Polyphony Of Truths

I’m in love with Manhattan, it matches my mood. I love the amplitude, the elegance, it is all majestic and Babylonian. I love it. I look up at Flatiron building and love it. It is all great, I love the proportions, the brilliance, the polish, the solidity. I feel a kind of exhilaration and the tempo is like that of my blood. Broadway at night, it overwhelms me. I’m at once beyond, over and in New York City, tasting it fully. So far everything delights me.

Manhattan can be poetized. Or maybe that’s a mania of mine to poetize. I try to live with maximum aliveness, kindly, smoothly, ears and eyes wide open, alert, oiled. I’m not so well satisfied with myself, as people sometimes seem to think, I don’t expect too much, and I try to be kind and respectful to every single person, even when they are half-way friendly toward me. I appreciate them a way more now than I did in my younger days when I kept trying to make everybody over. 

My first impulse, of course, is to think that my own way of seeing things is the right way, but my second thought is always to consider that I could be wrong and that I have been often mistaken. And whether this works out or not, I live according to this assumption. This is not an ambiguity, it only comes into conflict with the obligation imposed by society that it should exist. Because the truth is an illusion, a sum of enhanced, transposed and distorted assumptions, which after long use seem firm, canonical and obligatory to us… An army of metaphors, metonyms and anthropomorphisms. To be truthful means using the customary metaphors in moral terms, the obligation to lie according to fixed conventions.

The test of one’s honesty is how much of a fight you are going to put up once you have stopped caring. I guess it is playing the game after that that matters.