“How I Could Just Kill A Man“; Cypress Hill
Let me know if the YouTube’s missing…
Lies are, mostly, ridiculous. And yet I’m pretty sure I’ve lied on multiple occasions to everyone I’ve known for more than an hour… if I include exaggerations and misdirection, which are both definitely types of lies but also dramatic tools I use as a writer. Even without including those tools I have lied a lot. I have a complicated family history… going back generations or just to the last generation or just my own life, it’s a complicated and long and convoluted story. So, when asked about it, I lie. Mostly by omission, but quite often I’ll tell someone the Where’s and maybe even the When’s, but after that… not so much.
Lying is a tool, mostly one of survival, I learned a long time ago. One of my first experiences in my New School after we escaped the Cult we were in was crying at the lunch table and when someone asked “what the fuck’s with the new kid?” I told them “my father died yesterday.”… which was a lie. But I can remember not knowing, really, what the fuck was going on. There I was, in grade three, surrounded by newbies, and the tears just started pouring out… in public, in the middle of the lunch room. So I needed something which could justify the tears and the only thing I could think of was “my father died yesterday.”
I didn’t know, as I was growing up, what the fuck happened. There was no one around to explain my childhood to me, and I certainly couldn’t relate my experiences to the farmers’ children I was then surrounded by… so I made shit up. I surrounded myself with an ever-changing mythology… from grade to grade I wasn’t quite an entirely new person, but over a few grades the story changed almost completely as I learnt more about myself from the adults willing to share their stories, and also as the old stories could no longer pass as real because the people I was telling them to — the kids in my grade — grew up and could better recognize the Bullshit I was selling.
For the most part, as I grew up, I always felt lost in a group unless I had a better story… it wasn’t like I was running around telling people outlandish and unbelievable stories, it was more like “you have an ATV at home? Well I’ve got one as well… you want to see it? Love to show it to you, but it’s at my grandfather’s farm.” They weren’t Fundamental Lies, they weren’t Foundation Lies, they were basically “I’d like to fit in now” lies.
Definitely not malicious or meant to hurt anyone, mostly they’re either protective or somehow status orientated…
But still lies. And a lot of them… and they’ve had a weird way of following me. Just a couple of weeks ago my mother asked me to tell a friend of hers about an adventure I had while working eighteen-years ago as a fishing and hunting guide in Northern Ontario…
I was eighteen when I moved north to work. I’ll get into those eight months later. When I came back I had three or four solid Adventure Stories — I’m not even sure how this one got started in my head because there’s not a shred of truth to it. It might actually be a Camp Legend someone brought up over some hash oil… “we were out on a calm but hot day, one of my guests had his hand in the water and WHAM, a twenty pound Northern Pike chomped on his little finger. Dude screams out, waves his hand around like a maniac, and the fish takes his finger off at the top knuckle.”
Inhale and bow and accept applause. There’s more to my version — trip to the hospital, his finger in an ice bucket, blah blah… but that’s the base.
Weirdly enough I’ve never written them down in any of my journals. I’ve started to on a few occasions, but I always erased or deleted or scratched it out. I’ve always tried to keep my journals free of Bullshit, but I figure it’s about time to admit the lies I’ve told are as important to who I am as the truths…
It’s not that I only need a place to tell the truth or be as honest as I possibly can be, it’s that I also need a place where I can admit to having lied and maybe work on an apology or an admission from there. I think the act of writing them out on Salted might be as important as keeping track of the things which have actually happened in my life…