Truth Trumps Perception

About the 2016 presidential race...

Everyone was talking. No one could remember ever seeing anything like this before. What was it? Even the highly intelligent experts who were dispatched to figure out what this creature was disagreed among themselves. One said it was a impenetrable wall; another said a mountain too treacherous to climb. A third expert said it was a dangerous viper set loose to maim and kill; a fourth claimed it was a huge unmovable tree stump and another said it was just a lot of hot air. But what was it really? Since truth trumps perception, and everyone's truth is different, how can we ever know for certain?

To see the rest of the blog, search for "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer."

Trump's Truth

When I was trying to understand why Donald Trump, one of the seventeen, or by now eighteen, Republican presidential candidates would do and say the things he's, well, doing and saying, it occurred to me that he is simply Not Being a Politician. Politicians have a reputation for saying what they think the populace wants to hear. Trump is not doing that; he is speaking his truth...truth as he perceives it. This thought took me back to Gustave Flaubert, the nineteenth-century French author who said, "There is no truth; there is only perception of the truth." Gustave died sooner than he should have because he put his wally dinger places he shouldn't have because he didn't know the truth about syphilis. But, I digress.

Donald Trump is not compromising his beliefs in order to please others. As he tromps across sensitive feelings, tramples sacred military ground, and shoots sharp verbal darts at those who disagree with him, he is making people stand up and take notice. That's a good thing. We, the citizens of the United States of America, still have a pulse. But can we be saved?

What The Donald is saying is the truth: Trump's Truth. Trump knows exactly what he is doing. But, what do I know? I'm just a little old lady from the mountains of North Carolina who likes to ramble on and on...usually with no one listening.  I don't know what is inside the mind of Donald Trump. I can only guess that 1) He is being true to what he believes no matter how ridiculous it may sound...

or 2) he has an alternative motive.

THE 2016 REPUBLICAN CANDIDATES FOR PRESIDENT

First Row (Right to Left)

Carly Fiorina, businesswoman
Mike Huckabee, Former governor of Arkansas
Rick Perry, Former governor of Texas
Chris Christie, Governor of New Jersey
Lindsay Graham, Senator of South Carolina
Jeb Bush, Former governor of Florida

Second Row (Right to Left)

Rick Santorum, Former Senator from Pennsylvania
Rand Paul, Senator from Kentucky
Dr. Ben Carson, Neurosurgeon from Florida
Bobby Jindal, Governor of Louisiana
Mark Everson, Former IRS Commissioner*
Mario Rubio, Senator from Florida
Ted Cruz, Senator from Texas

Third Row (Right to Left)
(Those arriving late must go to the back.)

Jim Gilmore, Former Governor of Virginia
John Kasich, Governor of Ohio
George Pataki, Former Governor of New York
Scott Walker, Govenor of Wisconsin

THAT OTHER GUY STANDING BY HIMSELF

Donald Trump

As of today, July 23rd, there are now eighteen Republican candidates vying for the President's seat.

*As of August 5th, Mark Everson is running but he is not being recognized as a viable candidate, so that makes the number of Republican candidates seventeen.


To see the rest of the blog, search for "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer."

There is No Truth

There is no truth; there is only perception of the truth. But that's not really true because there are irrefutable truths, and scientific experts know what they are. They would have told you that the earth is flat, it's one of nine planets, and it's the center of the universe, a universe that is static, neither expanding or contracting. Oh, and about the continents, they don't move. Feeling a little sick? Got a touch of cholera? It's that bad toxic air that you were breathing. There's no such thing as little, tiny microscopic bug-like thingies that invade your body, make you very sick, and then you die.

See! There are truths that can't be disputed. Just ask the scientists who gave us the above truths years ago. Oh, wait a minute! You can't; they're all dead. Shoot! That's not true. Some of the scientists who told us that Pluto was the ninth planet might still be around. But they're really old by now. Darn it! That's probably not true either. Sixty is the new forty, seventy is the new fifty, so they could still be here sharing irrefutable truths.

Now that we know there are definite, undeniable truths, who was it who said "There is no truth; there is only perception of the truth" and what did the author mean by that obviously untrue statement? I asked Google and Google sent me to Wikipedia and Wikipedia pointed to Gustave Flaubert, a French writer who died in 1880 at age fifty-eight. But back then fifty-eight was the old seventy-eight so it was time for him to kick the bucket anyway...or was it? Had it not been for his wayward, nonselective, indiscriminate wally dinger, he could have lived a whole lot longer...or maybe not.

Diving Headfirst Into the Truth

I've never liked lying, even when it's one of the "okay" lies. Not telling the truth makes me feel like a fraud. Although I know that some lies avoid unpleasant situations and consequences, I feel disingenuous if I don't tell the truth. I have very little tolerance for pretend and fakery. I've tried giving up lying several times in my life, and the consequences of my honesty have reduced my friend count drastically and landed me in boiling hot water.

My sister Lynnette--who has 677 friends, 24 of whom consider her their best friend--says the reason I have no friends is because of my intolerance--she really gets on my nerves sometimes.

Well, she makes it sound as if I have no friends. I have friends. By last count yesterday, I had 102 of them on Facebook--down one from last week. I don't actually know them, though. I do remember passing some of them in the halls in high school, but I didn't associate with any of them; I couldn't tolerate their behavior--all so sophomoric and high-schoolish.

I'm in one of those times again when I just want to tell the truth. No more lies. Lynnette and her entourage have advised against my need to be 100% genuine and sincere, but I'm diving headfirst into the truth.

Facebook Friend Count: 101 and dropping.

It appears my desire to tell the truth has landed me in hot water again, so I guess it's time to move on to another subject: perception of the truth, and I'll do that when I return from my whirlwind around-the-world book tour. 

