Theatrical Muse - Gullibility vs. Skepticism
Which are you more afraid of: Being too gullible and believing something which isn’t true, or being too skeptical and missing out on something important?
I think my way of determining truth must be different from… almost all of the rest of the world. When you live on a boat, truth is whatever works best-not what the encyclopedia tells you. When I was a little boy, Danny taught me that an orphanage is where they put people who have no kids, and a mama is a racehorse. I know now, vaguely, that an orphanage is exactly the opposite, and a mama is… well, I have a notion of what it is. It’s a woman, certainly. But you see, I’ve never had one, and I’ve never met one, so in my reality, a mama is a thoroughbred racehorse, best kind there is. You bet on a mama, you always win. So no, gullibility isn’t something that bothers me, though I suppose I must be very gullible by most standards. It doesn’t matter, because any notions I have about anything will either prove themselves one way or another in their own time, or never come up as things I need to worry about.
Skepticism, though… that’s a difficult one. How can you be gullible and skeptical all in one go? But I have, you see. I confess that every now and then, I do find myself wondering if… maybe… Max was right about things. Maybe I should have let them sell my music. Maybe I should get off this boat, go to Mott Street, find her…
But that isn’t my reality. That isn’t what’s true. This, here, now-this is true. Anything beyond that gangway is a myth. Often it is a beautiful, exciting, delicious myth, filled with sin and glory, heroes and villains as immense as constellations. It may well be that people like Max can live very happily as part of something that never ends, but me? I have to know where the story stops. And my story, my song-that stops where the gangway begins. I was never written into the myth of the world, and I am not a character ment to appear in it. I cannot believe that it’s as easy as Max made it out to be. I can think of a lot of things I’m missing because of that, but in the end, it’s just the same longing you get reading a really wonderful story. You can dream about it, wish as hard as you can, even reach out with a prayer or a song and try to touch it, but it’ll never be anything more than fiction. A really beautiful story.
I think my way of determining truth must be different from… almost all of the rest of the world. When you live on a boat, truth is whatever works best-not what the encyclopedia tells you. When I was a little boy, Danny taught me that an orphanage is where they put people who have no kids, and a mama is a racehorse. I know now, vaguely, that an orphanage is exactly the opposite, and a mama is… well, I have a notion of what it is. It’s a woman, certainly. But you see, I’ve never had one, and I’ve never met one, so in my reality, a mama is a thoroughbred racehorse, best kind there is. You bet on a mama, you always win. So no, gullibility isn’t something that bothers me, though I suppose I must be very gullible by most standards. It doesn’t matter, because any notions I have about anything will either prove themselves one way or another in their own time, or never come up as things I need to worry about.
Skepticism, though… that’s a difficult one. How can you be gullible and skeptical all in one go? But I have, you see. I confess that every now and then, I do find myself wondering if… maybe… Max was right about things. Maybe I should have let them sell my music. Maybe I should get off this boat, go to Mott Street, find her…
But that isn’t my reality. That isn’t what’s true. This, here, now-this is true. Anything beyond that gangway is a myth. Often it is a beautiful, exciting, delicious myth, filled with sin and glory, heroes and villains as immense as constellations. It may well be that people like Max can live very happily as part of something that never ends, but me? I have to know where the story stops. And my story, my song-that stops where the gangway begins. I was never written into the myth of the world, and I am not a character ment to appear in it. I cannot believe that it’s as easy as Max made it out to be. I can think of a lot of things I’m missing because of that, but in the end, it’s just the same longing you get reading a really wonderful story. You can dream about it, wish as hard as you can, even reach out with a prayer or a song and try to touch it, but it’ll never be anything more than fiction. A really beautiful story.