Truthiness

I've never been entirely comfortable with absolutes. Truth, it's all relative, yeah? Constructs, fluid principles, floating signifiers. Are we or are we not particles animated by economic forces? Truth: all ideology, surely, etc., etc., etc.

Whatever your philosophical to the truth, I've been bending it flagrantly over the last few months. The readership of this blog may become my confessoriat. I have lied about the following recently.

1. My name.
It's far easier to throw off an insistent new friend when they are calling you Rebecca or Jennifer than if they are addressing you by your real name. I also got sick of the rejoinder, 'Ah, the hurricane!'

2. My marital status.
This has already been dealt with. I acquired an absent mate named Heck to help fend off the incessant wave of marital queries coming my way.

3. My religious beliefs.
Atheism doesn't cut the mustard out of the secular west. Claiming to be a Protestant (or, fudging it and saying you were baptised as such) is almost as bad but not quite as irredeemable as the Truth.

4. My literary tastes.
There are whole swathes of the bookshop that I would willingly consign to the pulpers. Adorno and I, we'd march through and get rid of most of the books with embossed covers and metallic lettering in the interests of aesthetic and social revolution. Why then, have I not batted an eyelid as people have told me that I must read Danielle Steel, NOW, that Sidney Sheldon is the greatest writer alive, that Dan Brown is intellectually demanding, but vital? I have uncharacteristically silent on occasions like this, restraining truth in favour of politeness. For my sins, I stumbled across the most extraordinary collections of remaindered books in Addis. Granta, Virago, Serpent's Tail paperbacks from the early nineties at 5 birr (60 cents) a pop. I've done penance with the marvellous Jenny Diski.

5. My interest in cricket.
I've arrived in India and chipped away at yet another foundation stone of my persona in the name of easy living. It's well known that I am not an avid fan of sporting events. There are exceptions - the very name Lance Armstrong brings a tear to my eye, under the right circumstances (which fall once every 24 months), I can watch a tennis match - but generally, I go out of my way to avoid watching large scale sporting events. Cricket and football I find entirely uninteresting. I arrive in India on a day when Australia and India are grappling in a test match, and what happens? I feign an interest in cricket! The words, 'Yes, I admire Ricky Ponting' actually left my mouth this morning. Jetlag alone can't account for it. I'm shocked and alarmed.


Many people come to India in search of truth. The cricketing lapse this morning showed how far I have strayed from the path. As of now, I too am a pilgrim, seeking the means adequately and bravely to express the reality of the inner and outer world.