We attempt to find truth through Art, but Art is a guidepost, not a destination. When Art genuinely touches us, we know we're on the right path. Truth lies, if not ahead, then at least somewhere along the path we currently tread and therein lie the beauty and power of Art. Art helps us to discover and know ourselves and because "ourselves" is a collective term, expressing universality, we tap into the collective love and goodness of all of us who are "ourselves". A life without Art is a life without life.

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 In a moment Truth would come flouncing through, throwing open wide the hinged saloon-style doors (you know the ones, they always hit you in the ass because you forget to move through them quickly – it’s so embarrassing) and come sashaying over to one of the round tables, probably the one with a leg just a tad bit shorter than the others so that people were constantly taking their napkin or a a matchbook or a business card or once even a five  dollar bill, folding it and putting it under the short leg to rebalance the table. One time a man representing everything good and wholesome in the little town had put a matchbook under the wrong leg and drinks went sliding downhill. It made the morning paper next morning.

Yes. Truth. Truth liked flouncing almost as much as Truth liked sashaying. Truth had once tried to flounce and sahsay at the same time but decided people wouldn’t understand. It was too much like mixing  Crest and Baco-Bits.

Anyway, truth flounced through the hinged saloon–style doors (but we’ve been through all that), sashayed to the table and whoomphed into a chair. There was only silence as the piano rinky-tinked away in the corner, kind of like little Jesus away in a manger or the dog in the manger maybe. Truth had something to announce, something important, and all who were there that day knew it, expected it, waited for it, savored the moments leading up to it, fondly recalled it in the remaining days of their lives. It was not the kind of announcement that would change a man’s life, change the town, or even cause anyone to change their mind. It was, however, a nice change.

“I have an announcement,” pontificated Truth (Truth did so admire the Pope!) and I want you to hear it. Otherwise, why would I make it?” Truth waited  to see if anyone would laugh. No one did. “Mange!” was the first word out of Truth’s mouth, followed by “Manger!” and finally, “Mangere!” Silence while the import of these three words sank in. Mange. Manger. Mangere. Two in English, one in Italian, the latter, perhaps,  no, almost certainly spoken at one time by the Pope himself.

Clearly, the connection between Mange and Manger was crystal clear. But no one had ever made the next obvious connective leap to Mangere, Italian for “eat.” Now there were three. Now it was complete.

Truth stood. Truth turned. Truth waved. Truth was finished. Truth moseyed this time, moseyed to the hinged saloon-style doors, flung them open and strutted into the street, embarrassed when the saloon-style doors hit Truth in the ass. The piano continued to rinky-tink and silence continued golden.

Truth was happy. And that’s the Truth.