So maybe this is stupid. Another false start. Another hope that won’t really come to anything. Another groping in the dark.
But I have to keep this search up, after a story with art that I can do, at this point in my life, because I need to do such creativity.
I have to keep up the search.
Otherwise, what is there but to sit in the dark and wait for it to become all there is?
And that’s it for this time. Only a few hundred words, but each one feels like a small candle in winter.
Reality is not able to conform to a neat narrative, but it is no harm being reminded in that ever so often.
But the surprises we have from living reality may often be combined into new narratives that make sense, when the old ones are gone or hard to see.
All it takes is a little flexibility of mind and … lots of work.
There is an urge in us to search for the ‘real’, the single Cause, the Explanation.
But is it a ‘bad’ urge? To seek the ‘real’? The ‘true’? Etc. … even though the real world so often turns out to be marvelously more complex?
I think it can be in so many situations – just open the news.
But … there is also something beautiful in wanting to seek the real, the truth about a story or an event.
Perhaps that urge is not mine alone. To seek the ‘true’, the ‘real’, the ‘first cause’.
It definitely is not.
And yes, it can be perverted and warped, esp. among closed-minded fanatics of all sorts, with or without gods.
But in this case … it feels right.
Even if the truth turns out to be that the book of Robinson Crusoe shaped the story of Alex Selkirk and not the other way around.
Aside from acts of God and other knocks that life can give, such as health problems, I should still strive to create a system which earns me – by delivering something valuable to many people – and which I control. Otherwise I will still be swept away by everything that happens around me.
That goal is the single most important from now on.
Time makes stories visible out of chaos. That is my firm belief. And experience until now. Why should the birth of our son be any different?
I feel … really good about this story, and that it is finished now. I feel quickened (reference intended) in a way I haven’t felt for many years.
I’ve written a few in my time, variations of the same character I suppose, but Mary is SO angry. So much more than many of my previous ‘outcasts’.
I know it sounds pretentious to talk about her as if she was real and kind of deciding things in the story, but in all honesty I started with her just as a cipher and then she has, yes, grown as I wrote the story, kind of dictated more and more that it’s about her.
All about her feelings. About her isolation. About her loneliness.
As much as a romp through dimensions and feeble attempts at homages.
I wonder how may others have come to feel the same way about characters they have written, started with just as an idea, maybe just a name and nothing more? When? Under what circumstances? What story were they telling?
This is one of the things to think about that makes me feel connected with someone I’ll never see in a way that’s very beautiful.
I have to tell stories to feel alive, it is that simple, and I know it and I am deeply regretful about the periods when I have forgotten it, for all sorts of ‘good reasons’. Or when I have doubted my ability to do it, to ever bring my storytelling out into the world in any meaningful form and therefore have stalled.
I have to keep fighting that and so the only way that makes sense is to do it one fight at a time, a few hundred words here and there – but regularly. Please let me not forget.
“She didn’t try to repair it. She didn’t even pretend she could. She knew that even if she had been able to communicate – through angels – or whatever with her sister in the other dimension, the sister would be lost, disconnected, from her life. Always. It would at the very least be like having a sister living across the Atlantic. You could only Skype, but never visit. She was gone. And in her place was the doubt about where she had gone. If anywhere. If there was anything left but the ghostly space in the heart. But the space could be owned. If she made the choice. It could be inhabited. So the girl knew the only way to live with it was to carry it with her: The space.”
The point is that my future just got more solid, more real, with all its ups and downs. Because I decided to chronicle it. Is that a good thing? For me, personally? I’m not sure. But it feels … like it’s going to be more meaningful simply because I weave it into some artifact for you to see after I am gone. Weave with my words … After all, isn’t that what we all long for, to be part of a story that has meaning?
The resonance of how you feel about life, for better or worse, is often found in the songs you listen to, over and over again. On levels only you know, even if you don’t fully understand them all at once. Such a song therefore echoes in your heart and your mind, in ways you recognize – and only you. But sometimes the full recognition takes 25 years. Or more. Sometimes there is more to come, if you stay with the particular song and explore it, as life goes on. It will give off new reflections, new echoes, new resonances, and you will recognize them all. It need not be a song. It could be anything really. What is it for you?
The song sends echoes in your heart and your mind, in ways you recognize – and only you.
Certain friendships and certain stories, have a very powerful effect on us in childhood and we keep coming back to them, hoping to find the heart from long ago in them. Even when our minds tell us it’s long gone.It is a testament to the power of the heart which is both a blessing and a curse.
It is a blessing because the power of heartful experiences by and large is what makes life feel full and rich.
It is a curse because the initial experience can be so powerful that it keeps us locked in.
It keeps us looking for the faint glow of the original experience. It keeps us looking for new embers which might use to fan the old flame …
… long after we are supposed to let it go and kindle a new fire in another place.
But on average, perhaps, it is a blessing that remains. For that is where it started.