Why did I write this play?
A path to greater honesty.
See, I’m a liar. I‘ve always been.
This was not made better by the fact that my whole family were liars. Everyone’s a liar. Yes, you too…. some more, some less…
Up the offense to murder – and it’s immediately evident that while “misery loves company” or even ”misery has lots of company”, there is little comfort in any commissary about this. We lie to avoid pain, or confrontation, or consequence, or shame, or embarrassment, or conflict. In the immediate it all sounds so good.
I’ve been lying so much for so long about so much that I just couldn’t sustain it at the level I had reached. I was broken and the cracks were many. I needed to employ a version of what the Japanese call “kintsukuroi” – the repair of broken poetry with gold filling the cracks. Making the broken piece – or in this case the broken person – me – “more beautiful for having been broken”. As happy and whole as I’ve ever appeared, I’ve always seen the tales I told – that strayed from the truth – as bandages that ache to wear. At once healing me and wounding me. So I never healed. And the burden never ended. But burden seemed to trump pain. And as time went on, burden became pain.
So the slow crawl to my greater truth. Absolute truth? I’ll try.
Figure if I do it on the stage’s more confessional. I can’t go back on my word…. on my words.
“There’s a wonderful, if subtle, benefit to aiming for honesty in as many circumstances as we can: it motivates us to strive to become all the good things lying helps us pretend we already are.”
Wish me luck. Better yet, come to the show and hold me to it.