The Importance of Seeing Beyond the Obvious

The Super-Obvious

“The brighter the sunlight, the darker the shadows”

Or for an all caps, italicized, bolder approach, line 1: make the b a B, the s an S. Line 2: make first d a D and the first s an S.

Bottom line: I’ve never heard anybody say this before I heard myself say it this morning.


“The Brighter the Sunlight, the Darker the Shadows” which makes me some kind of super-obvious genius-motherfucker:

“The Brighter the Sunlight, the Darker the Shadows”

T. Trueman, Circa, 2021


But then again–

Nothing ever stays wonderful any more than anything ever stays horrible forever. Because life is a…

Fancy Red Sports Cars on Flag Day

A gorgeous red Corvette can make men feel younger, more vital, and powerful, but only if they drive it.

So, my wife Patti and her brother Wally and his wife Kathy were planning on hopping into our little red Corvettes (Wally’s, a classic 1964 mine, a semi-classic 1998) and driving down to Fairfield, Washington, for their big Flag Day celebration which happens annually:

Vendors, a kiddy parade, Burgers and hot dogs in the Tiny city park:

Fun For All!

But the weather is a bit grey today with a high of only 61 degrees no blue sky visible at all and Kathy has a sore back and leaving our elderly dog Ruby alone all day is always a sub-optimal plan, and to be honest,

We were able to come up with half a dozen additional excuses for canceling.

And this, ladies and gentlemen is the kind of shit you do when you’re all in your 70’s whether you own a fancy red sports car or not.

And then a few years later, like now our friend Gail Gurian only 64 years old, non-smoker, barely a drinker at all, mother, wife, sweetheart who was supposed to come with her husband Michael to our home for dinner July 21st, not even a month ago, had to cancel b/c she “wasn’t feeling well.”

Yeah, pancreatic cancer.

So, this from a few hours ago, my posting about Gail on Caring Bridge:

Terry Trueman:The speed with which this tsunami of heartbreak, loss, and pain has overtaken all of us is part of the stunning sense of impotency we all are feeling. What can I do? How can I help? Who, what, when will someone do something to make this better? And in truth, no amount of time or attention or good intentions can make this enough better to satisfy. Patti and I, together and apart, have gone through devastating losses, and Mike and Gail and so many of you who are friends with us know this. Such loss leads to an inescapable truth: life is sad, horrible, precious, maddening, and mysterious with no simple answers for the most simple and basic questions–so we turn to prayers and good thoughts and best wishes b/c what the fuck else is there? We love you Gail and your family. We are holding you close in our hearts. ~TT n P

So, yeah, from a cancelled dinner invitation to booking into hospice on a one-way ticket with a maximum likely month-long expiration date.

And then again, of course, there’s still and always seems to be fuckin’ HIM.

Trump made being a psychopath fashionable.

You know psychopaths when you see them, and you see them often, — on the roads, in grocery stores, glaring at you for no reason other than because you have somehow inadvertently, gotten in their way. Healthy people have greater compassion for any living thing; bugs, plants, invertebrates, than psychopaths have for anyone or anything, including human beings. You know psychopaths and if you lived in America 2016–2020, you were being led by one.

And he’s still here, the giant tangerine imbecilic asshole psychopath. For Trump, will today, tomorrow, this week, this month EVER be the moment his justice arrives?

Maybe. Maybe not. Because no matter how super-obvious life seems to be in any given moment, it ain’t obvious, not in that moment, not ever.

And finally

The mission of any writer ought to be to look at self and the world honestly and try to help make sense of it and, short of that, at least tell the truth about it. I know almost nothing as to the truth of life, but I know that looking at what happens with clear eyes, an honest voice and heart, and showing what’s going on is the least I can do.

All of which, addressed above leads us to here, this next moment right here where I confess to you and assure that your forgiveness means nothing to me, here you go; I hate discipline and I have never understood respect.

I grew-up being shown and told and taught that discipline meant being punished and respect meant being afraid. When I was told I needed discipline I knew somebody wanted to hurt me, to order me around and scold me or hit me or in some other way make me do what that person thought I should be doing. When my father told me I had to show him respect I knew he meant that I must be afraid of him and stop assuming a familiarity and safety he must have felt would make me weak.

Whether castigating psychopaths or looking at the truth of your life experiences, using words as weapons isn’t something we should always respect.

This piece is for Vincent and Patti, deeply respected & favorite disciplinarians.