Crevice

It's the aspects, tucked in the folds, of
neuron-firing
mind-bending
hair-raising
heart-pumping
soul-stirring
sex-inflating
fluid-moving

that a performance achieves, however it achieves it, to whatever degree, by whomever, that matter.

These sensory movements point to truth. And however one understands truth, it can be sensed as present by these physicalities.

Truth gets passed back and forth from low art to high art, from popular art to rarified art, to art no one even knows about -- like the Ring in Tolkien's book: it chooses its own transmitter, for the time being; it is fickle, untrustworthy, non-sequential.

The only truth about truth: it chooses as its channels the un-used, the disregarded, the dark, the behind, the under, the forgotten, as well as the so-obvious-it's-hard-to-see-it. It works in paradoxes, in conflicting rationales, it confounds. Truth goes by many names, and sometimes even slips through as a lie. All of these names will offend someone, will make someone mad, feel left out, imposed upon, or believe that an untruth is being spoken.

I'm a fish in an underwater crevice with my mouth unhinged waiting to feel the truth vibrations swimming by. I flash out to gulp them down. I'll get gulped by a bigger fish.