Sean says, “It’s not your fault.” Will says, “Don’t fuck with me.” Sean says, “It’s not your fault.” Will says, “I know.” That can make you “want to be a better man.”

Don was born in Tacoma, white, with all his parts in good working order, to parents who were “above average” in social rank, got the best education money could buy, etc. Now look: he has been a colossal underachiever. There he is driving a fork-truck in a warehouse in Oregon.

Uhuru was born in Zimbabwe, black, with several parts that didn’t work, so her parents left her on the side of a road. She survived, learned some English, stowed away, etc. Now look: she has been a colossal overachiever. There she is driving a fork-truck in a warehouse in Oregon.

We begin to chat, sorta chatting each other up, but it is clear this is not one of those resume-submission episodes. For some mystical reason, we start to exchange the stories of our lives, mostly memories, hardly anything about the future. She talks about her childhood, back in Michigan, about what fun it was to build a snowman. She remembers all sorts of things in amazing detail. I mention I don’t recall much at all of my childhood, that I envy her in that regard. Time’s up. She says her name is Rachael, but she doesn’t remember her last name.

Old joke: When asked “What’s the difference between ignorance and indifference?” he said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” We often hear ignorance is bliss, but rarely bliss is ignorance. Is indifference bliss? I don’t know. Indifference, a.k.a. apathy, is more like wisdom. Most sages have said or implied: don’t concern yourself with things over which you have no control. The stoic is serene, but hardly enthusiastic. “Aggressive apathy” is oxymoronic. Those who know don’t speak; those who speak don’t know. Everybody knows that. Indifference is ignorance, but ignoring reality is tough. It’s, like, everywhere, all the time. Relentless.

One of the great moments in movie history came when the Emperor said, “My dear young man, don’t take it too hard. Your work is ingenious. It’s quality work. There are simply too many notes, that’s all. Just cut a few, and it will be perfect.” To which Mozart replied, “Which few did you have in mind, Majesty?”

The problem with the world is that there are too many Mozarts, and too many writers like Peter Shaffer. Just about the time we are ready to give up on humankind, along comes another glaring exception to the rule. Life’s a tease.

Mohatma Mahoney says, “When people lie to you, they hate you for it.” This was his impromptu exegesis on something Honest Abe Lincoln said, “No man (or woman) has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.” For example, when Jill lies to Jack, especially when she lies to him about several things, she is required to keep track of what she has told him in order to avoid the potential embarrassment of being “caught.” Gradually over time, it becomes too much trouble. The Mohatma’s advice to Jack: “Don’t make Jill lie to you in the first place.” Duh.

The epigraph of a book I read had two famous quotes:

Les gens les plus valables dans nos vies sont ceux qui nous font rire et nous disent la vérité.
Blaise Pascal (1623 – 1662)

Les gens les plus valables dans nos vies sont ceux qui rient à nos plaisanteries et à qui nous disons la vérité.
Voltaire (1694 – 1778)

Translated:

The most valuable people in our lives are those who make us laugh and tell us the truth.

The most valuable people in our lives are those who laugh at our jokes and to whom we tell the truth.

Funny.

The difference between a Stoic and a Lama: the Lama celebrates what the Stoic tolerates. One of things the Stoic must put up with is the Lama’s unflappable optimism. When the Stoic finds a pile of crap on the hood of his car, the Lama smiles, thinking about how the pony managed to do it.

A little-known fact about the typical statues of the Buddha: he is not wearing a hat, nor is that stuff on his head some sort of monkish coif. Several days meditating under a tree resulted in “a shit-eatin’ grin.” Avian excrement. Tolerate or celebrate it.

Somebody in the audience asked Professor Corey, the world’s leading authority (period), “Why are you here?” Corey replied, “A good question, but a two-part question.” He answered the first part, at length, by saying things like, “For thousands of years, great thinkers have been asking Why, Why, Why?” After which he abruptly concluded: “As for the second part of your question, Am I here? Yes. Next question.”

He might have regarded it as a two-pronged question by considering the two meanings of “here” (on Earth, on this patch of Earth). A good question, because there is no authoritative answer. Period.

Sometimes a thing is so obvious, we say “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.” But, upon reflection, it’s obvious that the nose on one’s own face cannot be seen without a mirror. Likewise, when we say, “I know it like the back of my hand,” the implication is we know it very well. But it’s as plain as the noses on our faces that few of us could ever pick out our own hands in a lineup. One thing we know for sure: it’s tough to trust important, personal truth without the mirror of a second opinion.

Called Jack and, of course, had to leave a message. I left “I need your help.” Then added, “It’s not urgent." The next day he returned my call. After I explained what I needed, he told me he would get right on it. But, alas, his wife was signaling him to get off the phone.

A disadvantage of living alone is that you can’t signal to anyone to signal to you that you need to get off the phone. A spouse can be a real time-saver.

He’ll get back to me, but it takes time to formulate a credible “Sorry.”

According to one theory of the Psychology of Creativity, some of the better work people do is done because, at the time they begin, they have “nothing better to do.” But, as a rule, their very best work comes when they have “nothing else to do.” The problem is there’s always something else to do, and usually something better. Hans Metterling suggests that “something better” is, as he put it, “the self-inflicted illusion of the terminally imaginative.” His much-debated “culling cure” requires the patient to accept the fact that he or she has only one “life-sustaining” idea at a time.

Uberdummheit is not yet in the dictionary. (Note to lexicographers: the first U should be umlauted.) Its principal meaning: “a mysterious force in the universe which drives otherwise rational people to fuck over others even though, and only when, the one doing the screwing has no self-interest in so doing.”

Uberdummheit is obvious when Jack says to Jill, “I don’t know why I’m doing this to you, of all people,” and he’s not kidding. He’s as confused as she is. Jill’s life is thoroughly disrupted. The mystical explanation: she was ineffectively comfortable, needed a change. A.k.a. “Capricious (cosmic) tough love.”