A Lying Fool

I don't lie unless the need arises. Otherwise, I have no problem telling the truth. When I was a little girl the need arose all the time. I was a lying fool and there was no doubt that I was going to H-E- double L. I didn't like the idea of spending eternity in a fiery black hole with slimy earth worms crawling all over my body--that's how my Sunday school teacher described the place--but I felt I had no choice, because everything fun in life was against my religion.  We were not allowed to go to the movies or dance or wear makeup or adorn ourselves with jewelry and fancy clothes. Even bowling was off limits. Our clothing had to cover our knees and elbows, and, of course, showing cleavage would send you straight to the fiery hole down below. I lived in a black and white world and I desperately wanted a taste of color.

So what's a child who wants to fit in her friends' world to do? This child chose to spend a lot of time at the library, or at least that's where Mother thought I was. Instead I was sitting in the front row at the Irvington Theatre enjoying Elvis move his pelvis in Jail House Rock, bowling a perfect 50 at the local bowling alley, and doing The Stroll every Friday night at a competitive church's sock hop.

Then one day the "No Bowling Rule" was lifted, so I moved from the library to the bowling alley, or at least that's where my mother thought I was. Instead I was sitting in the front row at the Irvington Theatre swooning over Elvis in King Creole, dancing the Willy and the Hand Jive at the Friday night sock hop, and spinning the bottle with neighbor kids in our breezeway after Mother went to bed.

Sometime around 1959 God revisited the rulebook and made a few changes:

Makeup - Okay in moderation

Jewelry - Okay, but not too gaudy

Fancy clothes - Okay as long as no cleavage shows

Dancing- Okay as long as you don't move hips

Knees & Elbows can be shown now

Movies - Uh...No! Still not okay

About the same time as the rulebook revisions, our minister broke one of the non-revisable rules--one of the big ten you might say--and my mother, my older sister and I did The Stroll on over to another church.  

Around the same time that we changed churches, my mother met and fell in love with one of the most wonderful men I have ever known and my world began to show some color...finally.

I Cannot Tell a Lie

Ever since six-year-old George Washington cut down his father's favorite cherry tree and then, when confronted, said "I cannot tell a lie," the pressure has been on us early-American descendants to follow George's example: always tell the truth. But the truth is that cherry-tree story is not true.

In 1809, ten years after George Washington died, Parson Mason Weems wrote a biography about the first president of the United States, and you might say he, well, exaggerated the truth a little. Okay, he lied! Are you happy now? Mr. Weems really, really, really liked George, and he wanted others to see what a great man George was, so he altered the facts a bit. Okay, he lied! Geez! You don't have to be such a stickler with the truth, do you?  Maybe, just maybe, Parson had inside information: A little old neighbor lady who saw young George confessing to his father was this author's source for the story. It could happen. I met a little old lady once who knew things about Santa Claus that would knock your socks right off the fireplace mantle, but she would only tell her stories to those who were willing to pay for them, and I didn't have my checkbook with me that day at the nursing home.

Here's my question: Is bending the truth, exaggerating the facts, fibbing a little--okay, lying--bad if the end result is good? Doesn't the end justify the means? Doesn't Mr. Weems' exuberance for and fabricated story about George Washington--the incredibly amazing Commander in Chief of the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, the first and very likely the best president of the United States, one of the great founding fathers of this country--inspire you to always tell the truth? Good. I was hoping you'd say that. At least you're inspired. That's a start.

About Lying

Here is a post that I wrote about lying for my rambling blog on
February 11, 2012. (The drawing was not with the original post.)

One of the gallery owners who consigned my art said to me recently, "I never lie." I suspected he might be lying so I said, "Never?" "Nope! Never! I'm Catholic and Catholics don't lie," he responded. His comment took me aback, way aback. So far aback, in fact, it was 1951. I was suddenly six-years-old and sitting in a Sunday school classroom at the First Church of the Nazarene in downtown Indianapolis. As our teacher recited the Ten Commandments, I attempted to put each one into a context that I, as a small child, could understand.

Thou shall not murder.

I really like that rule.

Thou shall not steal.

That's a good rule, too, but...

Don't covet thy neighbor's ox or ass,

and don't even think about his wife.

No problem.

Don't say a cuss word and

then hyphenate God's name to it.

Does my uncle know that rule?

Don't do the nasty-nasty with an adult tree.

Does the minister know that rule?

Do not worship anything but Him.

Not even popsicles? The red ones?

Save Sundays for going to church.
What about Wednesday nights?
Can we drop that one?

There is only one God.
Does our doctor know that?

Honor your parents.
Now that's gonna be hard.

Still standing at inattention while the gallery owner, who never lies, was lying to me, my imagination was still back in Sunday school. "What about lying?" I asked my teacher as I secretly slipped a piece of Juicy Fruit gum out of the girl's purse next to me. "Oh, lying is okay. Only Catholics are not permitted to lie," she said with a straight face.

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FY-EER

Everyone lies. It's all part of being human. If you are a member of the Homo sapiens genus, you lie. Oh, don't sit there all smug and highfalutin. "Well, I don't lie," you say. That's a lie and you know it. And if there's one thing I hate, it's a lying liar.

Ever since the gallery owner said he never lied, I found it hard to trust him. I drove by his house late at night, but his car was always there. He answered the phone whenever I called. He was always where he said he was going to be. And he never called me by another woman's name, but it was too late; the trust was gone. How could I believe anything he said in the future? We were over. I had to move on.

I'm with a new gallery owner now, and I'm close to popping the question: Do you lie? I feel confident he'll be honest about his lying, and, if so, we'll do just fine. I just hope he doesn't notice that every time I come into the gallery, one of his pens goes missing.

What? Don't give me that look. It's not me. I never steal.