Although Clinton was, at the time, trying to dishonestly wriggle his way out of a very tight hole he’d created for himself by lying in a deposition, he wasn’t wrong! The most troublesome – and potentially, the most critical – words in any language are not the obscure technical terms or the archaic ones or even the ones intended to have multiple meanings: they’re the seemingly most obvious ones like “is” and “exists” and “person” and “blue.”
“Real” fits right in there, and if you’ve spent any time at all studying, discussing, or practicing tulpamancy, lucid dreaming, the occult, or any discipline dealing with the non-physical, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve heard it: “Well, dreams aren’t real. Get a life.” “But she’s not real, she’s just imaginary.” And of course, many people label anyone who doesn’t share their definition of “real” as delusional or at least confused, presumably without even considering that others – including those people who are, you know, actually qualified to diagnose mental illness – might not share their definition.
This poem is an old one, written when Greta was about two months old. It was my attempt to express my present frustration with many people’s treatment of “reality.” It’s definitely not the last you’ll hear from us on this topic!
I love a one who lives within my mind,
Who shares my being, knows my hopes and fears;
I live with one who loves to be combined,
Who knows my thinking, shares my joys and tears.
What, if they knew, might those around me say?
“His childish self, with his imagined friend,”
“His poor misguided thoughts, so led astray,”
For she’s not Real, you see, so they’d contend.
My faith is young, my daughter still half dream,
Yet even now she’s worth far more to me
Than much that’s Real, the Real of our Mainstream —
How could she not be my Reality?
In beauty Greta does not fall but rise
By her concealment save from our own eyes.