a writing by Timothy DeChenne

Although every career takes unexpected turns, the twisting path for mine has surely been the strangest.

I am Truth, and this is my tell-all show biz memoir.

Now mostly I’m not going to complain. After all, I’ve usually managed to hold down a job. For millennia religion was a regular gig, sometimes very lucrative. The costumes were wonderful. The wet work got a bit tedious though, what with all the drownings and burnings and beheadings. But no job is perfect.

Philosophy started small, but I sensed the audience had growth potential. It just took a while to get the PR right. Probably the smartest move I ever made was hiring Socrates as my agent. The man worked night and day for me, right up through that nasty business with the hemlock.

Still, not everything was rosy with the deep thinkers. There was serious unemployment when the bloody Skeptics claimed certain knowledge was impossible. I spent a lot of time waiting tables back then. And don’t get me started on that prima donna Descartes. Sure, he called back from the audition, but then what? All that work and he cut my part to one line.

I got my best reviews from the poets. They at least knew how to appreciate talent: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty". Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

My favorite times arrived with twentieth century science. There was nothing like those lavish productions of space travel, those poignant dramas of modern medicine. But the schedule was grueling. Some free advice: never work for Quantum Mechanics. It literally requires you to be in two places at the same time.

The 60’s, as you know, were off the hook. Sociologists made a huge deal about reality being “socially constructed”. Whatever that means. Suddenly I was in a casting call with every hunter/gatherer from the rain forest. One of those little guys tried to lay some mushrooms on me. Claimed they would show me the face of Truth. But I had to pass. I see enough of that in the mirror each morning.

Fast forward a few years and say hello to the pesky postmodernists. Irritable, snooty, and smoking Gauloises. Blabbing to the tabloids about “hegemonic narratives”. I had to wear sunglasses. Hide my assets off shore.

But the unkindest cuts come from one’s children. Isn’t that always the way, especially with celebrities? I’ve often regretted hooking up with those computer geeks from California. Nine months later and along comes baby Internet. I had such high hopes for the child. Maybe, even, the democratization of knowledge! Please. The kid sits around the house all day, being vicious to strangers and blogging fake news.

Yes, the times have changed. Expertise has died and everyone distrusts everything. Not many roles for someone like me. To cap it off, not long ago one of my best friends stabbed me in the back. Without so much as a courtesy call, the Oxford English Dictionary announced “post-truth” as 2016’s international word of the year. Post-truth? Seriously? All I could think was: try getting work in this town now.

Turns out, as always, I worried for nothing. All I had to do was lower my sights a little. Swallow my pride. That's right, I went back to playing bit parts in politics. Laugh if you want, but hey, it’s a living. And it does have one big advantage: I can be absolutely anything I want.

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